You, Moon, told me a secret when I was a child– Make wonder your compass, your true north, abide by its magnetic tow, and you will never get lost, not truly, and your soul will make for warm, favored company. … Continue reading
To ask how deep is not the right question of the blade, but rather, how much moon, if any, is reflected in the silver of your teeth when piercing skin to venerate pink?
There is the snake and there is the amen and perhaps there’s not really much difference between the two. Like you, and the moon, and how my longing bleeds a fugitive overlap, i.e, where exactly does the queenly orb of … Continue reading
To sire a riptide, the roseblood moon, fully engorged, sank lower and lower, its binding navel grazing the lattice mouth and lacy tease of a sea forever beckoning softly creased light to charge and mount.
My stubborn when growing sawteeth fierce as fuck rails against the moon and sun and sea and me bracing that double-edged notion to have to hold in trying to shape the music of air into something that leaves behind a … Continue reading
She, the wrinkled pool of lusty glaze and somatic charge, of aural bouquets teasing cherry-bled sound and fragrance from whetted lips, fasting to shape a comely beckon, moon-fed by dark.
She knows who she is, the one who placed a piece of the moon under my tongue when I wasn’t looking, now, when I speak of night, light follows, to gild my bated communion.
It cannot be held in tongues, the veering arc of this perigee, ice-hot moon, rounded, throbbing to full, lightly crushing the sea’s glittering fount of lace.
Hungry ghosts, gorging, moon-bellied, rending gristle from earthly scavenge— my god, these monsters and their appetites, swallowing illusions whole, to feed empty its runes of fire.
At love’s wake, Clemency, claiming the casualty of mask, bleeds gently the half-moon lids of pink and purpose, how we chance to fade into strangers at the risk of memory.
