Butterflies

Warm butterflies

Half-manic in pink hands,

That’s you.

Warm butterflies,

Soft and fragile and

Able to fly like I can’t.

To catch the breeze

And drift away to battlefields of wildflowers.

Hey,

Warm butterflies,

I’ll make the space for you—

Climb on in, shake out your yellow hair,

And drunkenly laugh.

You’re warm and smell like flowers.

Radio

My voice on the radio

These grainy bits of last days

Blend together-

A fine and ashy sand,

Made of the worn down smiles

Of the worn out.

My voice on the radio

I’ve forgotten yours,

Once so sweet to me,

Now a sort of uneasy

After-questionable-sushi feeling.

I’m rubbing off my eye makeup

Slowly into the night—

The effect, a raccoon-eyed sex goddess

In a man’s button down flannel—

Listening to my own voice tremble and falter

Like a drunkard on steps

Haphazard on these beautiful English words

Of my own choosing,

Listening to my own voice crack and

Lose rhythm and breath

With the shimmer of a cracked and dusty diamond.

I’ve never wanted a cigarette worse,

But it’s a good night for denied gratification.

The trucks speed by, full of groceries

For the rich,

The drivers, the poor

The immigrants and post-op transsexuals

The students and the East London husbands

Who beat their wives and steal the odd television,

Yawning their ascent into morning.

An uneasy and gray morning,

In a snowless December,

Suddenly comes

My voice on the radio

Spilling out my darkest secrets.

Rolling billowing waves of my emotional

Entrails

Rushing over the drivers of the grocery trucks,

Catching in egg crates and milk cartons,

And turning sour fruit ripe.

Sonnet Electronica

She's hunched over a screen

tracing a thousand dot trajectory.

A headphoned brunette music queen

in finger flying waving fury.

You're like a little mouse.

Not meek, but small. Quiet. Beige.

But not beige like a suburban house.

Tan and hinted russet. Heart encaged.

A frame that purses lips

and is drunk off one glass red,

kind and timid woven strips

of colored passion- and dread.

No, I haven't seen any watermelons here.

But it's okay that you can't steer.

De Sade

There are Americans singing

In the kitchen downstairs.

I’m eating cold chicken and staring at the bed-

I don’t remember changing the sheets,

But I’m glad I did.

Jose Cuervo is winking at me

Tipping his hat

“Hola, Senorita” he says.

I just ignore him.

I’ve been thinking about cause-and-effect.

I think it’s more circular than linear.

Fate is kind of a wobbly concept.

The Americans singing have started in on Stairway to Heaven.

God help us all.

I’m glad I’m not down there. Face a veneer of sisterhood,

Arms crossed in discomfort.

Friendly people bother me. They’re too easy,

And usually easily discarded of.

I like the tough sinewy ones,

The arguers, the abusers.

My first love was a sadist, I think.

I fell in love the first time he pushed my embrace away.

When I think back, I always smile.

I’ve been thinking about the smell of black coffee

And cleaning supplies,

And the first kiss I ever had,

From a boy under five feet tall,

On the Fourth of July.

He slobbered all over me then I cried.

Gloucester Arms

Two pints in and I guess I’m attracted to you after all
in some unusual way.

Not enough to be yours
But enough to experience the flutter
Of taking your hand in mine and enjoying
The warmth of the contact
Like hands stretched over a burning bin.

It’s nice to know that I have a voice
As I tipsily stumble over all the hurt and beauty of this world—
And you listen, and that’s enough for me.

Both of us from the same land,
And from different lands too.

And it’s so nice to feel the magnetic pull of- not happiness, i wouldn't call it that-

but a slow and steady leaking of christmas light warmth from my stomach

to my heart.

Two pints in and there's a smile from my face
Riddled with the cracks of a short but long life
Full of feelings
A big ladle of feelings
In a spoonful of matzoh ball soup kind of place.
Not home, but good enough. My legs are home.
My heart, my chest, my hands, my nose.

So this one’s for you,
Kind child. 1989 was a good year.
Today, a better day than most.

365 Bruises

To be worn like badges

Over my poet’s heart:

Bruises.

Blue, green, yellow and purple,

Like a flag at half-mast.

I tell the doctors I fell down the stairs.

And they sigh, and roll their eyes,

And hand me an ice pack and I’m off again.

They know, and I know,

That these bruises

Were given me

Like gifts, wrapped with love and care

Into fists and belts and paddles

Into words and eyes and tears

And kisses salty-sweet, and sticky pink palms,

And warm on a cold face.

But I tell the doctors I fell down the stairs again.

I wear them like a slip under my dress.

I cherish them.

365 bruises, one a day or more,

And everybody knows

I like it.

Packing Up.

In the back of an attic mind

Bookshelves and uncracked spines

And dusty bottles of claret

And boxes of old records

There is a single-beacon projector

Shoot shooting up

Recalling

A feeling, November two years ago.

And I want to describe it but there aren’t words,

Though there’s a chill in the air and the lights were bright

On the Boston commons and I cried

But I wasn’t sure I was sad.

There were teenaged gangs in the background,

Fucking around in the dark

And laughing over cigarette smoke-

I can still feel the night like a rueful carousel.

I can still feel the night like the traces of scars,

Cuts healed over. Bruises fading.

I want to describe it but there aren’t words,

I can smell it but cannot taste it fully

Like sweet rose hookah smoke.

And in my head

Someone is singing

About better to stop loving now.

I’m not sure I agree.

Thanksgiving

High and playing off a plastic keyboard piano

London, England-fingers flying,

I am living vicariously off of

This delicate, strong blond performer.

My own fingers are perpetually cold here.

Chords are dancing by like horses

Pulling a carriage

19^th century style

Trotting along, carrying the post.

The sun sets early

On the British empire

The car headlights speed by

Sixteen’o’clock,

Dragging by the last smells of summer,

Lying damp and tired

In the piles of leaves on every corner.

The swampish smell of indoors

A muddy sauna

Evaporates in the air.

I could go for a plate of something.

Maybe a hot glass of something or other.

My cheeks feel red and smooth with cold.

It won’t be Christmas for-

It’s thanksgiving-

And won’t be Christmas for weeks.

And yet I feel like

At any moment

I could be curled up back to a warm fire.

This piano sounds

Like electronic heaven.

My heels are warm beneath my legs.

I might be feeling something

For the first time in weeks.

With no dinner, and no drink, and no

Laying-of-the head down.

And I feel like I should preserve the time.

Redheads

I wonder if god’s existence is

Proven

In the fact that I am jealous

Of the talents of all redhaired people

More or less

The tall and freckled redheads with hollow cheekbones and

Collarbones

One playing a piano sumptuously

While another sings

And one strums a guitar

And one’s got the harmonica pressed to his lips.

This redheaded band of brand of people

Who are so overwhelmingly

Interesting

-Spiced with something

Mysterious and alluring -

Burns the tip of my tongue,

Leaving it feeling singed and rough for days after.

I wander around aimlessly in the musty rain

Searching for something to make a noise with

To throw to the paved streets with a crash

Anything.

But silent

Muted I take the restless slumber

Of a person

Who dreams of beautiful redhaired people

To betray me and leave me

Breathless, mostly.

An Experiment in Humanity

I wish I was a rhythm builder

A dream-house bricking flower picker

Building up building up

And breaking down

This is a poem

Without a steady rhythm

Made of long nights and cold coffee

And it’s got a beat

That’s fleeting

It’s a body of words

Still warm and pulsing

That walks about in the cold

Winter air

Wearing just a slip and a trenchcoat.

With slick and wet hair

And a scarf of fluid wool

This is the wool

Over the eyes of the warm body

I tether to the bedposts,

Not gentle but a scattered rhythm like

A cantering train

Whistling occasionally

Poem.

So I’m not political

And I’m not satirical

So I’m not fantasia in perfect

Cartoon pastel detail

And I won’t sugar coat hope

On the outside of bitter pills,

Just chew,

And swallow.

Down it with mineral water and gin.

Don’t keep the powdered pain of today

Crushed up in the back of your throat

Do you understand?

Because I do daily

Think of why this is the world I live in- a world

Where nothing is ever certain or infinite.

I’m not a rhythm builder,

Not a carpenter of words and silences-

They’re often awkward and

They stick

Like cricks in the neck of a giraffe, colorful and

Swaying in the African breeze.

I’m not a sugar-coater

I drink my coffee black

And take my whiskey straight and my women

Curvy.

I’d rather see you cry than laugh.

But I’d rather see blood than that,

After all,

I’m only human.

Ginger

I am climbing down

The neck of a bottle of, green bottle of

Red wine,

Thursday night and cold chicken and

Crime television

And thinking of a warm mass of flesh

Next to mine, to stroke my skin and kiss my lips softly.

And tear me open.

Bottles and cans cover the

Surface of my desk.

watching doing drugs the wine is flowing

and i watch people do heroin on the

tv

and just tonight I get to be

destroyer of innocence

in the form of a redheaded girl

with soft feet and rabbit eyes.

We all have wicked souls.

And like the idea of burning things

And drinking whiskey

And smoking cigars.

We can’t all be James Bond,

And least of all this villain with the blue eyes and the

Open mouth, still tasting of wine and of

You.

When Her Heart is Sober

Lying on a bed

Of soiled lace panties

The heart is char-blackened,

The veins twisted, entwined like

A snarl of electrical cord.

Her ten-sided, double-stick soul

Has taken beatings

That would bruise

A brute of a man that yet trudges on.

Sometimes I am calmer

When I smell my own smells—

My skin, my hair, the dirt under my

Fingernails,

The unkempt mane ever tossed to the side,

I love to hide behind it. I love to hide in the dark.

Her ink-splotched smile

Is hollowed out.

Her wide pond-eyes,

Bleeding, never shut…

I love to hide in the dark.

Hibernate like a bear,

Curled up in my bed,

And catch my constantly out-of breath,

And still my skipping heartbeats.

That Time I Didn't Cry

Life is colorful.

I’m not saying it’s good—how would I know.

But there are colors.

The deep blood red

And the faded pinks and blue of old houses out the window

The grey of London and rain and November

Oranges and yellows of late summer in my mind’s eye.

When I was sixteen

I fell in love with a street musician

Who I only saw out of the corner of my eye

For two minutes

Walking

In upstate New York somewhere unmemorable.

He was singing a Beatles song, and playing an

Aging tan guitar.

From time to time I think of him

And remember

That first feeling

I’d never felt before

The free falling, the color all around me-

That’s the first time I can remember really feeling

All the colors of life.

I was sadder than I’d ever been before.

And happier.

And it was blue and red and grey.

And I didn’t cry, because I was standing on a street

Watching the older people walk by

Unaware.

Hats Off to Hank

if i could handle life like bukowski

i'd be okay

cause he wasn't happy

but he just drank and fucked and typed that away

and made it mean something

but i can't do that--

not the drinking

or the fucking

or the typing

I can do all three.

but i can't find the recipe of all three that makes it all seem a little easier

or at least i can't seem to do it without throwing up.

Because It's Easier This Way

I don’t care if I love you, little girl.

I probably won’t.

I hope to god I’ll never love again.

It burns like a piercing needle, anyway.

Let the sun go down before six p.m.

Like nightfall is the only thing I ever see

(which it might be, if I keep on waking up

at dusk)

Let the sun go down before six p.m.

And a pretty girl braid my hair

And nose to nose kiss me—

If she’ll spit on my face.

Don’t tell me I’m beautiful.

Don’t tell me I’m perfect.

And most of all, don’t tell me I’m flawed

(I already know)

Just braid my hair

And kiss my neck

And trace the scars

That you’ll find like needlework.

And don’t ask me how I got them

(Because you already know)

I probably don’t love you, little girl.

But you’re the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen

Half-dressed and lips parted.

So crack open that bottle of red wine

And stain the sheets dark crimson

As my hair comes unbraided

And the night falls.

**GUEST POEM BY MS. ANNA O'CONNELL**

The Love Pickle

I wanted to tell you
when I spent that evening looking at your eyes
and at your hair
That we would be awesome together
but you just played my guitar
and sang
and questioned nothing

And I wondered
How did I get into
This tight little corner, this saturated vegetable state
Where everything i say somehow becomes tart and acidic on my tongue
its not you, you're wonderful, with your auburn hair
flying away though static still
No I think it's me

Your Whiskey's Mine Now

I’m drinking your whiskey

The whiskey I bought you

In Ireland.

I’ve been letting you peel

Layers off my skin

And leave me

Exposed

Raw

And slowly infecting

And I think I could have loved you

And I think I could have deserved better

And I think I’m going to drink

Your

Whiskey

Your Irish whiskey

And cry big wet stinging alcohol tears.

And wish I could

Disappear into a quiet room with a window

That looks out

Over a grey day

And smoke a joint out the window

And put it out in a beer bottle.

And never put on pants.

And eat crisps.

So fuck you too.

Nobody Sends Me Mail Anymore

write me a letter,
made of paper-machier words,
covered in sweat and come and tears.
spit on it as you fold it up,
and put it in an envelope,
and send it by moonlight
to my eyes alone

i'll be lying here
with swollen lips
and open arms
and bent knees
thinking about the meaning of home
and how i haven't got one
and how that's okay
as long as somebody out there will still
write me
a letter
made of newspaper cutout phrases
and clippings of eyeballs in magazines
and dip it in tabasco sauce,
and roll it up and fry it
and eat it
and miss me too.

Monday

everybody is sighing monday sighs

and drinking monday coffees

on monday trains

to monday desks

with papers stacked like sunday pancakes.

I go to work

hungover

and sore-

there's a bruise on my elbow shaped like Kansas-

and drink my soy latte

for the protein

and the caffeine

and to have something to do.

I'm staring at my monday stack of sunday pancake papers

and sighing

squinting

and getting white-out on my thumbs.

Somebody is yelling at somebody else on a phone in an office and

I'm pretty sure the entire building can hear.

So it goes. A ticking clock, and a cold coffee, and the words

that I keep in my head all day.

At least come 5'o'clock,

I'll sigh another monday sigh

and get on another monday train

and crack my knuckles all the way home thinking of Friday, and beer,

music and smoke

and

the sad irony of Mademoiselles: Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday.

rolling 3: the drop

I am an emotional bruisejob

Living a devotional chess game

And playing both sides.

Drinking Perrier and eating oranges,

And masturbating in the shower,

And crying into my pillows,

My aches hurt as prettyblue as

The bruises on my elbows

And the crooks of my arm

(That you left behind)

And the bruises on my

Melting ice-chip throat

(From the bitter white shouting)

And the bruises on my

Squelchy- heart

(As soft as a bruised apple)

I want to be left alone

With everyone else—

In the city

In the supermarket

In the bars on the corners

In the bedrooms fucking

Together brightly.

rolling 2: for a dark-eyed girl

I want to kiss you

With my teeth

Bury the knife pearls

Into the tender pink

Of you

And leave the purple-berry

Fruit marks

In constellations

On your inner thighs,

And the half-moons

Of fingernails

On your rounded shoulders.

Beer-drunk and wobbly

Fall into a pile of limbs

And in gentle darkness

Rip holes into the

Very core of you

And weave myself into them.

rolling 1

And the colored girls go

Doo doot doo

I am black and blue

Bruised and beautiful

Inside and out

Flying higher

Crashing lower

Doing lines off the kitchen table

With lou reed and a pair of white high heels—

Waiting for the sun to fall

Waiting for the man to call

And say

I need you

On your knees

Right now.

Open up and hold my

Babybird soul

Between your fingers

And kiss it on the eyelids.

And the colored girls go

Doo doot doo doot doo doo.

Bedtime Story

peeling oranges in my bed
in underwear and a baggy sweater--no socks.

It's cold in here, and I'm relishing the
goosebumps rising like leavened bread
over my legs.

I like to run my fingers over them
like braille
and read the story of my skin
which begins

once upon a time
on a rainy october night
just a bit after midnight
a girl ate an orange bit by bit,
and tossed the peel in the bin
with an empty beer bottle to keep it
company
and felt
uncannily lonesome.

I've been sick, but here we go again.

It might be cold outside

But it’s warm in here

In between my two peach-fuzz breasts

Where beats my heart

Which tonight

Is pumping to excess.

Filling up the corners of my eyes with heat,

And leaving my face a ruddy red,

It is dancing an African tribal dance

That catches my bruised and bandaged toes

In rhythmic tapping.

I could run up four flights of stairs tonight,

Catapulting off the railings like

A little boy on Christmas,

Just to get to the top where

The stars might be

Just a little bit closer.

If I could fly

This is what flying might feel like—

Like the most ordinary feelings of loveliness--

Of hot blood in your ears,

And wind against your cheeks.

After a Long Day

No pretentious shit tonight-

Just two-hundred envelopes stamped and mailed

To various celebrities, nobility, the filthy rich, and the

Theatre bigshots

In and around the London area.

A salad and tea- earl grey with milk, no sugar

Eaten outside when the weather is

Just slightly too cold.

An American man is at the table to my left

Teaching an Italian girl

To bastardize English.

I’ve had enough

Choices and commuting

And answering telephones.

I want to be tied up tonight

With silk scarves.

Climb into bed, take a pill,

Wishing I had a place

To float in

(A bathtub

Or a chemical high

Or both)

Check the email.

No important messages,

No unimportant messages.

To Balding Men

Live while you're young

and charming-

in your good looks

and striking eyes.

Fuck a lot, and drink a lot.

Because you've seen

the future

in the shining heads

of your bald dads-

those crystal balls do not lie.

And once those long locks

are no more

no amount of stylish shoes,

or expensive cars,

watches, ties, or briefcases

will save you

your middle-aged

thinning terror.

So decide-

to side part or not?

to crew cut or not?

toupee or not toupee.

Or,

make the bold decision

and lather up like a

foamy frosted cupcake

and shave it all off

and be like the happy old men

before you

like the ones at bus stops, or diners,

who drink black coffee with three sweet-and-lows

and smile in nostalgic lechery

at the young girls

going by in denim shorts.

Edinburgh II

Ghosts are throwing

an all-night

vodka-shot

disco

RAGER

in Old Town tonight.

We walked through the haunted

Scotland

city

night

recounting torture-treason-plot-and-plague--

it was quite cheesy and fun

until the candles went out

underground

in the shuffling, shifting

airthick caverns,

where we thought at any moment

a man

with a mask

might jump out

and shout--

and this was the most frightening thought

of all.

So we skid over stones

through the raging

town of ghosts

and drunk girls with short skirts and great legs

And shut the door tight

against the backbeat screams outside the window

and the German girls next door

will not

shut the fuck up.

Glasgow

In Glasgow

all the coffee-shops close at five.

And the weary workers-

the cumbersome commuters-

hop the trains home to suburbia.

In Glasgow

the city is empty by half-five.

The occasional penguin-footed businessman runs by-

"late again, the missus'll have me!"

In Glasgow, the station is full to the brim at half-six,

Pulling away in a hot-sauna car,

and the city whispers to itself,

"alone at last."

Dublin II

Here's to feeling unattractive

in a beautiful city

belly full of boiled egg

weary and tousle-haired

and better on the move

through uneven streets

and aging townhouses

down the coast to seaside

tinglemouthed and toeworn

pock-faces and worn out

and sleeping nights in a bare room

as the young and hopeless

wage their wars

on the streets.

An Irish Drinking Poem

I am a speck in the sky.

An hour ago, patting down my face

in the ladies' toilet,

it occurred to me that from the ground

I would be invisible in the infinite.

So I think I'll have a strong drink,

and idly watch the ground go by,

vast and tiny,

all at once.

Another pint here.

Another red-haired man here.

Another tongue, another bite,

Another button-down shirt.

Another pint.

Dubin: Wanderer

Hostel with hospital sheets

sterile white

thin walls-- thin enough to hear the talk next door

but not to speak the language.

Hello Dublin--

cobblestones and guinness

and meat in every meal.

Blistered feet-bleeding adventure,

this jet-setting heart is beating something

syn

co

pated

It's suppertime in New York--

A starch, a protein, and a vegetable.

Early yet with eyes fast shutting,

I'll wake tomorrow

wondering where I am

in this submarine of a bunk-bed

with aching toes

and a strange man in the bed

across the room

and fight onward.

To the next drink,

the next shop,

the next field of the greenest grass I swear

I've ever seen.

And feel

alive

awake

electric

A wanderer with shutter-eyes

and a dully aching, full and marvelous

heart.

Dublin 3/Bray, Ireland

the jet-black drowning

of the lady in the

water

bobs against the cool sun

the window panes are cracked here.

house full up.

tea and violence in the

late morning--

across the green she goes.

guinness and potato in the

early evening.

Bandage wounded feet.

Empty the slate-brain dusted chalky.

An early flight tomorrow.

Edinburgh: Whiskey

I run out of everything- money, clothing, drugs, friends, love. I've got a heart of hot rock-- from the mouth of a volcano, and legs just shaved in a cruddy bathroom.

Brushing lips with another unremarkable man-- because a night with a boring stranger is better than a night alone.

Whiskey doesn't burn like the first time I tried it-- in a New York flat, with a bible for a coaster, and hothouse hair. I was feeling sweat cool against my temples and papers scattered, damp with boozy gold rings.

Whiskey over ice-- smooth and cold and hot all at once.

And my stranger was a cute drunk--

But I didn't ask his number,

and he didn't get mine.

Countdown

Countdown

The hours

In six the sun

Will rise up slow

And sweet

Eight

In the air above

London

Watching the runway winking

Farewells

Countdown the days

Tomorrow in Dublin

Friday in Glasgow

Saturday the highland grasses

Swallow knees and wave

with gentle sharpness

And there might be a man

With a lilting voice

Breaking like waves

Over me

And there might be a girl

With copper hair and

A body like a boy.

And I’ll still be counting down

To someplace warm

And safe

And drunk

And happy

Pacing

pacing the floor

in my pumps

pulsing the light

in my veins

shaking me down

I am fistfuls of wild hair

and tomorrow

i will still be a pair of eyes

and a pair of tits

and a pair of feet

that take me across city streets

and subway stairs

surging the heat

in my thighs

with hands outstretched

and lips half-parted.

This is Not an Innuendo

this is not an innuendo,
she suddenly whispered,
from under the covers.
this is not a come on.
this is the quietest cry out I can make.


Maybe on some level
I will always need
someone's hand
between my thighs.

Someone's mouth on mine-
for silence's sake.

Curved

i want the man with the chilled hands

up my shirt

and the soft wet lips and the

teeth

i want the man with the

mischief eyes and the

whiskey mouth

and the words that toss me down

and keep me there.

and that could be any man

but i want you

to curve up into me.

I will lie beneath you, like Eve.

And I will lie upon you, like Lilith wanted.

And I will lie beside you, with my cheek upon your chest

and my wine-filled eyes will close to stroke you with

silken lids.

In Which Words Come Together

original desire

seems still.

she saw

young language

in bare-breasted excitement-

don the styled winds,

in which we are lying

(laughing actual) clothes disarranged,

little smiles expensive.

not one lunatic creates

this lady.

Hyde Park: Thursday, September 2010

I ran

miles

Until it started to feel like flying

Until it started to feel like flying away.

I was filling my head with sound

Stretching for escape from the dirt of the days

Reaching toward the setting sun over the windy water.

The skin on my feet is breaking

Like the drumbeats between my eyes.

And I ran from the swans

who came right up to my shoulders

and I wished I was one of them

a warm white and feathered body

which floats on water

as if it had no weight at all.

Haiku: The Mousetrap

Balcony vertiges

Three-pound ice cream and stella

I know who-dun-it.

On Feeling Grown and Being Small

The taste of porridge

Hangs in the air

The schoolchildren

In uniforms of gray and blue

Smilingly tug hands

And scrape their knees

And muss their skirts.

What I wouldn’t give to be

The white pit-bull

Sleeping lazily

On the stairs

Who sniffs the air of each passer-by

And knows me by the swing in my step

And the citrus-scent of my fingers.

I wear my hips too low for a woman.

I do not swing them, a dangerous pendulum,

By daylight.

When it rains I wear my chin close to my

Chest

But at night, by the rising and the falling

Of the breath,

I unravel

And find myself very small

And peculiar.

Didn't Sleep Much After That Nightmare

This weary pile of cracking bones

is terror

pounding pavement under feet

as if the mastery of the ground

gives power to the body.

The third cup of tea today

Got cold

Sitting on a desk

In front of an open window

Breathing stiff London air.

The third coffee today

Was a Starbucks latté

With too many calories

And the taste of mud

That lingered on the roof of the mouth.

And as the day drizzles to an end,

In the usual way,

I can’t help but think:

If an airplane went down

With me on it

I would want to be alone.

I wouldn’t want to hold anyone

Or say goodbye.

Just one last “Oh shit”

And snuffed out in the great Atlantic.

Homesick/Homeless

If it’s possible to be lonely

When brushing shoulders with the city

And the scat-jazz raindrops

Fall on colorless pavement

Then it’s possible to be full

Of some howling-wind feeling

Of home or not

Or here and there

And have a cup of tea

And watch the droplets

(named like horses- Lucky Strike and Betelgeuse and Sir John Falstaff)

race down the rattling pane.

Overseas

Sometimes

In the steam and mirrored home of my mouth

I touch my curving flesh

And think of you

I want you to put your

Hands on me

From a thousand miles away

Over water as violent as

Wine-soaked teeth.

To put your mouth

On mine

And breath into my mouth

Dark whiskey-breath.

And curl your fingers

Into my hair

And tug

And tug

And let it hurt a little.

I don’t want to talk

Don’t care about the picket fences

And the dogs

And the neighbors.

I’ll only talk in moans and whispers

And fall asleep

Covered in sweat and come,

With black and fluttering eyelashes.