The Last Time

I want you to die beneath me

A yawning great chasm of darkness

Unfurling in your eyes

I want your death

Like air

Like the deepest river

Encased in your blue lips

Like the ocean

Rushing in to drown kingdoms

And send bodies adrift

Among the wreckage

I want you to die inside me

Know my demonic charms

My bloody thirst

Striking arms

Stretched over your head

I am the muscle that is always working

The tick in your jaw

The tension that broke the ligaments of your spine

I want you to die with me in your mouth

I want to split you in two

The earth rising up to meet your face

Your teeth clenched

The pines arching overhead

In a great funeral pyre 

To ride you harder

Faster

Beyond horizons on fire

And lips curled over sharpened teeth

I want you to die

As much as you want to live

As much as you want to stroke my inner walls

Feel the clutch and keening

Caught in the spider webbed trap of my hair

The grief of always wanting

Coupled with my hands sharply clasp upon you head

Breath is as damp as wind

Tears blur your vision

And the scene crumples

Collapses as ancient buildings

Ruins to gods long forgotten

To mysteries unending and unimportant

I want your death 

Deep down and honey sick

I want your last breath

In my mouth

I want your soul

Held in the glass

Of one world to the next

I want you

Dead

Buried in me

And always 

Mine

SpectreLand

I keep the horror in my bedside table drawer
turn it on high when I need a blood transfusion
and a bad dream
the hinges scream
wake up the neighbors
they cover their ears
knowing it's happening again
who is that raven haired ghost?
they know I'm haunting the rooms
moving the walls
tossing the furniture
ripping up the floor boards
and in the morning
it will all be back in place
just like no one was ever there
the quiet
will be frightening
stillness
becomes a horror of its own
I own it
parade it around
like a rotting gown
all laced Victorian will
mourning enamel etched into the crowns
little skulls
with grinning faces
a flowing of eyes
drifting in on gossamer mist
the staircase breathes
shifts and creaks
the walls rupture
the yellow paper covering it
runs about the room
in skittering little patterns
around the edge
that woman chases it
never leaves it
I watch her struggle
float to the ceiling
drip blood onto the heads
of craning necks
and tourists
there's a severed limb
in the hallway
it makes a nice decoration
you can plant flowers
in the empty sockets
we got trapped here
when we tried to leave
violence pinned us down
like butterflies
on felt backgrounds
we are the edge
the living fear
and move as vapor
through these timeless scenes
unrelenting in our recollections
always fearful of what we knew
we have no end
we are the reflection
we have no way
even the greatest exorcist
can not clear us out
we are the denizens
of this house
and I know above all else
there is nothing better
on the other side

Lips as Red as Blood

my thighs are slick in a rush of blood
crimson thickness is running down my legs
past my knees
pooling at my ankles

it's filling up my mouth
when I part my lips
I can only speak in burbles
and spit the ground all red

the dirt drinks me deep
filling up the cracks in the landscape
my femininity dripping
a trail of jeweled droplets to his door

he can never understand my comfort
in the drips left behind on the white tiles
as I slip from the kitchen to the bedroom
seeking lips to kiss only hard

he cringes in the face of the female rigor
that stiffens my belly
with unkempt want and forgetful desire
he does not understand what it means to bleed

to bleed with no blooming wound
to sit folded in on your self
with fingers tipped in blood
and eyes heavy in unfocused thought

the ground is thirsty for me
the moon tugging at my white dress
slowly turning crimson in the fading night
as he twists nervously at the door

he is goose stepping around my trail
gingerly picking his way to a clean spot
he quivers, 'I can feel the red tide of you slamming into me
even with my back turned'

I whisper through lips as vermilion as blood
'then never turn your back on me
and you will never have to know the nightmares
I have been saving especially for you
never turn your back on me
and I will not come howling for you in the night.'

I take my white dress and crimson flowers
blooming all over the room
and fly up to the ceiling
grasping only shining bloodied kisses

I leave trails of garnet on his face
I tug at his hair
I weave in and out and in again
dipping my red fingerprints down his back

and when the night cries in staining tears
the patches he is unable to bleach away
he will remember me all in white
and know what it is to be wanted in only a hard red way

A Precarious Situation

All the world waits,
humped over in silence.

The purring engine to the polemic mimicry,
of the universe doubts our existence.
We were never here,
and we argue over our importance.

The jungle breathes in the darkness,
caring not if we live or die.
Vegetation does not stop for instances of the mind;
It carries on eating up any rotting tissue in its way.

There is an eroticism to this rotting;
this disintegration of flesh, muscle, bone,
with the wet slipping of slimy bellied rats,
from one shore line to another.

"I did not think so many were undone."

Sitting on the river bank,
watching violet light seep into the ground water,
I ponder our undulations in the foreign lands,
eating up derivative elements of hard tasting candy.

The wind blows my hair to a moving crown,
and I wiggle my toes in the mud.

The jungle breathes;
Waits in silence for the world to end.
Waters lap at the shore of a timeless sea,
where pearls are little more than oceanic pebbles,
drifting into the eyes of dead sailors.

"Look! Those are pearls that were his eyes!"

The world waits;
Watching;
Breathless,
as the towers of ancient civilizations burn on the horizon,
with the shuttering rhythmic cry of over zealous demi-gods,
who undone so many.

The world holds it breath,
and the jungle shivers,
creeping over the long dead assimilations of an industrialized society.
Great machines of war mean nothing,
to the creeping vines,
and skittering beetles of the corpus genus,
who make their homes,
in burned out flesh.

In all of these wasted ironic mutations,
I lie naked,
watching the stars on a river bank,
dressed in the vestiges of a gluttonous race.

Each star winks at me with a pearl-like eye,
telling me the secrets of unused emotions,
vibrating from one existential relapse to another.

Each dead star brings me its light,
as a dim memory of another existence,
in a futile race to arms.

I slowly bury myself in the sexuality of mud,
like a cryogenic frog,
testing the limits of each wriggling limb,
and wait for the world to start all over again.

Lament of Gold

strange now
that I should be bore here
upon the backs of my countrymen
through golden fields
upon shoulders uplifted
that I once liberated

strange now
that I should be bore here
upon your soft hands
and silken breasts
carried on the scent
of your golden hair

strange because I had
wandered far from you;
far from this dawning land;
this holiest of holy homelands

I, who had seen the Pharaoh's
kneeling at Ra's pyramidic feet
I, who had watched
Druidean priests scurry up
giant mistletoe trees
I, who had accompanied
mad Arabs to the holy land
beyond Saladin's great city walls
I, who knew the sword of foreign nobility
and drove armies to the edges of the earth

strange because I had
fled from your hair and breathe
into the arms of Athenian whore mystics
seeking visions in the form of knowledge
and the taste of forbidden pomegranates
on my tingling tongue

I was unpracticed in you soft ways
I listened to the waves of foreign shores
for the voices of mimic gods drawing me forward
and outward
and I stayed my heart at your voice
your hands could not sooth my fettered mind;
my rattling soul jittering for great sails in blustering wind
and pounding horse hooves down dirt roads

your languid eyes could not hold me here
in the times of my youthful heart
and it is strange now that on the years of my death
I should find myself in your arms once more
those pools of eyes staring softly at me
as great and free men carry me over endless oceans
and rocky gates
to the glittering fields of my childhood
strange that your arms wrap as tightly around me now
as they did then
strange that your face has not changed in the intervening years
and I realize in these last dim moments
that I have heard your soft voice singing to me
all this time
across all these lands

you, who have drawn me back here
cradled me to your breast
and sang the hymns of a homeland
I had almost forgot
that my eyes should once more see
vast fields of gold on gold
and my body should flow onto this sandy shore
where children race down the beach
throwing their voices to the wind
and I could look upon your eyes
one last time
and see the mother of all this land
in your fading smile