Succubus, Muse
I have not written,
as one banished,
amnestied by the promise of a
letter to a one-night stand,
a dull insomniac, numb to words,
writhing in unconscious lust.
Zigzagged, diverted
from a lover’s coma
to mystery lips,
a perverted aberration,
wandering, falling again from your fever
in some frozen solitary trance.
Awake all night,
wanting morning to heal,
a sinful sweat forms on my face,
soaks the words,
the dawn captures my loins,
thrusts me back to the flushed
dead of night woods,
by the wanton bonfire.
I succumb to your pungent imagery,
your wetness,
your nonchalance,
your flesh as mouth and tutor.
Glass Alley
There is a raw smell of
city sleet and rain.
The chill wraps the street in
a thin sheet of needles,
as chronic taut muscles
ricket, lumped fetal,
struggle with every tedious move.
The mind dilates, swells, floats
through thick, bitter and muddy sky.
Ice and grease lie stagnant in the streets,
sparks rise from burning barrels.
The rats scurry like monkeys,
feverishly scratch and bite infected
tracks on skin shriveled, sugar-brown,
decaying like thawed hung meat.
Meth elevators rise to
the next echelon,
synapses shatter, snap,
angels on the roof
shoot soul-sought tangents,
hoping to rape the day,
forget the cold, climb to nowhere.