vagrant oar
I hate the poems I write,
With their sloppy rhymes,
And that they talk about you,
Whom I wish to subdue,
And coup,
And kill,
Yet feel.
I hear you
In every word,
Image blurred
For a time,
So sublime,
Too long,
Too cold.
Your mold
Eats the flesh
Of the mesh
I call head,
While you absorb
Defused sneer,
Then steer
My decided spear
To make me feel.
Linger between
The rust,
The dust,
The lust
In my teeth.
Feed the ground
With the spit,
Make me bow,
Heart mount.
Slice the chest,
Caress my face,
Kiss my ribs,
And bite the spleen,
Then steal the wind,
My blood to keep,
To make me feel.
Take the armor,
Silver gear,
Off your gaze.
Prideful maze
That is the space
In your stead,
That is my dread.
Stubborn honor,
The rabid donor
Of romantic horror,
That violent steel
To make me feel.
Idlic muse,
My light,
You bruise,
Then brand the news
With your misuse.
Consume the womb
And mend the wound,
Cut the cord,
Affection hoard.
Your fractured caress
Cuts the face
Of those who crave
Your deep embrace,
Then make me kneel
To make me feel.
Over the phrase,
My fingers encase
The narrow space
Between the ache.
You sink your hair
Into my nails
And make me feel
Your touch so real.