tainted

Crawling on the floor . . .

I've been here before;

cutting through the figments of what I'd die for.
But are there options left in me?

When bleeding out in ink
won't satisfy a need to live and breathe anymore.

whatever words i say

fighting for passion in a stagnant lullaby
a creeping repetition at the base of his spine
cut from a phase he can't antiquate;
if there's poison in ink, someday he'll escape.

stirring the words in the hopes they won't tangle
stirring and blurring and resenting the angle
caught in a fit--or maybe a plight
desperation dwelling; our god justified

  

after the flesh when naught else is left
driven by anger, contempt, or regret
dying to feel like we felt yesterday
so live in the past, or lead him astray?

For our Captain Pirateface.

reaching out with two glass hands;
crystallized, but who decides?
discretion is a ductless gland, but do you really want it?
pregnant with discrepant flair,
ebonizing aspiration--
dark to the heart but cold and bare;
will it take you anywhere?
sacrifice your wounded mind, cannibalize humanity
where love and resentment intertwine and break the bridge to sanity.



Pornography On The Radio

If I had my chance

The atmosphere held a soft silence.
He laid his head on her lap--like he always did--and contentment flooded into her.
She would have been happy with the silence; She hadn't thought twice about it . . .
But he gave her something better:
"I love you," he breathed, barely above a whisper.
And they filled with warmth, then. Right down to their bones.