You step through sprung roots and burnt buds to cradle my face in a peaceful charade of hips versus love versus bone. You are a pilot light dancing at my diesel spring, I slow-burning and shrouded by the furs and teeth of poets and cherubim. You are what I want, we carving gruesome hearts high atop sandstone bluffs, we chasing cattle, we mosquitoes, lives swollen and pregnant with pain, finally fulfilled in that valley of lotus only grimly glimpsed then on those summer evenings blue stones awash in a molasses comfort.
My world is not your world and I am its champion. My world is not awake and brimming, disgusted. It is warm, asleep. My stare downcast though perched upon a straightened back plows furrows in the dumb concrete, brushing aside shattered eggs and their sloppy drunk yolk greening in the aging sun and adorned with the same rotten crown of fallen leaves granted all those ignorantly immobile. I breathe wordless oaths in kissses at one-eyed cats that dream lazy beyond neglected furniture, I pump my arms and scream at the boys lounging in a man's skin playing a man's horn satisfied with a child's game. My feet licking lap upon a careless placenta born from found flirting bluffing automobile enmity, brown glass and broken plastic.
My body is tense with the wind crackling walls and knuckling upon my window, the cold dancing against the house seducing its fingers into some neglected fold, holding its icy breath until the house shuddering relaxes resigned into crystal arms of breeze and frost, and a tandem exhale then, an ephemeral semblance of kinetic unity, one mass sighing cold and warm, organic and fabricate, home and distance. Fingers find their mark, tracing in sandy hair inscrutable whorls to be read in some unborn tongue, eyes rolling to their whites throwing gobs of spit and semen upon plaster and mirrors. Teeth taking of their turn more than their share, cuneiform on clay walls of legs and labia, staining winter's blues with a flush upon the surface of ivory, fiery blood splashed haphazardly from memory's palate.
all written at some point last year, no recollection really just spare prose jotted now and then just telegramming myself now from then, a year bulldozer subtle, superficial like a werewolf, no time to write i thought, so busy grinning and grinding away kissing with my eyes and teeth and forgetting maybe to be letting my heart lurch freefall from my throat be letting my fingers dance the tongue dance, now keeping it chained and them tame and just wondering who i was waking next to/walking away from last year, just found these old scraps of paper that told me the above-transcribed secrets and sometimes hard to read my own writing but there it is