Yvning

In dreams:        I've sampled your peach-shaped mouth. There's sweetness on every surface,        a sip in a corner        a pull in another But your mouth, open and full,        invites a tilted brow with its curiosity. It's a new sort of fullness        inexperienced and nuanced                new moons                daisy buds cupping water                        waiting to be sipped.

In this game of titans, there is only one victor while the other is left to wonder how the universe became so small:  30 feet by 30 feet laterally while the squares that define your territory mock you with their lazy chalked lines. You have the baseline, named thus as much for its role as the starting point, your foundation, as it is for the hollow growl coming from the instrument of so much peril and anticipation.  From the back the legs are screaming, the muscles are taut.  The body is a throb that pulsates in hot yearning, a blood filled vessel that beats, waiting to shift.  For as much charade as i

It's like the taste of copper after the tea stain disappears in the throat. It's like asking for pennies to buy a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. It's like the sound a tree makes (or a wall) when something inside it dies. It's like when I was asleep for all those days, the throb in my head. It's like when I noticed the smell of burnt mahogany, how sweet its rot. It's like when someone mentions the Spanish economy, tells me how beautiful la costa is. It's like spring after the rains. It's like summer after the rains. It's like autumn after the rains. It's like winter with brown patches in the white grass. It's like sharing already che

On the process of eating a peach: dry:  the walls never touch, just suck each other in. the core, jagged and punctured, sacred and holy as a mountain, as Fuji, as a mantis finger. it's lovely when outside the body, all bone and brine, and browns dipped in deep crimsons and virgin yellows. when my lips sip the sweetness, the pit, exposed and hard, is waiting to be plucked. it unfastens, crchcrchshnuck, like that. now the cavity, now the lovely reds surrounding the home. the slit, strong, stretched with a red that smells sweet. a finger placed in the centre, a birth canal, a host. a lick, a sting, a sweet drip like lips puckering,

We've become culprits of a three-way romance. Bending gravity into 33rds, making religion with coffee or perfect skin and things soft like that. We nibble and spit, taste the twine of one ashen, molten into herself. We argue about the flavour of tongue, we debate the details of a ribcage. What I know, my albatross, my stoic pintor, is that these swollen seconds betray you, your Peruvian blush. Even as I remember the tint of this lovely brunette's stomach, the wax drip between my thighs is what sews me to your brush and creates an arc in the spine that only your water colours can emulate.

I ask him, "What twists you, Boy? What hands have taken you out of your sector, switching your colours to fit the shape and mould of something unfamiliar? You aren't at all what you appear to be, even your eyes are mismatched and pulled at different corners. Your edges, they speak of beatings, speak of a jaw set with plaster and foreign fingers. Tell me, Boy Rubik, where did you get those jagged scratches along your thighs, those hollow grooves for lips?" He says, "I am a shadow on your upper lip, Pink Lady. When you lick at the fine hairs God placed there to set incorrectness into your Pink glory, I'm the salted whisper of a lover who promi

In dreams:        I've sampled your peach-shaped mouth. There's sweetness on every surface,        a sip in a corner        a pull in another But your mouth, open and full,        invites a tilted brow with its curiosity. It's a new sort of fullness        inexperienced and nuanced                new moons                daisy buds cupping water                        waiting to be sipped.

And she whispered pretty words into his skin, like dynamite pressed into the perfect shape of the sand, all sliding and waiting for a healer. And he licked away her mouth-stricken imperfection like maybe she didn't mean to pour suicide in the valley of her breasts, maybe for once she just wanted someone to taste her. And they swore it was the last time, as if swearing were a new means to confess a dying man's need for one last pull of the drawer, one last peek inside his lust for meat. And we watched as they danced together, Two bruised bodies wrapped in eel flesh, Crushed as most things are crushed: like seashells under virgin b