her indentation a pressure point
to suppress dreams
that did not belong
in the vocabulary of her sleep,
sheets hid insecurities and ideals
naked form foetal curled,
an easy stereotype of an agitated mind,
face creased as much
as cotton pillow cover,
reclusive cave to that
twenty eight year identity
and hide it,
vodka bottle an empty on it’s side,
unable to rise
some piss had escaped
lemon floral bloom
washing microscopic secretions away
drowning them
a noah flood,
some clung
to droplet coated vaginal fur
where other bugs feasted
on what he had left behind
jellied semen being consumed
by eager ticks and bugs
not those that live on deer
roaming a frost bitten forest,
rolling cigarette
finger stubs stuffing tobacco
strands into place,
sat up thinking of the tensions
of the night,
looking at balled up blue panties
god she needed new ones
fabric had small holes
from fingers and eager pulling
to expose that vulnerability
not hers theirs,
sentimental erect rigs of flesh
to drill,
find rich seams of expendable fossil fuels
gasification of the soul
for we are carbon
and can be exhausted as quick,
the restoration of vision from thought
so relentless was her life
in reality could not cope with the debris
it remained as she continued,
bic lighter sputtered for a second
cigarette taste washed with cold dregs
of coffee as mug became ashtray,
inhaling
toilet flushed in other room
the drench of his fecal smell
filled the room before he left
a sour note
yet one she accepted,
she was a historical condition
and redemption would not come
with glowing analysis
finding place in biological and physical realms
and stepping away
from a climate of
frustration
Tag Archives: sleep
so fast to nostalgia
sleep had frozen her eyes,
pulling away a draft between them
limbs stretched unwound
gleaming wounds had healed,
away from window awake,
bathroom without light
under sink cupboard with bleach and mouthwash
a bottle of bourbon in reserve,
pushed door to a crack
sat on a closed toilet seat
without that gaping void beneath his backside
sipping from the bottle,
put a hand in his shorts
rolled his penis between thumb and forefinger
damp from her
and sniffed,
faint lights illuminated heart,
head twisted sideways located tissue
shame to dab away,
as if removing her fluid,
her scent it would all end,
four years together,
she had guided him through a dry silence
concentration and love filled
earth and sky
as a solitary he would be unable to dance
and lament in lengthy boredom,
instead he stopped
stood lifting seat
dropped tissue in
pissed a long stream on continuity,
bourbon safely away,
new swarms changed names of thoughts,
into the bedroom
sprawled uneven she lay
at the window clutched the moon
and drew it back in
to be with them
a smile softer than his lips normally allow,
then settled alongside her
burn the other way
stressed cotton gripped,
lithograph shapes move
incoherent blemishes
caught by tired eye,
already a haven
checked by those who love,
yet still cold
comes to linger as an
unwelcome friend,
that closet door moves
with slow intent,
tomorrow a long voyage away
and the captain is
losing the wheel,
wanting to send up flares
light kerosene lamps,
to see
bedroom ocean
hindered by furry forms
that sulk in masses,
stories stringed words
hung across the mind
cranial denial,
cotton scrapes
a loose floorboard resonates
without help
from human form,
as captain he needs a crew,
crew of rag and plastic
to his call they rally
corners become embattled
cotton pushed aside,
sails on pine vessel,
beneath the night
a warrior born
clouds of gods look down,
moon casts a charming glow,
a battle cry
loud inside a voice parents
can never here,
on deck face splashed
by waves of memory,
wheel in his grasp
volley and surge
crackled into the night
with electric interference,
lips once moist
with mothers milk
now bloodied call proud,
monsters fled
lines defiled and beaten
each rushing over the fallen,
he would not be wounded
he would not falter,
time a soft blanket
on which he tiredly fell
sleep devoured
and all this would be
a satisfying memory by morning,
but not the claw embedded
in bedroom wall
From Wasted Sleep
the space between each hour
is almost a decay,
clock conspires in awful silence
mirror reflected hands
reverse that moment
when that realm of waking
is at it’s edge,
straw taste upon the tongue,
as on curved eye
darkness and it’s folds descend
tattered fingers reach upwards
to a point where ceiling once was,
a wicked frost is felt,
gravity in a raw form
will not resist
a man with scattered thought,
chilled he must
throw back cotton anchor
wrapped taut about body,
it would be a while before
the yellow spikes of light
would transform as morning,
bone chimes fine resonance
in the soul,
darkness a swell pushed aside
dreams skirted and lost,
nature would not find any tears
if he fell soundless to the floor,
beyond the door a reprieve
and a new vast openness
spread as a cold
desire