04.9.013 Fantasy Lover

There is no prince. None of flesh, blood, or bone.
He lives in the home between my ears-- unreachable

I need a fantasy lover. Those ones are better.
The real ones are never birds of my feather;
I'd fare better with a fantasy lover--

a pretend one, who doesn't exist,
one in my head-- but with me so deluded,
it wouldn't matter.

I could rage and rock
and mutter on into the night,
ricocheting between madness and and sadness,
inane sanity and insanity (cleanly).

I need a good fantasy (clearly).

5.08.015

What to do about the desire for skin-on-skin contact, a need for the fresh gloss of an oxytocin dose?

When a certain kind of love-- absent the pregnant punctuation of kisses drawn out too long,

Passion confused with a yearning to feel human-- loses its quintessence:

How to untwine one from its other? How to ask of a lover that he love

Not in a way which makes sense-- rather, in the manner to which thine own self has become

(so selfishly) accustomed?

27.05.015

I keep my memories in strands of hair,

and when I need to forget I go to the shears;

when I want to start over, I force baldness.

Supplications into uneasy air:

memories taken on violent breeze,

momentary eddies, then dissemination:

Severed strands scatter (dismembered, forgotten)
becoming fire's fodder or the whippoorwill's wattle
in a home of hair and mud-as-daub.

I carry my tension in clenchéd teeth,
my worries in welts bitten into my cheek--
with the hum of the hive comes molars missing.

08.12.016