Salt

I see autumn brown hills
in your eyes,
under the rustling earth hues,
there is a vivacious green ready to spring,
like life curled in a seashell.
I take my hand and tilt your chin up,
looking down into your eyes,
I hear the ocean whispering
in your gaze,
waves crash whenever you blink,
and when you look away
the carcasses of sea creatures wash up
in the shore between us.
Now I spend my days
trying to bury
the dead beauty caught in our void.

Temptresses

Love does not extinguish,
it lights other candles,
the birth of new flames,
glow with faces from the past.
Red veiled memories
flirt with the future.
My fingers are burned,
trying to touch something
that isn’t there.
Time is a temptress
and I’m caught
trying to slip off
the dress of her illusion.
I’m caught
with lips on her body
trying to taste yesterdays
and hands trying to find tomorrows.
In the end,
I measure my life
and my death
by her.
I’ll leave
whispers tangled in her breath,
so when you make her moan,
you’ll hear my name.

An End to Start

Love lacerates the wind,
your breath bleeds in the breeze,
your whispers stain my dreams
with red.
I hear you,
even when you don’t speak.
Your screams
color the inside of my skull
a shade of burnt burgundy.
Blue and purple bruises
form from your teeth,
which I feel in the chilling wind
that scrapes my skin.
Against the yellow sun,
I am the multicolored church glass
to your soul that I worship,
and I am ready to break
to show all your true glory.
I don’t speak of blasphemy.
I speak of love.

Toys

You found
the red toy cabinet
of my heart,
you open the drawers
and play with my feelings like toys.
Some of them break,
scattered on the ground.
My happiness sprawls shattered.
You do not even put any back,
and you wonder why
somebody has to clean up after you,
but these toys
were made for your hands,
no matter how cruel.

Alive

I have a ghost trapped
in the walls of my eyelids.
At night,
when my eyes shut,
I hear him
pounding on my eyelids.
I hear him trying to escape
as he wonders
why I buried him there,
but when I close my eyes
and I see him,
I remember why.

I dream him,
he tells me stories,
and my tears
write
back to him
on those walls.

When the walls tremble
and I wake up,
my vision blurs and
I see him
everywhere.

This is how I kept him alive.

Love Does Not Retreat

Love does not retreat.
It continues on.
Bloodied and bruised.
Maimed and hobbling.
Love does not retreat.
It dies before it stops.
Love does not retreat.
Love marches forward.
Straight into
your darkest moments.
Love takes shelter
in your pain.
In the house of your agony,
Love sets a table
for one
and drinks a cup of coffee,
waiting,
and polishing its pistol.
You should knock on the door
of your insecurities,
walk into that dining room,
sit with Love,
pour yourself a coffee,
and play that game of Russian Roulette.
Just remember
there are four chambers
in a heart
and Love keeps all four
loaded.
You are going to lose,
but the greater loss
is not sitting at that table,
not having that cup of coffee,
and not sharing moments
before you hear that bullet shell
drop from your heart
and rattle on the floor
of your soul,
still hot,
burning,
like your last sin,
sparking
your house of agony
into flames,
turning it into
a raging red fire,
a layer of ashes landing on
the concrete of your blood.
Love walks away
in the sprawling sidewalks
inside your blood vessels.
That winning bullet
echoes
through the back alleys of your desires
where no crime can be seen.
Love never gets caught.
Love is a way of living
and a way of dying.
Love does not retreat.

Tasting Echoes

Give me your blue.
I see cities in your bruises,
the singing blue tongues of a nation
under your skin.
I see your song
percolating, beating
underneath.
I cut you with my teeth
and taste your sacred anthem,
I free those melodic cities,
the emancipation of your song,
echoing skyscrapers drip on my teeth,
and I have your lyrics in my mouth.
You have a new home
in the back of my throat.
I will always sing you.
Your city will grow
and rise in my voice,
you’ll get lost
in the streets of my words.
You’ll be home
amongst the lights
of my poetry,
glowing buildings
that flicker
with my heartbeat.
Give me your blue.

Broken Furniture

I used my teeth
to step into your lower lip,
left my white shoes at the door.
Made a home
in your kiss.
The words that you whispered
to me on those midnights
surround me,
cheap furniture.
I sit on the ragged couch
of your well wishes
and watch the TV
of your smile.
The antennas curve upward,
but I stay on the same channel
where I hear you laugh,
that laugh from your soul.
I always seem to fall
for that laugh.
I enjoy the reruns
of your happiness.

F U C K

In the yolk
of my shadow
there’s a dead dream
with the tar of yesterday
dripping down
its half-sprouted feathers.
I can see the phantom pain
kicking against
my shadow’s shell.
A false sense.
A false hope.

I embrace
my shadow
as she mourns.
I see her polaroid tears,
they shiver as they trickle down
her cheeks,
by the time they roll off her face
I can see images develop
of me and you.
I already mourned you,
what am I supposed to do now?
It seems redundant.
I take my favorite picture
and place it under my tongue,
my graveyard of past tastes.
I’ll transfer you to another mouth.
I know
you deserve a better burial.
I’ll resurrect you
in every lover I kiss.
You deserve to live.

Fuck.

Smoke

She’s smoke.
In my lungs,
in my veins.
Racing through my blood,
causing my blood to thread together,
causing a cross to form within,
a chemical crucifixion,
nailing my ghost back,
a bloody crucifix.
She’s smoke.
I can see her.
I can breathe her,
but I can’t touch her.
She left me
in smoke
as my ghost bleeds out,
she is my redemption.
She turns me
into my own savior.
She’s smoke,
I watch her disappear.