Lay in bed and pinch your own fucking nipple and rub your rough hand over your taut chest and quiver, inhaling.
The fan and the memories make all parts of you harden and shudder except the soft heart and wet cheeks.
Writhe among the sheets, alone. A hamstring dares to cramp and you wish for it just so you might feel a thing tonight.
Prevalent in the heavens and inaccessible to humans. In some versions of alchemy, this was the fifth element in addition to air, earth, fire and water: The Quintessence.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
RUST
Rust
We rebuilt the steps to the tool shed
in a warm October when the spiders
were bad, but between hewing
chunks of Ash and felling fresh logs,
we forgot to look into that kind of thing.
Eighty-eight legs scattered from a hidden epicenter:
black, spindle jointed.
Pricking and tickling sun-lit skin and hands, each moment
stretched as if
the hourglasses on their bellies slowed time while sticky
feet ascended me.
The reddening tub’s remaining club foot had long since
been buried, maybe weighted
by the rainwater standing tricep-deep in it that day.
The murky stuff that saved me.
The murky stuff that saved me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Spike used to frolic, kicking up dust on the hill behind
Grandma’s house and in front of his own,
braying at squirrels and their cousins, playing with me
and mine,
tethered to a stake by a chain long enough for him to
stretch himself, enjoy a modest freedom.
The fire ants erected monuments in the front yard and
side. These Spiked menaced
when walked past them, gnashing teeth and destroying an
edifice before a tactical retreat.
In a July we awoke to uncover their plot. Fresh mounds arose far from their origins.
Subterranean corridors mapped pizzicato revenge.
Spike ran in circles from invaders granted access from
that rusty chain via grounded stake,
ran that chain into something Gordian that tightened
around a tree and his neck—
the stout oak yielded a firmness his flesh could not
match.
So we found him
Strangled, stung, choking. Stuck.
Strangled, stung, choking. Stuck.
Friday, April 3, 2015
i wrote a poem so who tf cares about at title; or, the second scoop of pre-workout.
i came home to help Neil pwn some fools but he snore/jerked
when i opened the door and wiped the dribble from the armchair,
and i knew instantly that i should have stayed to teach Nina to shoot bp.
she swayed under that jasmine shadow somewhere,
and the eyes beneath it flitted to me so often:
there's your problem right there.
now i'm hiding from sleep.
now i'm watching a mascot dance-off.
now i cant stop texting my ex and i
know somewhere deep i'll never do better than her.
Neil's gonna propose to Molly sometime this spring
and all I'll do is be worse off than i was last spring,
and lonelier.
when i opened the door and wiped the dribble from the armchair,
and i knew instantly that i should have stayed to teach Nina to shoot bp.
she swayed under that jasmine shadow somewhere,
and the eyes beneath it flitted to me so often:
there's your problem right there.
now i'm hiding from sleep.
now i'm watching a mascot dance-off.
now i cant stop texting my ex and i
know somewhere deep i'll never do better than her.
Neil's gonna propose to Molly sometime this spring
and all I'll do is be worse off than i was last spring,
and lonelier.
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