All language is deceptive, designed to deceive. We can never know "true" meaning -- never fully understand intent. Every sentence is complex as the person that wrought it, toiled to bring it into being. It is teemed with all of their struggles and all of their joys -- things we could never know in the same way, even permitted time to do so.

So, language deceives their idea, and merely endeavours to sketch out their meaning. If there is some luck, and perhaps some incidental yet kindred knowledge -- it might still strike some bell within us, and some meaning might be gleaned from what resonates in that moment.

An Art Life

There is no good and evil, no right and wrong -- there is beauty, and there is violence. Already you see, I am at odds with the Society. Worse, an artist! Mine is an ever unsteady parity between an abundance of both forces: beauty and violence. The pleasures of the hyper-sexual aesthete, checked by the sickening turmoil of the metasociological nihilist. And: earlier today I forgot the word "shoulder".

I was on the bus, a lovely broad had taken the seat in front of mine. I thought: what a striking slope, I wonder if she realises she has such a nice... and after a moment I thought of "shoulder" but felt misled. I thought of "shoulder", but my mind showed me a picture of an elbow! I felt foolish, reprimanded my brain for making such an obvious blunder. In the same moment, I realised that the picture were wrong, but the word correct. What an ordeal! Losing words, mixing up shoulders and elbows! I decided not to indulge vexation, and attributed it to the previous three days spent almost entirely in front of the chess board. There had been little time to read, and only one opportunity to leave the house in that span (on the second day). The language centre of the brain must have holidayed in that time. Although I did manage to write a mediocre poem with an exceptional phrase: Shine the room with a choir of pussy. That pleases me.

It had been an enjoyable three days, obsessively hunched over the chess board (listening to the Brahms String Sextets, and Hindemith's Das Marienleben -- Glenn Gould recording of course). A new, borderless, mahogany board, with extra large squares. I prefer the larger, two and one-quarter-inch squares, paired with tournament style pieces (the slighter sort, with a king that stands three and three-quarter-inches tall) because it allows everything on the board to have enough room. It's much better for playing and certainly for study -- patterns are more readily apparent, there is an elegance and respect in the berth afforded each individual piece. The special side table I have ordered is due to arrive tomorrow, or Thursday. I'm excited. It's an elegant piece and the dimensions are just so, so that the board will sit flush on top of it, and stand at a most agreeable height for playing and studying.

It could not have arrived at a better time. The days previous were morose. Abysmal. My world was devoid of beauty and filled with violent repulsion. The details are boring, you know -- so I won't bother with them. But I felt the upset in the balance and it affected me. Unable to work, or read -- left to grapple with my brutality.

In a quiet moment, I thought of Isme and laughed.

You see, although excess feelings of cruelty and sadism might seem a natural opportunity to engender some spirited play between a sadist and a masochist (or dominant and submissive), that is rarely true in practise. Generally it is such that those feelings are contrived or assuaged rather than harnessed or merely controlled.

There are opportunities for the latter, but it is uncommon and more intimate -- requiring a great deal of trust, understanding, and tenderness from both partners. More an act of compassion and love (albeit not necessarily romantic love) rather than those being born of lust.

In this case the submissive partner willingly, and dutifully subjects themselves to receive the cruelty of the other. An agreement of exchange: to accept the tolerable, finite physical pain as a means of ameliorating the unbounded, existential grief of the other. The violence received is met with compassion, a kindness -- a release, and beauty delivered in response.

It's unusual as I say -- requiring even more vulnerability from both partners than normal. So I laughed thinking of Isme, having not seen her for a spell, and not played for longer. It would have been inappropriate, a grossly overreaching endeavour. Albeit a pleasant fantasy which satisfied me at the time. I didn't think she would mind.

Afterwards though, I was left more uncertain of my actual ability to realise that in its truest form -- not being a true sadist. Are pseudo-sadists able to ever truly benefit or find release from genuine sadism? I couldn't be sure.

Although I am not a true sadist or a natural sadist -- I am sometimes a rather creative one. When I am so inclined, and the variables are right, it is a role I play with virtuosity. To do so requires a great amount of thought and ability. So the subject must be absolutely keen. Otherwise, why bother? Each mise en scene must be tailored to the subject, but suit the author. The rate and intensity of play must be continually calibrated and controlled. The roles and nature of play must be suitably manufactured, but never lacking in the feeling of spontaneity. Done correctly, it is an art-form that sits poised between sex, theatre, psychology, and sport. A sort of lubricious theatre of the absurd, set to titillate and challenge the physical and psychological resolve of its eager participants.

No wonder the average citizen is so shaken by the mere thought of it! It is one of the truest ways to examine and establish the equipoise between beauty and violence.

Perhaps an example. Vi was an remarkably keen subject. So keen in fact, that it were often necessary to withhold and then be exceptionally cruel when satiating her masochistic nature. One evening provided such an opportunity. She were nagging to play. I say: Oh! You want to play! Are you absolutely certain. Her eyes begged, and she answered with a quiet, subservient: Yes sir. Okay! After instructing her to disrobe, she is situated in the centre of the room and blindfolded. Everything now must be taken very slowly. Deprived of sight, other sensations are able to develop, curiosity, excitement, and anticipation must be allowed ample time to build. I often like to use Japanese Noh Music by The Kyoto Nohgaku Kai, it is beautiful and very capable of producing the right atmosphere for my performance (theatre after all!). Then, to slowly begin preparing the scene. During this time there should be no verbal communication with the subject, certainly all enquiries must be ignored. It is important however, to penetrate their space from time to time and even begin teasing with various tactile sensation. If all of this has been handled deftly, the subject will have started to self-lubricate -- easily tested by gently running a finger between the inner lips of the vulva.

After setting the scene and successfully performing the overture, I tell her: You wanted to play, and now we shall play a game. A game I devised for you. Throughout the room I have placed seventeen brass tacks. The tack side is facing up. The game is not over until you have collected each of these tacks and returned them to me. Each time you successfully return a tack to me, I will reward you. However, should you happen to land on one and prick yourself -- there should be no complaint, not a sound. Anything greater than a wince will be punished. Do you understand?

Yes sir.

So she set off, nude, on her hands and knees. Cautiously, starting to feel the dusty the ground for my tacks. While I was left to drink my scotch, appreciate the Noh music, and be excited by the sight of my beautiful subject going about her task.

I was glad the first tack were a retrieval, not a prick. A positive start to the game affording an opportunity for pleasure. Gentle flicks of the tongue on the perimeter of the vulva, glancing once or twice across her hood, met with shivered responses and ample lubrication. After short praise and encouragement, she set off again.

She managed the first prick admirably. With nothing more than a wince, she managed to collect the tack and offer it up with a small thread of blood where it caught her hand. The management of this pain meant she did not forfeit her reward, and I delivered it graciously, with tenderness.

The next prick was not so lucky. Very unlucky in fact, and a valuable learning opportunity. The relative smoothness so far combined with an increasing desire to finish the game and fuck meant that she grew careless. A misplaced knee was set without much caution and she doubled over in pain. The tack had struck well, but she had realised at the point of impact and it had not made it all the way in. I told her to collect it from her knee and give it to me. Of course her crying out meant a punishment -- in this case: some deliriously hard spankings, administered with the hand. Accompanied by some role-appropriate badinage: That was foolish, not taking more care where you were going! Yes sir. You'll want to be more careful now, won't you? Yes sir.

So the play continued with pleasures and punishments. Other implements were brought in for both, and for teasing in-between while hunting. A fantastic game! And once she finished collecting the final tack we had both become overwrought with anticipation -- the fucking was fervent and served a beautiful, bestial apotheosis to the involved play.

No good and evil, no right and wrong -- there is beauty, and there is violence. Infuriatingly simple, yet so delicately complex when the balance is struck well. Indeed, a beautifully orchestrated chess match is another salient example of the balance between beauty and violence.

I look forward to returning to my board this evening (although I will be tempted by a volume of Wittgenstein ordered some days before, waiting for me now upon my doorstep), to lose myself in that engrossing caper. At odds with my Society, yes -- but absolutely enamoured with an art life that constantly offers me so much more.

Someone Wants to Know if You are Happy Again

On the phone, someone wants to know if you are happy again. You, don't know how to answer. Say: eat my pussy again. I am: they say. Then we should hang up! You can't reach the end of the charger, dangling near the flexing hand, but distant. The top of his head looks intelligent between your legs -- your boyfriend thinks so. Say: my boyfriend thinks you seem intelligent, between my legs. Why don't you get him to charge up your phone?: they say. People want rough when delicate is a feast. The felicitous is a quivering box of butterflies waiting to be smashed.

Let's get back on the phone. Sure, only your boyfriend and my boyfriend are in the other room thinking about inviting their boyfriend over for salted biscuits. And you love their boyfriend which means I'm single and I like the smell of loose leaf tea. If all of us are eating you out -- well, what about me? Someone, wants to know if you still care.

What ever should you say? Sometimes it is best to walk out, develop new talents, be porous and coiled. Your phone is charging, but don't hang up. The top of his head is ghastly, fervent flowers popping open over hot coals -- let's all go away. Only, the boyfriends are filling up the front room now. Their boyfriend invited his boyfriend who brought their boyfriend without asking and now he is feeling left out, determined that he will have his boyfriend over before long.

There is noise on the line, or my ears are playing tricks under the strain of your thighs. He day dreams. Your legs constrict the airways -- enough -- sending delicious, ticklish blue to the surface. Contrasting pinks glowing, and flesh made blotchy, marmoreal. I am a statue, quivering in time to the static on the line -- don't hang up! I see you are smiling, happy again, tickled again, lighted behind the eyes again. Smash me -- smash me and I will eat until I am full or you have smashed me to nothing.

Are the biscuits ready soon? Why don't you ask one of the boyfriends?: they say. I want my boyfriend to have a look at you, he's a doctor you know. It isn't that we aren't happy that you are happy -- just, we are concerned. That's all. We want you to be happy, really. We just want to be sure it's the right kind. All the boyfriends agree, that's what they tell me. Say: does it matter what I think, or just never stop eating my pussy, again. Yes: they say. O! my grounded papilio, what colour will you turn when I finally no longer breathe? I think you are leaning on the phone, he seems distracted by the noise.

Yes, I know they often callously dismiss you, will you please shut up about it? The salty biscuits are ready, he thinks. Should we ask the boyfriends if it's okay to make tea? They are stacking up in the front room. My boyfriend is feeling anxious, wants to leave. You threaten to go happy again. Well, this is exciting -- is it? If only it would rain, the phone would charge faster. The colours of the room would start to flatter our goose flesh. Say: you've been down there a long time, do you want to come up?

No, I will call you back. Your boyfriend told me it takes this long sometimes. The top of his head is eroding, left sheets of spreading putty through the garden. Smelling piquant, threads of flower enamel climb up our thoughts and cling as we cling to one another. The charger is tangled, tight tendrils on the delicate fingers of your hand. The sound of the dial mingles the obstreperous ejaculations coming from the front room. The boyfriends are up to the rafters, making the whole dwelling shrink inwards as it shakes. We are all closer than ever before and never so alone as now. There, still there between you, he is a fortnight away. We cannot hear one another. Say: eat my pussy again. I am: they say.

Is it getting too rough? Sometimes, delicate is afraid. Maybe our boyfriends could leg and the others would follow. It would be nice to cry softly, together, during a storm. Perhaps the phone would charge in the front room, when emptied. We need permission for everything, but can't imagine what to do. This is why I never should have called.

Then we should hang up! Not yet, not yet -- the tea is never ready, my head is too heavy for sleep. He wants, you want, they want, and it is all the same as not wanting at all. Let's do nothing, say nothing about it then. Or, whisper -- let soft words be lost inside the grey noise between breaths. He can't hang up, but he can stop breathing. Let us go -- there's quiet in the front room now. The chaos of all desire is gently replaced by the solitude of longing. Someone wants to know if you are happy again.

My eyes opened you -- a figure cut from dripping shadows.

Danced before me like a wave for the moon.

My blood unfurled in your palms, soft and sweet -- the red-handed bandit.

So desperate to thieve, one purloins the self.

In the Land of Despots

The villains claim to smell you -- miles away. How could this be? No, it was impossible, I'm certain. Not like the old days when your dainty stink would unsettle the dead. They must have experienced a false scent that was strong enough to put silly ideas into their heads. Otherwise, you are on the run again and your sweet letters to me have been full of lies.

Perhaps it was irresponsible -- what could that mean? I don't think I am meant to know you put your mark on me. And yet, in your plaintive letters there was always a moment, would give it away. Some soporific passage that couldn't only mean one thing. So, the responsible is ill-conceived and somewhere our doubles -- or perhaps our ghosts -- they are running off to bed together.

I live in a lighted world. I see at night.

If I told you: your orgullo is too big -- you would upbraid me. Instead I say: I can see it just fine. The torpor of its exaggerated movements only highlights its excessive size. But you insist on being and so I am the one that execrates. Certainly the origin was there, at the mouth -- but I have come to loathe everything about you. The constant murmur emanating from your being has fixed the distressing image of that massive gape upon my mind.

All of my orifices are weeping for you. I have a little grave here, just beside the bed -- on the side you used to wet, every single night. The training was not adequate. We are overexposed in vital places. My orifices are doing a commendable job, but I don't like to let them go as much as they are able.

I can't remember that joke you used to tell.

I am convinced it is truly funny.

Through the Butterfly Net

Rhetorically: Are you serious? I am more predictable than the weather. I am harmed by life. I am the supple suppliant, knelt before countless vices that have abandoned me -- such as fickle gods might grow bored inventing new ways to suffer; as the cat tires of torturing mouse. Something must be done! The state of things! I say: nothing is to be done -- that's things for you. Predictable my darlings, so you see. That one might endeavour to do--anything at all--is absurd as facing the dragon, armed with nothing save a butterfly net of poor quality (medium size). Life is eroding us and every moment spills into the next, washed out into the vast universe by the rapid tributary of endless suffering. One cannot help but laugh! -- so it must be serious after all.

In the washroom, between lavatories, Diane de Poitiers is cleaning her hands at the central basin. Her pubic mound thrust up firmly against the edge, she laughs as she lathers absentmindedly. I ask her why she laughs and she tells me: The weather is so erratic lately. I say: That isn't funny. She agrees and admits she can't explain why it made her laugh. I stand behind her. We are looking at each other through the mirror. She towels her hands after washing them, keeping her mound fixed against the basin. Her hips seem to sway, or seem to have started -- gently, almost imperceptibly. She asks: Have you seen the coast of this place? So I tell her: I have been the coast, been up and down, such that I am sick of it -- can't stand to breathe the air or smell the sea or contemplate the vast suffering contained beneath its perfidious surfaces. She sees me watching her hips as I answer and in return says: Ask me. I ask: Diana, do you yearn? She answers: You are so predictable. I concede: There's nothing to be done about it -- but what of your yearning, how should you hope to slake it? She brings herself around to face me, chin resting on her chest and eyes looking up to find mine. She says: Silly, there's nothing to be done about it.

Then, we do not embrace. Then, we do not kiss. I do not turn her around, one of my arms around her waist, the other across her chest, its hand about her throat where I place deep kisses. She does not tremble and turn back around, seating herself atop the basin. In this position, she does not pull up her skirt to expose her bare vulva to me. I do not place myself effusively in that exposed apex, centre of her somatic being.

No, instead she says: What you can do is return to the coast, then bring it to me -- gather all its sand with your butterfly net, and bring it back to me.

I am harmed my darlings! Though it is certain: suffering is salutary. Still, it does not prevent us pining or asking questions. Is braille very dirty? -- for example. Life is horrible, because it is absolutely fine. The state of things! It wasn't often guessed that paradise would be so vulgar. Yet, even in paradise: so am I and so is death -- desultory, and consumed by a rapacious desire to not exist at all. I do not understand the language! Everything is unknown to me -- such that, even to try and summarise all that I know (nothing)... it is impossible. Something must be done! Nothing to do but try and remember -- an effort immediately polluted by doubt. The mendacity of memory is a most formidable foil in every attempt to summon in the mind, my glorious forays into non-suffering. One feels capable of recalling the warm sensation produced across the chest by a vibrant stream of piss, emanating from the capital city of a young woman kneeling over us. Or the delicate, powerful shape of a handsomely wrought male member -- rigidly marmoreal, yet throbbing, alive and exploratory. One imagines that these things are known because they occurred. But I have already assured you my darlings: I know nothing. Perhaps it is more serious than you thought!

Diana starts to make her way past me, towards the exit of the washroom. As she moves by, I gently take her hand and tell her: It isn't possible -- maybe not at all, but certainly not for I, as I have made an oath to never return to the coast of this place. She places her other hand over mine and turns to face me. She asks: is that where your vice abandoned you? Surprised, I say: how is it known to you, that my vice abandoned me? Taking her hands from mine, she places them around my throat. She steps closer and says: Your eyes watched my hips -- I could see my pussy crying out to you -- as the reek of human blood smiling at the Furies -- is that all that you are -- creature -- guided by whim -- carried by currents you no longer recognise -- drowning in the vast ocean of misery -- are you so weak and predictable -- or will you return to face your vice and do as I have asked?

Then, she does not lower me to my knees. Then, she does not tighten her hands around my throat. I do not try to breathe. She does not place my nose in her lap. Tears do not stream from my bulging eyes as I try to gently move my lips to kiss her delicate labia.

No, instead I say: You are right of course -- but it must be some sort of joke -- how cruel an existence, labouring there with my net -- to do such an impossible thing for you.

Nothing is to be done my darlings! Yet here we are. Predictably, I labour with my butterfly net, underneath a canopy of vice, full of laughter for my futility. And you have the audacity to wonder if it is very serious! It is bitter, tedious -- full of pain. It is not so serious after all.

Is it Bad?

{ Is it bad? }

[ Don't you know better?! Surely, there is no such thing. Did you mean: undesirable, not preferred, unsound? ]

{ I wanted to know if the thing were bad. }

[ You don't mean evil! You will have us in stitches! Perhaps you want to know if its function is ill-served? ]

{ I want to know if it is bad! That is simple enough. Why won't you tell me? }

[ How could we possibly?! We absolutely don't know what you mean darling! You seem intent on receiving something that can't possibly exist. ]

{ Then how is it I am able to ask the question? }

[ It is only your claim: that you have asked a question -- but we cannot accept this claim. There is no evidence to support it. Besides, if you had asked a question, we would have answered it. ]

{ I believe it is a question -- my belief makes it true. }

[ Yes, that is sound. ]

{ So, what is the problem? }

[ Where to begin? There are so many problems! Each one, including the smallest one, is a copiousness of untruth, certain to damn the entire endeavour. Perhaps you mean the truth above. A relative truth. You relate that a question has been posed, which is true. But we find no evidence to support that, so it is also not true. And we can hardly be expected to provide an answer that does not exist, to a question unasked. ]

{ Be reasonable. }

[ Certainly! What are your terms? ]

{ How do you mean? }

[ What reason should we use? Who's reason? We could adopt your own, but then we would be unable to tell you anything you don't already know. ]

{ It is impossible. }

[ Yes, that is sound. ]

{ It can't continue. }

[ Yes, that is sound. And yet, it will go on. ]

Augury

The night does not part like an ocean, or readily — like lips. It finds me choking on some new, terrible truth. Don’t let us pray anymore. It is doing no good. Anger is humbled, made chaste by your letter — delivered by hand in the unparted night. Let’s read it once before we read it.

'S'Fine (Pretzels)

[screaming]You'll pay for this!---------'s'fine. Kill me.

[sheepishly] What if a reign of terror sweeps our village?-------There are worse things.---What if famine strikes our lands?--- -'s'fine.

[wretchedness][bleeding fists]-------------I am with so much and yet, without everything!------[great fire][crushing bone] Yes. Continue.

[vitriol][vitriolic eating of pretzels and weeping] Mommy was right! You're just an asshole!--------[I know][Iknow, daddy's soory]['s'fine]

[atomic heat][dripping flesh] Hell, I hope the weather cooperates!----------- Yeah, 's'fine, everything's is definitely oky and nothing bad

[the next morning]You used to love morning coffee!-----Yes, it was my favourite part of the day[sobs][gnashes teeth]Now it is just pain

[meanwhile]-----------[pain worse than death][vomiting blood]---------------'S'fine, 's'nothing.[later]---------- ---

Mmmmm yeah like that! Now get your lips in there and spit like Daffy Duck reading Shakespeeeeaaaaarrrrre [moans]

Is she asleep? [he weeps]Yes--------Oh brother! Will you put a muzzle on? Get over here and spread this for me. [stumbles,stutters]Like that?

[later]Dad, can I gidda doggy?[weeps][gnashes teeth]Stop crying you fucking ugly! Mom told me you were eating pretzels! [sobs]Yes, Rold Gold

[meanwhile]Oh God! Are those pretzels!?!-----Mmhm-----------Why on earth-------Because everything hurts, but these are also salty

[agony][pools][pleading][weeping]-------Yessir. No problem.

[large fires][swells of crashing tar]-----Don't you feel kinda bad? Aren't you afraid of death?-----[avoids a tidal of tar] Where he is s'worse

What about him? -------------[thrashing]----Does he look like he would be okay, even if we fished him out?----[wild thrashing]--No. I guess you're right

[finished coughing blood]-------------'s'oky just take what you can land your hands on. Everything else---[mean wind]

[falling][straps of flesh peeling away like layers of onion]-----------What? No, needn't worry about the cornerstones which were just decoration

[pleads][burns]-----------Yeah's'fine

------------------------------

A New Poem at Midnight

I need to be alive in small ways

and never smile at you.

The life, I’m not alive, I’m not here.

I need to be adored.

My little princess, held together

by scotch tape -- tired vandal.

Are you the beautiful gunslinger that

named every piano key?

Or did my softness threaten

to make the car go on fire and

turn everything into some sort of tedious party?

Allure is the vivid colour of swollen

glands -- it’s like finding a light switch in the desert.

Thoughts can’t be murdered, just dried out

and dismembered -- a slippery stitch in the valve of a failing heart.

Just Any Day

Tightly packed into this foreign Bed that has Sheets webbing me in and feeling Stretches of air sliding across them Stabbing my knees

A pleasant entry amongst colder, Shedding nights. The bottled ship is carefully Repaired, going to nowhere -- it is Its destination

The pointless erection suspended Forever. So of course I come in your Hair that you French braid and wear All day.

Left There

p, li { white-space: pre-wrap; }

Straps criss-crossed my chest and the bareness

Accentuated, pleased your

Teasing iron nails

Adored you say, all of these lovely words

And in return I fill your mouth with volumes

Of kisses that are not defined but

Left there for a thin thread of a

Moment. Lapses caress and enable

Tooth tight grins

Slobbering about a something

Teemed with flecks of enamel from a

Very old statue that reminded me of something good.

From Scoundrel to Mayor, Just Like That

Now that we have discussed, at length, the psychedelic properties of alcoholism: it is time to wipe the blood from our mouths. It is time to wear suits made of fine silk. Once I have licked the sweat beads from our collective down, I go after you. I reach up skirts. My driver calls me: The Scoundrel of Pound Town. It's not an official title -- there is no town of Pound. It's just what she calls me, before she shoots me in the back with a snub nose. I pay her to drive, but she just sits in the back and snipes me as I motor us along.

Now that she has rifled me, at length, with pistol shot: it is time to get home for supper. It is time for simple, peasant food dropped on delicate, bone china. Once the china breaks, I leave the army to get a heavy drug addiction. I gulp vast fortunes of drugs. My driver sells my body to pay her wages. I am forced to dip various parts of myself inside of others. My driver says I can't afford the drugs anymore, but she lets me keep the alcoholism. When she isn't shooting me in the back, she's really very kind. She delivers a detailed address, outlining steps that I might take to rise up, throught the ranks. Successive promotions that see me soar. From Scoundrel of Pound Town, to mayor, like that. Just a few things I gotta do -- and I'm Mayor of Pound Town.

What I've Learned About Business (Money, Money, Money)

Great finance is blessed by the lord. Dizzying wealth must be attributed to spiritual ascension. My investments are robust. Cinnamon has a healthy market share. Potatoes too. Each long potato produces enough skin to graft families whole, all at once. Are you very clean? The zodiacs pollute our earth. Cock with wine, the lord's dish -- my daughter dutifully prepares the coq au violet. Because the lord insists on clean Beaujolais only. The cleanest of the dirty French wines. Are you dirty, she says. Tell her: I know my lord. I wait patiently for hope to sprout. From the anus, says my lord, your hope will spring. Softly it will spread and cradle a firm, round prostate. My prostate, my egg, my seminal bulb: wrapped gently from the hopeful anus. Lifted past dirty zodiacs, the prostate may rise and blush. Elevating the man, the prostate is freed -- soaring into the heavens. Ripening as it graces the supple lips of our lord. Then money -- O money, money, money.

Thinking About Winter

Having enough potassium is fine. The smell of winter, doing things in winter, is so wonderful really -- I'm thinking of it right now. I am the little, pissing in your street at Christmas, because I love you. I love you, ham mornings, trimmings, cold weather, cold weather, cold weather. I whimper placidly in an asexual wind. Nothing horny about the holiday. As long as the potassium levels are good, we good.

The Spanish I Know

Missus, I have a couple of medicines that make the prick of my pen wriggle. I'm sweating at the doctor and I wish I had the sweet calm of your bird-like breath to cool my lizard blood. The parasites at the hotel check-in were kinder than you could imagine. Maybe more than you would like. Missus, we now know: The animal brain seeps muck into the thick pac-man floors and steep uterine walls that made up our cocoon. Hordes of fruit spewed from that cocoon, hanging and draping the outer facets of our pulmonary haven.

I had vivid dreams that we were in danger. Our safari left Band-Aids strewn past the desert, past the tundra, past the blasted plains. I attempted to set up tents to serve as a garage from which we might cover the Ali-Frazier fight. And it wasn't but ten times that you stopped for the toilet at Treasure Island. When we almost got married at the Elvis Chapel we knew it was time for the bikini contest at Señor Frogs instead. Once we get married you're my new mami and I'm your papi. Or else, the Spanish I know no longer translates.

Seeds

Picking seeds out of your grass Spit mouth watermelon pillow stains With certain garments left hanging On thin racks Erected carelessly in that corner Used to be our room I can't sleep anymore because I'm so tired all the time I'm Hardly ever awake for Strange honey colour wood Coffin attracting bee Swarms that you control with Smoke wreathes of your Curling flips of black hair and I must be dozing when you Deleted your pictures of me sleeping To make room for when you return To start your new collection Your new subject sweating Under covers in summer heat While I wander in mild winter evenings Stepping on seeds you left Spit in the grass