Penetrated Lobe: 2011

I Didn't Know You Well.

~0~

you passed in silence
barely did I feel your ~~presence~~
so I mourn what I never really felt
my words become a tombstone
to your pitiful demise

I-my pretty words for you -

liquid lips; round ~~s w o l l e n~~ lovers lies
      limp limbs
               words that rapture
leaking me into the creases of you
             fearful of compromise
surrender my
           thorns
I ~~lay~~ them to side
             gilded messiah
in-caged in your lusts
        refusal to see deeply into the ~~r a v i n e~~
~~chastened~~ but unaware

je t'aime

I can lay inside your eyes, sleep contently.
Lay folded within your ears, plucking waves like peaches
from a metaphorical tree.

If love were as fallen petals from dying flowers,
I'd be scattered across the remnants of my darker me ...

You make me tread the light and think of letters drowned in passion,
ink black as night, vivid on the white sheet beneath its writhing form ...
sweet emotional ~~collapse.~~

I've always said I'd whisper you sweet cushy shit ...
Words that strip me naked before you, humbled.

So I have.

Clay.

Image by Carnoodles via Flickr

Lines… It’s become a tangle of lines to pacify myself. A weaving I can’t comprehend or fashion into a usable garment to clothe exposed parts… There is no space within me that I haven’t ventured – stomped, slashed or distorted. I can’t be me – not ever, not really. I am what I need to be in the moment – or to be soft for another. Only when in argumentation, debate or reciprocal sex – am I me… The rest is but a reflection off a mirror image – not of my own, but of whomever I think is passable. When I drink I am reminded of self- she burns. She leaves me on fire with ideals … and wants. I become a petulant child who screams into the thickest parts of myself and like glitter – aspects of me rise like moths in tall grass… consuming me. So very splintered… I keep thinking one day … all of me will find comfort.

A friend of mine told me that when he was inside his wife – he could feel more than just her wetness, or form… He felt her… He felt her breathing, her pulse…

He smelled her…

He was connected in a way he couldn’t put into words or find words that could convey the deepness of what he felt ; sensed or just knew…

Is that love? Or another form of love? … I know many- felt a few.

Interlude

inner web of me
loosened lines have lost all hold
trot ridden prick-full conceived bastard of a poorly paid whore
tripped in the thick of word
silver lined tongue;spun lies like lovers
twisted in your disrepair
deep seeded yet barren fool of compromise
head held low; fallen king of nothing gained
nothing lost... you were never even a whisper to my truth