As I said before, I' rewriting a lot of the poetry I've written in the past. Some of them date back to 2o11 and 2o12. A few go back much farther than that. I will try to get some brand new ones up in a few days. Until then:
Giving
at tendons, the muscles ground
down to mists of foggy red. There
was blood once, rivers of it, rapids
rushing to the open seas of an open
heart, engorging the brain with lakes
and oceans full of malignant thought.
Rushing, forever rushing, filling
the empty knot between my legs.
when my desire to feel has withered away?
Will I remember you? Your kisses wet,
somewhat smoke-stained bitter and yet
somehow uncommonly sweet, your spiky
tongue drilling a path between my teeth,
impaling itself to the roof of my mouth.
Sometimes the only love we felt was
the pain we offered each other.
will fade to moments, to seconds.
rrw 4-15-12 (rewrites o9-o1-14)
Giving
The flesh
dissolving to a fine paste,
bones
splintering, cutting awayat tendons, the muscles ground
down to mists of foggy red. There
was blood once, rivers of it, rapids
rushing to the open seas of an open
heart, engorging the brain with lakes
and oceans full of malignant thought.
Rushing, forever rushing, filling
the empty knot between my legs.
Will
I remember the feeling of fingers
impatiently
tapping the back of my neckwhen my desire to feel has withered away?
Will I remember you? Your kisses wet,
somewhat smoke-stained bitter and yet
somehow uncommonly sweet, your spiky
tongue drilling a path between my teeth,
impaling itself to the roof of my mouth.
Sometimes the only love we felt was
the pain we offered each other.
Soon
the memory of time will be dead.
Days
will waste away into hours, hourswill fade to moments, to seconds.
If I
had the courage, I’d shut my eyes so hard
the
sun would refuse to ever shine again.rrw 4-15-12 (rewrites o9-o1-14)
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