Four Untitled Poems


The hot flow

of your hands

softens my curled up edges

irons the crumpled pages

of my little leather notebook.



Your mouth is a bridge

of speech and lightning

that shelters my belly from the quake.


white black head




I read the typography of your thoughts

on an axis of bent desire,

of thoughts that grip, curved like pincers,

beneath the pulsing weight of jagged fingers,

in a claw,

in a cut,

in a tear.

Your screams expunge my screams

and vanish in a flair.



Drink your rhymes

Spit your gin

Bleed your bones

Tattoo the moon



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