Did you wager
She could take it
All in
Without short-circuiting?
Did you presume
Fairy rings
Manifested
In crop circles?
Did you think
Little green men
Would shine spotlights
Before casting a net?
Guess again.

Beyond the boneyards,
Our corpses procreate.
Tattered flesh unwinds;
Slinks inside —
Thrumming strings,
Strumming time.
You want to place
Your hand in mine.

Come inside.

Where sinews graze the light,
Branches entangle
Between branded limbs.
Passionate impulse
Quickens the pulse.

Dream deep, little firefly.
Distant stars climbed to collapse;
Our memories burned for naught.

Modulating machines
Mechanize madness.
Mellifluous meddling
Morphs minds.
Melded material
Manifests memories.
Magniloquent musings
Martyr murderers.
Moribund messages
Misappropriate malignancy.
Merged magic
Makes monsters.

A new day arises,
Laundered with the laudanum
Of lavender lethargy.
Selective memory
Simplifies sundry pleasures.

Call me out.

For all the times
I refused to believe you,
Punish me
With bruising kisses.

If this isn’t love
Your colorist’s inferno
Seeking cool waters

Here lies Love in the present.

Do not enter this derelict construction site, a haunted hallway cluttered with the latest gadgets designed to improve the quality of life by purifying noxious air particles, and masking frayed connections.

How’s about a vein to suck
before the IV’d hag collapses?
Didn’t even get to pop the question, or bubble-wrap pre-packaged flesh yet.

“Safe” extended hand —
Ha! You’ll just trip me again,
Ad infinitum.

I did what I was told,
Not what I should do;
And the wind breathed fire
Into the void of my choices.

I like it slow,
wet,
hard,
deep;
an ache to arouse
blue buds
that never bloomed.

Tear down the silkscreen
behind the tapestries
of suburban suspicion
surrender to
the ratatouille
of culture clash

Hearts beat
love we made
to fill our mason jar
of hand-sealed dreams.

Virile killjoys grasp
the gasp of youth
mewling drooling
dewy dainty dimpled
juvenescent jail bait
too thirsty to slake

I curse the ruse
used as a noose,
and pretend I’m not
in love with you.

The Mardi Gras queen
of New Orleans
licks her lips
larruping clean;
freshly feasted
from a blood donor’s dream.

The once-private public arena
becomes an international hunting ground,
as sportsmanship has never been
the strong suit
of opprobrious parrots
who drop trow from soapboxes.

‘Veni vidi vici’
The bluejay tweeted me.
You watch me watching her –
Father pours the tea.