"This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air. - W. B. Yeats

Saturday, September 25, 2010

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.

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