"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

Sunday, October 24, 2010

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.

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