I unfasten you, moment by moment.
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.
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.
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
.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.
The Kill I foam red. I spit vertebrae. Tendons
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.
Falling Down Toxin Petroleum kisses, Arsenic embraces, I've fallen into metastasis.
fumesthe talk of my heart unfurls, wisps of smoke
Bits of Nothing 61On paper you're perfect.Isn't it a shame the world isn't made of origami?
Souls and SparklesTo write something that is meaningful to someone else, you must first write something that is meaningful to yourself.There are a thousand rooms in each person's mind, and each mind is a maze because it has been tangled. The hallways are criss-crossing and clumping, like long hair in the wind. Society has made it so.We all have impure thoughts. Things that would make us "bad", unequal, or imperfect. Thoughts that make us different in gloriously unusual ways. We are born into the world unashamed, but then we are taught the unspoken words. Words that are rules. Words like normal, like good and bad, ugly and pretty. We are taught that if we do not fit the rule of "good", we are bad. We are evil, we are tainted, and so we are unwanted.So, each of us hides our failures; our shortcomings, even though they are exactly the opposite of such. They are a representation of the uniqueness of each human soul, but unique is "bad", and so we hide. And those impure thoughts are hidden in darke
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
When your hands can mimic birdsWhen your hands can mimic birds,you lose the need for sound.A flight of words that bear no chirpare none the less profound.They don't perch on a pitch.They don't possess the need .They fly until you've seen their song,then silently recede.No one could find more freedom thanthe freedom granted flight.No one can see more beauty than inwords passed left to right.
for unseeing eyesladen with skywe stumbledand painted mockingbirdson loveless branchesfolding in our slender limbsand ducking under our ownvoices, fidgety and frailagainst the wall of night.between the dipping bladesand drawn shoulderswe learned to craft our wordssteady-soft,a drumming rainthat carved canyonsin open hearts anddrew the sunshine toour supping lips.keen-eyed, we watchedremembering the weightof unseeing eyesand scalding remarksand we learned to slipthe noose-knots and slidethrough the soul-cracksand somehowbuild kingdoms underupturned noses.with lyrical uncertaintyand tender determinationwe built a pyre of peacein the shadowsof dissonanceand watched it blazethe truth across ourpliant hearts.as solemnas new leaves still curledand stretching handsunfurled in suppliancewe lifted our headsin broken laughter,for this light is our burden,and even a whispercan shatter silenceand bring the blindto sight.
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 &
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.
hypergraphiashe writes in the empty spaces between the wordsbetween the world,world-weary fingers and toes and pengrips, knivesletter-opener swords, typewriter machetesarm-wrestling with fate and the universe on a piece of paper,computer screens painting faces with colorsstained-glass hyphenated hue-tint-shade gloryshe waits.she is patient.she's their patient, doctors and nursesemergency room, operating room, clinical studystethoscope childrenthey wish fervently to cut her open.her insides will be beautiful, they say,beautiful and pink and full of words.unwords, she says.she writes on her skin, on napkins and paper bagsinscribing fate and the universe in ink and pencil leadsharpened down to stubs, nails bitten shortpens running out, she is fallingstable decline, not irreversableyour insides will be beautiful, they say,let us cut you open with ornate scalpelsritual sacrificial tools from a dead religionand she makes mouse scratchings, cuneiformhieroglyphics, kanji, cyrillic
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.
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
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.
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand versus the athletic kid who went to college for a semester and grew nine inches too tall to keep doing what he loved so he took up a tennis racquet instead. Gymnasts don't wear suit jackets; no steel mill worker has such manicured nails. But the images are all there, flickering just under the surface and bubbling up again when he's recounting stories about his days in Pi
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.
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.
Awake For The SunriseI despise every solemn sunrise spent without you,the pink flesh of sunburned skies peeling awayand resting in my bloodshot eyes that sayI will cry before it rains and the sunwill always be more bright than our future.But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try,because the moon loves the stars enoughto be with them at least once a day.The way rain clouds ploughed their wayinto yesterday and tomorrow reminds meof the time I asked why you were cryingand you told me "Today won't last forever."So my heart brokelike it had no other options;a water-filled jar being frozenand there just wasn't enough spaceleft in my chest for air.
*I unbutton you, kiss by kiss.I untie you, touch by touch.I unzip you, rib by rib.I unfasten you, moment by moment.