The Life Expectancy of a Fly--The room smells of tabasco sauce, limes, and stale flesh--if you allow passion to dry, if you let ardour congeal--I am a fly on the wall;I have known you all my life. Your face hidden beneath lush rolls of fat--you're suckling at the tender part of her belly,flesh that sunlight has never roamed:You are a young gentleman caller,and I am a fly that knew you.She is a whale in wolf's skin--you like her laugh and her breastsremind you of the lack of infrastructure in your homeland.In the memory, I think of you as dung,as sweet nectars found in garbage--In present,you are just a deathtrap.I'd call you a stranger,but I don't want to know you.
All hurts for a western heart:You are a fountain;babbling,gorgeous,expectant.You are a fountain;a constant circulation of water,a rupture of life,a sanction of deferred dreams.I find your flow to be sincere,your stones solid.I am a shooting star;distant,audacious,disconsolate.I am a shooting star;soaring without purpose,destination unknown,I'm going out west.You are a fountain;I drop pennies and think of you.
Ho-hoI am Santa's laughter; mirthful, bearded.Ho!I chuckle down your chimney,creeping low, dragging cheer like a burden behind me.I am Santa's laughter; lurking, sleuthing.Ho!Find me in your stocking, diamond peals and rough titteration.I am Santa's laughter; forced, and contrived.A blue-eyed thief tickled me from the belly of a rich Turk,whose pockets guffawed at the jingle of coins,meant for good little whores, to save them from boys.I am Santa's laughter; you know me well.Ho!Cookie crumbs cacchinate as spoilt milk slides across split sides;Santa cannot resist.
WIP UntitledI loved the wolf, who was a manwho loved the bird, that fluttered in my chestboisterous, beatific, blindtrapped deep in the rib cagedark as a coal minebe free, canarysaid the manbeat, beat, beat twittered the birdhold fast growled the wolf,th man's teeth upon the nape.Canary soar hard up the red ribbon channel,freedom on my last exhalebeat, beat, beat,the canary twitters into the mouth of the man,of the wolf who loved me
What Homer Never SaidOh, Muse!He's a romantic! Let's give him dark, so starry eyes,at night he writes of her soft breasts,sinking ships, planes, hearts.It is winter, without her warm skin, soft,what secrets shall he leak, without her slender,charcoal stained fingers pressed to his mouth?He longs for the day, when they will be unitedas one, as more than one,four legs,four arms,two hands shall meet for the first time,two mouths shall sigh, "Finally."He's a romantic, and she's just a drifter;her fingers smell of tobacco ashesShe only knows how to draw a boy with supernova eyes. She draws lands cold and unknown, and her sighs are heavy-likethe Lusitania.She drifts to his warmth, the romantic's, his uneasy warmth.How long will it last, she doubts, aching for his words.two tongues, four eyes, one black lung and a troubled soul;it shall all converge.
Who do you want to forget? 5Your dad shook my hand,and held me tight for an odd amount of seconds, the night of your funeral.It started as a handshake,his fingers curling around mine, my finger rubbing against his wedding band--strong arms wrapping around my somber frame,and he shook me,as if to wake me.As if to remind me,you wouldn't be back; Caroline wails in the background, "It's not right. It shouldn't have mattered."He sobbed in my freshly oiled hair to thank me for knowing you.And even though, I knew it would be a closed casket,the bullet chewing through your skull in closed captioningI wore a low cut shirt,to remind you of what you'd never need again.