I unfasten you, moment by moment.
You(r) Your voice, transcending legatos; Beautiful, calming, melodic, Gracefully harmonic. Your eyes, candle lights; Bright, kind, benign,&
_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.
Unlocked My sexual desires, moaning &
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
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.
.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.
Falling Down Toxin Petroleum kisses, Arsenic embraces, I've fallen into metastasis.
The Kill I foam red. I spit vertebrae. Tendons
Demon Architecture "Why didn't you say there was poison in your tea," I said as shefell so beautifully against the marble floor. "My beloved..." I presumed.With a grin of no kind, "I'll miss your sweet words, gestures andgorgeous eyes." I dropped the cup. As it shattered against the floor Iarose from my seat and wrapped my arms around her. You will never bemissed, because now, you are mine, f o r e v e r, and you will neverleave nor run. For my love, you are mine. I wisped my hand against her lips. Cold and dead. Then I ran myfingers through her golden hair that glimmered under the chandelier.The corpse of my beloved, I thought. How could I've done wrong, I wasonly selfish. Wanting this love for eternity, never letting go, was Iwrong? Thoughts ran through my head, memories of our beautiful momentswe shared. "Now, we can share them forever." Thinking of the memories,I held her close and clos
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.
Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't taste the difference.Listen, writers are the ones that drip fishhooks down their throats to coax out their hearts. Writers are the ones who fling those heart-hooks into the sea even if they have a message but not a bottle. Listen, sometimes fish swallow them. Some of those fish sink to the bottom of the ocean with the weight of the world in those heart
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.
another notch on the wall. 1.a while now,a while now has passedwith bruises crying jagged from your voice and pretty little nicks upon your memory.( tricky partners dancingstiffly within your hands cupped around a flame,for artists draw andwriters scream another curse at the bleeding night snipping stitches and weaving nightmares into weary minds.
Undressing PoetryShe clothes herself in poetry,seals her skin within the verse.Each line becomes another garmentthat conceals her fixed form's curvature,but peels away when read.Last night I dissected a stanza,clamped it tight between my teethand tugged it down her legs.Her body breathes warm and sweet,speckled red like a summer strawberry field.I sucked the juice from her lines andspit the punctuation like seeds.My lips mouthed the shape of her wordsas my skin grew more sticky withevery splash of imagery dripping down my chin.I peeled apart her soft pageswith sticky, pink fingertips that left themclinging to my skin.A single flawless line remainedbetween the cloak of poetry, her and me,so we spoke the words in unison,revealing everything and setting her verse free.
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 &
carbon monoxideIt had been Javiers idea for the tattoos. "It'll keep you safe, Diego. No one will touch you." On the streets, no one had touched Diego to begin with. In order for Javier to earn the tattoo, he had to steal. When he stole the teenager's purse, she screamed and only chased him for half a block before giving up, but Javier didn't stop running. Back at his friend's apartment, when they opened the Coach bag and dumped out the contents, besides lipstick and a compact mirror, the wallet held cash and credit cards, a little iPod with the headphone cords wrapped around it and most of all, a digital camera. It had been a lucky find, and they'd sold everything but left the camera to Javier, who would use it to take pictures of his brother.Diego agreed. He agreed because Javier scared him at the best of times. "If you don't get this, you'll die, Diego. Someone will get mad and put a bullet in your head," Javier emphasized this, formed his hand and fingers in the shape of a gun and pressed his fi
saudadeLast week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.There was something forced in our actions, as if we were going through the motions of something we had practiced a hundred times before. Your lips were all orchestrated movements against mine and the arch of your back and shudder of your breath felt rehearsed, so that when you lay tangled and spent in my bedsheets I let my mouth wander the terrain of your sh
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'.
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.
I Have No Names for all My Teacup BabesI feel always like I am starting over.As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,to call the next dream-face forwarda picturepainted in the tea leaves.But truth be told the start-againis never clean, is never gentle,and the sweat of all that labouris a fire on my skin, telling meI will never resist its wind-cry.The moon comes when I call, to help me;midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selveslike the babes they are, teaches them tofill long footsteps like hers.Truth be told, I tire of the destinyI was given onceI am a teacup,and I cling close to my china womb,to my cup tipped over, upsetby careless elbows.I imagine Mother Moon climbing her way back to meon the backs of pine trees, sweeping across the Appalachians.
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
Bits of Nothing 61On paper you're perfect.Isn't it a shame the world isn't made of origami?
Unbound TiesYou choke on the medsthe bitter taste of failure,the coffee thick in yourindecisive throat.Downstairs,a baby howls likea mistreated coyoteat the vaporizing moonthe all day affairof listening to abandonmentthumping in your ears.Across town,a man you might havelearned to loveboards a busfor greener pasturesthe promise of keeping in touchrolling in your mouthlike a pendulum uncertainof its true purpose.& in a tiny townon the edge of oblivion,your one-time, for-all-time loverchokes on the daily defeatfeeling the chorusof your bloodburst against her lips,all the unspoken thingspiled up in the alley cornerslike last year'sforgotten leaves.
in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.fitted upon my stare there was a warning personal's too personal for me, well iwould not use wings if i had 'em.a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,do not think ofthem,but they rattle between bone and flesh and Idrown them sometimes when I sing.(b) oh, you:"love is a hobby like anything else, and I no longer have the time."she asks me what I'm writing:I am constructing a corpse can't you hearme as I speak the meaning out of my name andyou bleed like I smile:slowly, and without malice.
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.
*I unbutton you, kiss by kiss.I untie you, touch by touch.I unzip you, rib by rib.I unfasten you, moment by moment.