Friday, February 17, 2017

Busy

Come with me to a place where time is lost
And there is no longer
The deathshead hawk moth
Lodged in the throat of my lover
Coffee cups drip with ecstatic love
Percolating between my knees
A surrealist daydream when you
Can't be fucked
To answer me
Unless you're three sheets
Four, five, six bottles
And you ask me over and over
Does he make you cum?
Of a man I've yet to touch
But you think you have the answers
And you think the power is yours
You think it's up to you,
But that cold-press potion has always been
My spell
My love
My power
You kick and scream and cheat the game
What have you not done
To convince yourself
I don't own you?
I ate your last semblance of sanity for breakfast
On bread with triple cream butter and toasted coconut
And in that mundane morning of
Coffee cups and toast
You missed
the swirling galaxy between my teeth

Milk

Stars will slumber in milky pools
 of Aphrodite's tears,
melted marble goddesses
 cradling in the crook of one arm
love, and in the other war
 The lapping tides
 A pulsing heartbeat,
split between the two.
You are bound,
and corset-sewn into my flesh

The slow rise
of my spine
The reach of my breasts
When I draw
sharp breaths
At the lapping
of your tongue
The slow white drip
 lingering down
The tenderness
of my thigh
Hera's tears, your granted curse
Fill me
from the bottom up