pulp

[1] she is the fluttering of a heart-beat;
her tongue, a mile-long stretch of serpent-skin.

she lives in blind spots
                                                and loves in silence



[2] i am
no longer
the child of sand and make-believe sage,
kneeling before a crumbling wooden altar

i want to be the light
in photographs
that plays across the distorted elegance of your features

tell me that “paris
is for lovers.”
i will tangle you up in my arms
and say we belong

(our murmurs will
surround us like cellophane.)

this is  me    div ide d



[3] it’s in the details -

the reverberation of whitewashed sound
                        (perfect, and new, but so darkly familiar)
vapor seeping from between
arching hips

this is sex
                            between the universe and me

molten and metallic                    (impromptu affections,
                                                      bold and alluring;
                                            tell me what you want me to do
                    and my hands will be touching you before the words leave your lips)

- so spare none