You(r) Your voice, transcending legatos; Beautiful, calming, melodic, Gracefully harmonic. Your eyes, candle lights; Bright, kind, benign,&
Unlocked My sexual desires, moaning &
_I want to bind you tightly blue,And give you an experience so ghastly new.I want to blindfold you softly,And let that deception grow menacingly cold,and lofty.I want to cuff you harshly,And grab your body so terrifyingly rough,and grotesquely.I want to lick you feverishly,And feel you desperately all over,repeatedly.I want to whip you friskily,And bite you passionately deep,fervidly.I want this to satisfy you too,And I hope this love beautifully ensues.
D'evilAt a café, a woman catches a glance with a handsome man wearing a black fascist looking coat.She smiles, "I bet you think you're crazy with your collection of Japanese horror films, and snuff films. But what you don't know, is that I'm crazier - with my necessary need to rip apart every heart that falls at my feet. I don't poison. And no, I don't moonlight as a serial killer. I'm worse. I'm your worst nightmare. You look at me and all you see are black patent leather boots and a similar coat as yours but what you don't see under these cherry red drawn lips are teeth that pierce and consume. Eyes that penetrate so deeply, they're soul stealing. Or these legs that'll cast a
Oh Winter, my MistressYour pale skin and blue eyes make me melt.Your thin limbs always warm me;So beautiful and inspiring.But underneath them, you remain cold.You tell me it's fleeting, "This will not last."I know that, but when I'm with you, I never feel that.Your room, always dark.Your sheets, always white.Your collections, always dead:Skulls, skeletons, mounts, and furs.You tell me this will not last.I never believed you,But you said, "It's the way life is."Your hair, always shimmering black.With a blue tint, I never can get over that.Your lingerie, clean white, no -Crystal white, almost see-through;That delicate color of ice.You tell me this will not last.But I never,believe you.
SeveredI lost my heart on the edge of eternity.I dropped it off there thinking we would come back.Thinking we would come through, but we broke paths.We lost our maps, we lost each other.
The Kill I foam red. I spit vertebrae. Tendons
Falling Down Toxin Petroleum kisses, Arsenic embraces, I've fallen into metastasis.
.I want to make you moan, And groan, and gasp, and hiss.I want to give you a turbid kiss,And show you absolute bliss.I want to touch your limbs,And feel your veins against mine.I want to envelope you like a vine,And sew your skin into mine.I want to share some opium,And crack your bones with lust.I want to cease your soul in thrust,And feel your body tremble and bust.
Rooibos TeaBreathe deep the chai hazePicasso's djinn,a muse of eggshells and grandma's lace tablecloths,cradles the tea kettle to her chestand abandons Latin words and namesflotsam and jetsam dribblingirrelevant among the little red tea leaves;the driftwood of genus and species bumpingagainst the shores of the South African scrublands.She hovers orange and indigo,a quavering flame of dreamsand drained tea dregsdivination with a soft-spiced voiceat the bottom of the mug,never quite gonea flock of Van Gogh crowsfrozen in their hayfields.
la musica dulceheartbeats are psycho--somatic, dear;the ocean has swallowedme whole.hay una guitarra bajomi almohada, ysueño de música cuandoestoy solo.you came here withcity smoke in your lungs,and iforgot to breathe.
Alzheimer'sHis house is made of crumbling slats of rotted knotted oak peeling paintand weakened joints. The wind blows unfetteredthrough unshuttered apertures dragging fresh sunlight in and memories away.Even on the clearest days he visits the front porch less and less often. He prefers to explore those rooms further inwhere tide and time have yet to reach. Sometimes he might be gone for a week.And one day, too soon (not soon enough) his ramshackle dw
Writers BlockThere is a heart in a ribcageAnd a brain sitting in a skullThere is a history that is voidAnd potential which is nullJust puddles of inspirationWhere the vast ocean once sprayedAn endless tide of moonshineSwelled upon my parchment pageThere's a brain sitting in a skullThere is a heart in a ribcageThere is ink in my fountain penBut still no words on my pageJust embers of inspirationWhere a great fire once roaredI'll stoke it with those memoriesI've been afraid of and ignored
You think you knowMy mask has dropped,You know my secret,you think you understand.You think we talked,but I just listened,cause talking with you that's something I can't.Who am I?You think you know.But I don't even know myself.Feel lost on a journey,with nowhere to go.Not knowing where I'm from.Again I've tried,To identify,To find something I am.Just another try,Just another fail,Maybe I'm no one at all.Who am I?You think you know.But I don't even know myself.Feel lost on a journey,with nowhere to go.Not knowing where I'm from.You tell me who I am,You tell me what to do.You think I know what I'm thinking,But I am not you!Just want to be alone,And live my life like this.Apparently that's not enough,Is there more than this?!Who am I?You think you know.But I don't even know myself.Feel lost on a journey,with nowhere to go.Don't know where I'm from.
The Siren - 16The smile had surprised him, but Mike got over it. He was starting to get an inkling of something, something that would explain a lot. He hesitated to think too hard on it, though; it is a capital mistake to theorize without data.He looked around. Connie had found herself a drink somewhere and was chatting up the nongendered beatnik, who had ditched the fake glasses and picked up a small fedora. Sandie and the Nacho person had moved off to talk business with a woman whose shirt urged readers to “Eat At Mag’s.” A low murmur had sprung up in the Zone, but still, everyone remained mostly seated. It looked as though no one could work out an appropriate reaction to what they had just heard.John, meanwhile, had been forgotten. He stood still on the dais, bathed in a halo of dull, yellow light, the microphone still dangling from his fingers. No one had told him to move.This time, Mike could see the confusion on the creature’s face, even though it was little more
Revolver in a Bag of PuppetsRevolver in a Bag of PuppetsFor Christine ChubbuckOn a fiery July morningyour eyes opened with intentionto involve innocentsin a cold steel plotdetailed on pagesin the bowels of your briefcasewishes birthed in solitudeno light, no hopeDid your hands shakeas you buttoned your blouse?Did your coffeego cold in the cup?Did your eggsburn in the pan?Did you think of the childrenwatching that day,as the camera's eyetransmitted your pain live in color?A thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wessondrawn from a shopping bag full of puppetsOne shotfired behind the right earYour headslammed against the deskDeadcalmScreens faded to blackcontrol panels fell darkEyes aghastin silent horrorYour final statementagainst the sensationalism you detestedIrony articulatedthrough a tempest of permanenceYour sorrow feltlike bombs over paradise============================COPYRIGHT 2014, William BarkerAll my work has copyrightswith the Library of Congress.
How To Ask Someone To Let You Love ThemI think you keep secrets under your skinlike trees keep rings and do not know it,like the sea teems,like dark and quiet spacekeeps every ray of lightthe stars whispered to one anotherwhen they were still youngand dying to make love.I think you keep secrets in youlike the desert keeps sands,like sleep keeps dreams,like cities keep sleepless peopleand people looking for sleepless peopleto fall asleep with.I think you keep secretslike secrets like to be kept,and I want to learn them all.
cliffcliffe.bojnowskion velvet roads,I impale a belated dawnwith my incisors andshiver with perfect leaves-I have no qualmswith the dark hillsthat slopeand stagger intoa bed of scorched fly husks:wherethe thrum of the groundmeldswith the rapids inmy clairvoyant ears.
The nature of inspirationWhen was the last timeYou heard the word 'erection' in poetry?I think it was a while backBetween the pagesOf reformAnd Odyssey.I mean "humans" don't even playBogies anymore,Or just rise to the thirteen year old tree-houseInside us allWhere politeness is a foul facadeAnd we aren't afraid of our fingers.No...InsteadWe prioritise the silhouettesAnd forgetThe way pressing pen into paperMade us soSteamyAnd out ofBreath.Inspiration isn't a pretty, pristine river...It's magmaFlowingWith taboo,GlowingLike irradiatedLemonadeAnd it's about time we becameMutants too.It's about timeWe let upAnd let itBurn us upTurn us onTurn us upAnd fine-tuneOur wobbly bitsInto an aphrodisiacViagra fusionOf concussiveCorrosiveVerboseSex.So if there's any P.S.Poetry can teach youIt's this.Never forgetthe word 'erection'.
fumesthe talk of my heart unfurls, wisps of smoke
Hubris.todaywe're youngerthan we're ever gonnabe.i. and we finally did it,drove to the mountainswatched meteorsand let the mattressgrow dampunder our loveunder the starsii. there are things tobe reconcilediii. my eyes sting likechlorine, but fromcrying,I finally disappointedthem;the highest order of shameiv. but you cannot putpeople into pockets;good, baddon't mixwith themv. and I cannot choosewho I lovevi. your lenses are straight,elite and proudmine, open and accumulatingfilthvii. maybeI should run away more often,we never talk like thisviii. and you have to realisethat I live in a worldthat you don't, and youlive in one Icannotix. the respect is there,but I cannotbe stifledany longer.
cwe're traveling at the speed of lightand we won't stop for nothing (there are no br(e)akes in this vehicle called life)so let's keep going until we can reach the far edges of the universe where the blackness seeps into your skin and you passed the last star a couple thousand light years ago;and return home to each other as old folks who've aged nothing but gained knowledge of all the mousetraps of the cosmos &
to myself: past/present/future/fourth dimensionto the girl before speech:you are not a prodigy,despite talent for taking care of yourself.understanding politics by grade school isn't worth muchbeing loved is.having your hand gripped when stumbling.playful laugh coaxed from your lungs.bounce as much as you can. cherish your days of knowing how to land.to the girl with my fingers:they aren't as beautiful as they are lost.shaking; nerves over taken by demonsscreaming in the night.struggling to tear needle away from skintoo crooked to be melodicnot articulate enough to move masseshoping to find north; seeking direction.to the girl after healing:body a battlefield with no monuments,topographical map of travail.you have scars;i am sorry for those.you've stored love in peoplejust begging to give it back.open your mouth; souls speakyours needs to learn to light up mountains againto you over there:i miss youthe way I miss a forgotten memory.existence is more than physical space.here i assemble words
The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.He wouldn't like me writing it that waya fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of a cantankerous old bastard with every imaginable bigotrythe 'self-hating Jew' routine was something he carried out very well. But with him you could always see the humor in his words. I once watched in awe as he told a joke that had the word 'nigger' in it at least three times to a table full of black men who could remember when they heard that
Fireating.Your showcase act,she whotoes the line betweensafetyandstupiditytightrope-catwalking,straightline-kerbstalkingdistance edges closer as herheart rate stalls.Your glitz girl,she whoknows the time it takes totrustandpractisehorsetrot-swordthrowingactgets-crowdgoingher balance was performance but shefell for you.
London Bridge is Falling DownIt is one o'clockAnd I have been playing JengaFor two years, eight monthsTwenty-three days, four hoursAnd approximately fifteenMinutes.I slide books from their slotsOne by one, the teetering towerBecoming more teeteringAnd less towering.All the poetry books are gone,Stored underneath my bed,Because I love reading them atThree thirty in the afternoon,When everyone is doing somethingBut me.One day the wall of booksWill topple to the ground,Onto my ashen carpet, for yesterdayThe apocalypse had taken placeWhile I was washing dishes.I guess I missed it, but luckilyThe book tower is still standing,And it will continue to be thereUntil I make a mistake and all of itErupts into a shower of finality and fire andInk.
Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,rather,I'm a feather on its wing,so when you let me drifton the next western current,let me fall slowly down,d r i f t i n g.I promise I'll land softly,though you will not find mewhere you left me.
*I unbutton you, kiss by kiss.I untie you, touch by touch.I unzip you, rib by rib.I unfasten you, moment by moment.
I unfasten you, moment by moment.