Category: poetry

push and pull

the push and pull of patience
a mind muddled with desire
and rising waters of lust
languishing in a limbo
of an emotional bond
brushing up against the bones
of a physical craving

two worlds crashing on a queen-sized bed
bereft of belonging
a diluted deluge of dominance


tickling nerves and nervousness
arousing dormant fears and fantasies
enveloped in your mouth and the moment
stroking lucidity
while cupping confusion
conflicted and sorry and restricted and spent
wishing away the avalanche of thought
the idea of rejection
the hope for peace


the cadence of persistence
pushing skin to the edge
tipping the scales in your favor
while unfurling experience
temporarily lifting the gravity
of shame and purpose
a smile revealing teeth that will tear
but gladly succumbing to the bite

don’t stop

hands like ribbon wrapping around my body
massaging and persuading
beckoning with risk and sin and excitement
an inescapable elixir
the sweetness of poison
the glamour of death
reeling me in
while getting carried away

losing myself between the blankets
and your body
liberated through penetration
split in half by circumstance and circumference
your tongue laps then lashes
your hands stroke then strangle
tangled up in a tussle I never expected
caught in a fight I never warranted

terrified of the first death
and the heart failures that follow
falling so fast in unexpected fields
and fearing falling behind
with no way back from the brink
looking back to you and
find you looking forward
just beyond my face






feelings never felt

chuffed to meet you

locking eyes and mouths and hands
a body once a fraction
grafting onto another
whole numbers and whole milk
steamed in styrofoam
aroma’s leading to a lingering stare
a laugh in tune with the tempo
a simple smile in line with my intentions

weaving into the worries and wonder
of two minds and hearts and heads
blankets and coffee and bedroom candles
plush pillows next to velvet hearts
going to bed beguiled and waking up a wanderer

summer’s skin reveals laugh lines
like the winding road of two travelers
a journey of cataclysmic fights
and celestial peaks of passion
puppy’s breath and paying bills
wilted roses and renewed vigor
promotions, property, and pedigree
pushing forward and pulling closer

old boxes and new box springs
fall skies casting out red and brown confetti
crunching beneath oxblood boots
with scarves and sugar plum lip shine
walking to a quiet cafe
to converge over caffeine again
reminiscing on regal handshakes
and a first brush with heavy breathing

thinning in frame
and frame of mind
but sharp in recollection
of dates, deeds, and determination
intertwined and realigned
married in law, meshed in time
waiting with an old dog nearby
for another glimpse of grace in your eyes

each passing season illuminates
a life spent in luxury
lacking in gold and loneliness
and pinning down a particular action
to find reasons to alter shirts and genes
and recalling why I wanted you to stay

sincerity, security, strength
a head hard enough to fix me
a tongue nimble enough to tease me
a soft heart with a sharp wit
hands ever extended to help,
praise, and pursue

peeling back the years
and plumping up memories
leading back to that single night
and the first blush of reverence
found in that simple smile
in a simple spot
to meet over a simple steaming cup

i had a fan once

Inspired by p.

these times are quite a ways away
running circles through your hair with my finger
sending strokes down your spine
that sprout seeds along your skin
a slight with a smile, a simple scene
sinking into a perfect passiveness
that plays out over and over again
until your ringlets become real

tucked in black
you can’t see me looking at you
looking at the screen
with lips that stretch into a smile
and eyes that wet with laughter

one among many, looking forward
hoping you’ll see me looking at you
with lips pursed to plunge
and eyes closed to signify
a scene cut short
to direct one of our own

the unbearable barrier between arms
craving the taste of sweet and salty skin
hoping to sink into a seat with you
and experience a climax of our own
before the opening credits

Continue reading

by the fireside

arms replacing blankets as I sit behind you
molding to your body by this fireside view
closing in to spots behind your ear
perusing and nibbling and drawing near
heat on your front with a heart to your back
you want to rise up and explore Santa’s sack
with bellies full and nowhere to go
let’s take this back to the blankets
and, well,

you know

a haiku on depression

two corpses, caressing

for p.
two bodies traverse the expanse of a bleak surface
turgid tendons, split shins, flayed toes
but still walking
propelled by a hunger surpassing the stomach
as lidless eyes dance among the faces
desperate to find a hollowed out counterpart

two bodies come together with clanging cartilage and vacant stares
empty eyes and lolling tongues
tissue skin sheared from the friction of fingers
gnashing teeth reminiscent of romance
hollow hearts and hands, touching and tearing
clamoring for a clavicle
but only grasping guts
devoid of pleasure but programmed by dim memories
of what this once felt like

two bodies moaning in the murk
assuaging and assaulting, seething and writhing
falling away from each other in the blood wet world
trying to taste the truth of one body to another
but only tasting tin
drunk on the red wine of blood
full on necrotized flesh
satiated by nothing

one body gasps and screams
and shudders and stumbles
then moves past the other
blood on the mouth, hole in the chest
seeking sanctuary in another skin

one body stands alone
and watches the other shuffle away
filled with a mud soaked memory of pain unidentified
flooding back from the faint fog
no marks on the skin, no bruise to the brain
only an internal hemorrhage

one person bludgeoned by the burden of belonging
recalls the ramifications of respiration
and dies again
then concedes to the cold dark

and crumbles

nocturnal permissions

I was thinking about writing the other day, specifically poetry and realized I hadn’t written a poem in over two years.  I used to be so inspired to write poetry.  Lines flew into my head like it was the easiest thing in the world.  But one day, for reasons unbeknownst to me, it became harder and harder to write and the words wouldn’t form and the lines that once slipped in so easily no longer showed up.  And I had to force it and it didn’t feel natural anymore so I just stopped.

I suppose all of this thinking about poetry might have been why a poem suddenly popped into my head one night.  I just happened to be in that stage of sleep twilight, those precious few seconds when you can actually feel yourself crossing over into unconsciousness, a moment when you feel as if your internal organs have shifted just so, a wash of nausea and then your awareness fades and you’re under.

It was odd because I haven’t had the ability to write poetry in years and suddenly, this almost fully formed poem is thrust into my mind right before it shuts off for the night.  It wasn’t a good poem but I found it interesting that it even showed up at all.  I don’t want to say I thought that part of me was gone but I feel my writing has changed since my last attempt at poetry writing and it almost feels like it’s just not the appropriate medium for me right now.  I don’t understand poetry enough to appreciate it the way I should nor write it how I should.

This isn’t the first case of it happening.  Back when my creative juices were really flowing, poetry came flooding into my head night and day.  I often found lines embedded in my head and it was as if digging for sleep somehow uncovered those buried bits of mood and feeling.

I’ve even managed to come up with melodies and song lyrics seconds before sleep, which is quite curious because I am no song writer, nor a singer by any stretch of the imagination.  Yet, there they were, these incomplete bits of songs and poetry, lines of feeling formed and free falling in my mind, snatched up seconds before sleep.

It’s as if those few moments before I fall under are when my mind allows itself to break free from the strain of worry and fear and it grants permission to explore my pent up emotions in a more creative way.  It’s as if drowsiness is an elixir of sorts, my drug of choice for coming up with ideas.  I’ve always come up with my best ideas at night.  It’s when I work best.  It’s when I feel calmer, more focused and less sporadic.  It’s as if the closer I get to sleep, the more creative I become, the apex being at the moment when my brain is in transition.

Who knew my muse was hiding at the bottom of a bottle of night time cold medication?  Maybe I just need to stay buzzed on sleeping pills.  Then I can finally find my creativity again and write good poetry and finish my book and work on others. 

I Walked with a Zombie

i wandered this road
caked in the gravel
that chipped at my toes
and filleted my feet
blood left in the wake of my walk
sending up a scent for him to swallow
an attraction born from crimson
he came to me
and we walked together
his charm captured my trust
so I took his hand
in hopes for guidance
but he gripped my fingers
and crushed my carpals
his mouth pooled with blood
as my own flowed from my fingers
my eyes widened in horror
when i realized his were glazed over
i struggled to get away
clawing from his reach
and tearing at his face
i tore at his shirt
and as the flesh fell away
i saw the vacant hole in his chest
i turned and ran
barely escaping
as he leapt forward
in a feral frenzy
i fell into the arms of a beautiful girl
who took me in her grasp
and comforted me
my blood soaked her shirt
and she stared at me
with a gorgeous gaze
i finally felt safe in her eyes
as she kissed my lips
then tore them from my face
with her rotted teeth
a cascade of crimson
spewed from my severed skin
and i saw her eyes were vacant as well
i escaped her clutches
but couldn’t run far
for the dead were all around me
they closed in
and took the rest of my fingers
ripped off my clothing
and tore out my heart
i slipped into an undead slumber
and woke with an insatiable hunger
they took the best of me
my fingers
my lips
my humanity
now i’m nothing
but a walking corpse
no lips for passion
no soul for remorse
no heart for love
no hands for art
no head for reason
they tore it apart
now all i have
is the capacity to kill
i must, although i’m filled
with disgust
the desire to devour
is my only will
although i was dead
a thought dawned in my head
my evisceration born a revelation
aren’t we all just dead anyway?
the world will always catch up
and shut us down
like a virus through the blood
that makes us bitter
and filled with a red rage
don’t we all lash out
at everyone around us
don’t we all tear each other apart
for our own sustenance?
we shuffle toward our futures
but our futures are filled with blood
black and bitter
and we hurt each other
to make it feel better
but we’re only making it worse
it’s a cycle that spreads
like a disease that funnels
through the veins
and we’ll all be affected
and infected
until we’re all torn
limb from limb


meet me where the honeysuckle grows
the spot laid out for you and me
fragrant like these fingers
soft like this skin
 stems writhe in the grass
from palpating petals
nectar nudges along the fringe
of frivolous abandonment
plucked at the peak of pulsing
lifted off the ground
collapsing into the earth
with sticky sweet smiles