Wednesday, August 29, 2012

The Civil Circus

My puppy.
There is sick butter
dripping down
these aisles.

Today I sat in my bell jar, and contemplated murders,
That cost the trespasser, his bi-polar

My body negotiated the
most faithful
turns into absurd fires
while i lay in silence,
confused through mad nights
with clowns of all cities
and clowns of all clans
and clowns of all languages
and clowns from all lust-beds
wanting to rip my eyelashes 

I was a queen even then
A defeated one.
I was a courtesan of windows
I was the goddess of tongues
I am
I was

I am

The thought shifts and declines
this very digestive tract

All my men
and clowns have receded
Only you remain puppy.
Only you will lick my wounds
when i will be slaughtered
And I will be minced
And I will be eaten
alive with the philosophy of
men and their
horrible beauty

You will wait to become
the soft angel
of my deathfulness again
You will be careful with my hair
and you will cover my nakedness
from gone head to gone toe
And you will sit with me
with your errant paws
whimpering with sadness

Oh puppy.
You are great.

You will forget me
And that will do.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Such Goodbyes

We have been lovers
yes i have kissed you
even though, i do not know you

my words have eaten through
the gaze
my words have reached places
my words have held you
my eyes have seen your bed

my hands have touched your chest
my breath has warmed your ear
and i have stood by your hips
and spoken to you of poets

in your kitchen,
you have taken my name
though you do not know it
when you walk
you think of me
when you fuck
you think of me
when you love you think of me

you have never seen me
and i have never wrapped your bedsheets upon my chest
but i have lain there
naked with you
i have dreamt with you

i have been your vision
i have been a dream
a mirror
i have been things
in your room

i have been your anger
and the salt on your chin
when you shook
on steady nights

i am your stranger
and your woman
i am your theater
of the world
and your disdain

i am  the madame
the whore
and the saint
i am desire
and a gaunt dizziness
that grips you

i am your occurrence
when food pales
in your throat
i have gripped you

and you have sat by me
as these events
have unfolded
you have seen me

i have held your head,
your chest,
and your lips,
to mine

and i have taken you with me
inside me
outside me
i have moaned to you
and have soothed you

you have been several strangers
and so have i
but both of us have never moved
away or near

we will always be incomplete
you and i

dont talk about me
to your walls
your chest will collapse

dont think of me
in your chairs
you eyes will swell

my masters have changed
dear love
i am a secret

your postcard arrived
last evening
and i did not cry
i only placed
your words
under my bed
to never be uncovered

i must punish you
for this sort of love

Do not
take my name

Remember this,
you do not know it.

Sycophant of the Grotto

I make nightmares
with the palms of my hands
place them over my eyes
and carry them like

I carry them like freedoms
that are violent
i carry them like
that do not exist

I carry them like
my children
that will die

I carry them,
sure of their nudity
and sure of their
rise into my

the way a man's
kiss pollutes my gender.

I carry many deserts
and many lips
that stay frozen
on nights
into moon-rises.

i carry my ego
with clusters of sugar
and borrowed guilt
to drown them
slowly in bathing water

I fuss over
things that
have broken previously
and are under the arrest
of public gaze

But I persist in carrying
things silently
even as my nightmares
make me ill

They have eaten through my palms
since sometime

I think i must wash these
things from
my routine.

Saturday, August 18, 2012


Creature with
fore arms
made of  sad gold
that are kissable. Just.
And barely hidden.
His arms-crisp lines
of augmented reality.

He moves
with uncomfortable grace.
Like a childish gust
of shy fingers.
Woman's mouth-
and chewing,

Stares sharp and dark
into a melting world.
Gone from my lap
My talk.
My arms.
My body.
My waist.
As easily,
as he lay over them.

Carrier of death in his brows.
of wanting.

Sexual in his desires,
and man's eyes.
of female circles and triangles
between the legs.

Is soft in sleep,
and warm under moon coloured-sheets,
night in his hair,
on his torso.
Slender neck
that fits heads perfectly

Cannot hear me crying at night,
because of wild dreams
and pedestals that have formed him.

Moody fingers
And perfect forehead for smoking.
Lets loose
in full laughters
that are aching with
the words of birth.

Glad teeth,
that open generous
to all beings
and noises
and are sometimes scared.

Silent eyes
that fill mountains
with gut
and brine.
the fear
that they may

all over again.