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3 2 1 and your hands look for the lights,
copping a feel for the nub that turns it all on. you show me a colloid of stars that flow
out timidly, greasing up window panes so it could slip out into the dark
you say
lap it up. lap up the slow hot gush-- let it singe your fingertips
let it drip down your face while i clutch at the sheets-- the loose rotating pigments of galaxies
spinning whole in your spit. you say i want fingers that convulse
without conscience
feeling their way into space more like submarines than spaceships rockets
while my head throbs dizzily in orbit, a planet of lips.
was it ten light years, ten hours, minutes? ten seconds and the universe implodes a little
louder than a knock and a creaking door.
........................................
i felt it move once, like a worm seeking safe passage into
me through chapped lips
a worm swaying its head like a
cancer tatooed tounge
a worm crawling across my cheek, soft lip-shaped cloud,
sweet gold-green insect, a disarming anesthetic oozing
out of its half-butterfly skin.
.........................................
my hands, 69 years older,
fondle the blinds whose gaps have suddenly grown
too large.
you let the bed creak like a disgruntled landlord with
one fastforward lunge,
roused by the need to grope for something to stroke, something that'll stoke the
air around us with a cluck
or a whir in one toggle.
i know how it's done,
laying back like this, a fossilized bone
while the mattress throbs and swells like
skin whipped too hard too many times.
2: Remote Control
(Vivid Entertainment Presents "Out of love". Color, tint, brightness
all evolved as if by the brush and pallette of a nude portraitist,
the paint placed and replaced mirror only perfections in hue)--XXReview
Channel zero, AV, like figures on a rune that won't tell our fortune. This late
night, a bonfire crackles in wistful streams
this noise
now breathing white
the stains on our sheets
i want a flood of prints
to thumb this rubber-sheathe down
into a grip that'll
loosen
with the lubricant of anticipation delivered in gentle strokes
by the balls of my hands.
I slip an arm into the blanket,
feeling the room close in
like the empty space in my fist.
3
You, skin glowing and quivering inside a fourth of your flannel blanket,
stare immovably at the stories
whose plots get stripped and pummelled
after every
scene.
................................
.................................
(in a dream,
the mesh on our windows heaved like an intra-uterine sail.)
(in a dream
big angry cocks,
thier necks
poised and erect,throttled
by murder or urge, blurt out thier streaming bursts
of thickening cackle.)
4
john cummings to terri taylor:
I wanted to stretch your agony with my mouth like soft, pink, sweet gum.
I wanted to wrap it around my tongue till it turned white and tasteless.
...................................
(in a dream)
my 6am wits scatter on the floor like dead hair.