Look

Look at her shoes. These eyes are looking back

At you, but you don’t dare to see the gold

Warm-laced with brown. Look at her socks. You lack

And knit your brows. Your sigh is all that’s bold.

 

Look at her skirt. Your blush makes you complete,

A fool whose thoughts are blue and wandering.

Look at her blouse. Her silky skin, defeat

Your mouth you button, with clichés you’d sing.

 

You can’t imagine what you dare not see.

You just get angry—her and hers you blame —

A rabbit, you can neither stay nor flee.

You lash out—shoot and stab and maim—in shame.

 

You golden-trophied boy, you think it’s true

That all you want deserves to be for you.

Agape Eros Agon

 I wish to make a home of loving you. 

I wish to fuck you endlessly, contrast black sheets with your body.
I wish to love no one but you, a true 
Lust, a never-ending lust, fulfilled by you and your girlfriend’s
Love, as pure as apple blossoms, a snow
Of clothing strewn about my  bedroom,
Of petals whitening the spring, as pure 
As I have never been and never want to be again,
As the wind I was before. Winds blow
Skirts up over hips, hinting at life’s greatest pleasure,
Across the tundra of my past. You cure
My lust for the moment—I will need you again soon to fuck
All winters and turn them into bright spring.
I want to bring light to your covered places.
Nothing is purer than the love I bring.
Nothing is purer than my lust and my desire for your body

There's Nothing In This Pain I Feel

There’s nothing in this pain I feel

It gets me through the day

There’s nothing in this pain I feel

I’m going to go away

I want to feed the flickers flying

Sparks into the sky

I want to feed you as you’re sighing

Sighing your goodbye

 

The ship is sailing

Whales are flailing

Shooting down the stars

My strength is failing

Sirens hailing

Down the dusty cars

 

There’s nothing in this pain I feel

It gets me through the day

There’s nothing in this pain I feel

I’m going to go away

 

The grackles gather, gaze with wise eyes

Up from concrete ground

I cannot find

Within this grind

The feathers that I prize

Within the songbirds’ sounds

 

These folded flowers cannot free

The bees until the morning

Within this pain, I cannot be

But be in painful mourning

 

I want to feed the flickers flying

Sparks into the sky

I want to feed you as you’re sighing

Sighing your goodbye

 

The forest fell

The ship is built

The barnacles will drag us down

You hear the bell

That chimes your guilt

You drop your floral gown

 

Behold the gold that we have found

Depression’s pain will fall

Upon the good and bad whose ground

Absorbs each raindrop’s fall

 

Now hold my hand

And understand

We must be sailing on

We must agree to fight the sea

The land’s dissolved and gone

 

There’s nothing in this pain I feel

It gets me through the day

There’s nothing in this pain I feel

I’m going to go away

 

I want to feed the flickers flying

Sparks into the sky

I want to feed you as you’re sighing

Sighing your goodbye

 

The Death of the Muses

An empty mind, an empty God—

The Muses are deceased.

An empty art we now applaud—

There’s nothing to release

Our souls, our spirits, raise us up

With reason, passion deep

As ocean rivers—fill our cup,

The overflow we’ll reap.

 

The Muses have been flayed alive,

But you’re deaf to their screams,

Dismembered them—but we’ll revive

Into grander dreams

Than you could dare imagine. Rot

And ruin is your source—

But some of us have not forgot

The ancient future course.

 

The Muses live within the deep—

The darkest oceans crush

The artists who believe. You sleep,

Demand the world should hush.

You’re lacking even surfaces—

Your empty minds and souls—

Believing neither ought nor is,

You’re unenlightened coals. 

Vault

A step. A ripple that reverberates.

A string of bells, a blend of drips, a line

That stretches smoothly. Forms that all our fates

Have curved, have chiraled--all it will define.

Our hands have halted. Feet have formed what failed

Our minds to make. A square blank on the bank

Where ideograms grow and words have wailed

In pink-streaked rounds that slowly rose in rank.

Reflection disappears in depth--you'll drown

In voices--volumes only you can hear.

You grab, you grope, you gently jar the gown

That cooly covers with its cotton fear.

The whelks are weighing on my mottled mind

Until they tell you all you bind and find.