brainbits

Now every gentleman in Rome
is wearing Saigon cologne--
and the farmer in the dell
has gone to Hell, gone to Hell.

no title

Heaven's just a fathom high—
with olive skin and darkest eye—
while Hell's two fathoms further down—
and I, a dead man on the ground.

new year 06.01.011

your belying eyes—circumspect, ring-scribed
in light—fire my insides, blister my lips
and sizzle my skin.

kiln to my earthenware, you glaze me
in love most pearlescent-white;
I deny you nothing.

we are; you are mine; you quake at my fingers' behest.
your plushsoft lips quest, seek presence and rest
within the fleshy pulp of my heart.

covered in blood, you plunge.

sweat rimes your soul.

your agate-eyes flash green and gold;
myriad bubbles, pinfire sigh—

take me down this time,
down inside your light.

scry into my soul, leave me half of Whole.