He Was Fat And Ugly And He Smoked In My Bed
A pumice stone couldn't remove jaundiced
nicotine stains or the explanation using strong after-shave
hid chain-smoking that clogged the most open pore.
The after-shave smelt like ammonia and the time
he sliced onions while I melted butter in some half-hearted
domestic scene made obscene when he put down the knife
and started pacing the way I'd seen him pace
when he thought hidden messages on the radio where clues
only he knew. It didn't matter I felt confused
when he yelled I slept around, had one-night stands,
tried to sweet talk replies as to why I didn't answer the phone
when he called before he left his place for mine.
He said he knew the truth. And it wasn't the pathetic
paranoia, the madness of that nauseating pace,
the circle tightening like a rope around my neck.
And it didn't matter he destroyed my phone,
that he wanted me silent, his hands gripping my arms
so hard I had blue, purple, then green fingerprints
imbedded in my flesh for days. Forensic photos
and a doctor's report say the assault was made by a right
handed male and it doesn't matter he owned up to killing
my phone, said the rest was a plot to tarnish
what he believed to be is almost famous name.
He was fat and ugly and he smoked in my bed.
The Misdemeanor of Morpheus
The solitary sound I finally
matches the cold
sheets left untouched and
maybe you fled
like a fugitive scared to death
knowing if you stayed
addictions are a curse
some say it's criminal the way
but didn't explain the first time
or what happened
how it was never enough
so we'd do it again and again until I'd touch
wetting your hair
smell the smell of our sex
before I forget the misdemeanors
are the same
of your sleeping face
What Aphrodite Does To Hermes
Aphrodite searches for her transparent
black knickers, the ones she bought for him
at K-Mart, then gift wrapped with divine
messages to Hermes lying naked in bed.
He imagines the purity of white stretched
translucently is the same as his natal cleft
greased and spread when Aphrodite's tongue
darts, then plunges until Hermes has the
biggest orgasm he's ever ever had.
The Practice of Purification Using A Sanskrit Spring
Cunt is not the same in Sanskrit
because it becomes 'kunt'
and is supposed to mean a spring
consecrated to some holy person
which is hard to believe
unless there is something spiritual
the way one thing leads to another,
the way we test
how duality becomes one
liquid taste like the time he gently
spread my legs to drink all that he'd left
inside and I cried out his name
until our mouths exchanged
the purest of all our sexual flavors.