Tag Archive: masochism


Birth


The sound of the chisel against these iron bars

Is tick-tock-tick-tock

Our meet-cute is a forty-minute cab ride away

Yet I remain imprisoned.

These metal arms that long embraced me

Have gained the warmth that my intent

Could never extract from your arms.

The sound of metal on metal

Keeps bouncing on my head

And sends me rocking forth and back

Like a baby.

 

This cell of anonymity is the womb that bears

My unborn love for you.

Why must it face the sun?

Why must it let out a cry?

Why must it be severed from the life-giving bosom?

 

My love is a parasite.

It must latch on.

 

Destiny contracts.

Stronger and shorter in between.

Flesh and blood are the delicate

Tendrils that root me in imagination.

 

Time and the tide of my emotion

Will thrust me into reality–

 

Stillborn.

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The Endless


Time has no purpose but to mark the steps

To show the forward motion

To give context to the journey

To this familiar nowhere called Us.

 

Maybe the feet know to go

Where your footsteps have left their warmth.

Maybe the center of my gravity

Is in the core of Was-just-here.

 

Maybe the heart is just too used

To being left behind

In the Almost.

 

In the ocean of Where-you-were,

The limestone cliffs of What-we-could-have-been

Shine like a beacon for my storm-tossed soul.

The crashing waves become hands upon my cradle

Drawing on this sleep,

Never ending this dream.

 

Our “here” just keeps on drifting beyond reach.

We never are and can never be, only

 

Might

Remains to move me.

 

 

FETUS


All but love curls up into a ball
And bounces around you.
Red and light like a slightly heavy balloon
That bursts with deliberateness.

My fingers are restless:
Today, I drew a sad boy
In shades of black and dots of white-
For contrast.

All in the name of being your missus.
Missus my surname hyphen your surname.
Hyphens become demeaning,
Like a prolonged negative sign.

It is the eve of Christmas
And a turkey is roasting
In my imaginary womb,
Stuffing stuffing the turkey stuffing me.

And you, the proud father,
Wait across my virtual vagina
With anticipation
And of course, a carving knife.

I wheeze-wheeze-wheeeeze
As you cheer me on
Simultaneously salivating
And feeling light in the head.

One great push
And my foot skims hell.
I am ripped apart
And bring forth your feast.

The turkey is burnt
With dots of white- for contrast.
Today, you eat a sad boy.
His fingers are bitter.

The red ball bounces around you
And explodes with deliberateness.
Like a slightly heavy balloon,
Love curls up into a ball.

For Ian


 

A coldness slumbers in my stomach.
Malaise journeys through my limbs,
Led by your inverted torch.

(To think I’ve never considered suicide-
Pride, maybe vanity.)

The world is a hollow place
That it begs adventure.
A lifelong game of hide and seek
With you, the dark cupid:
The never-ending sleep.

You are the cherub
Oft-spoken but never seen.

The tender,
Perverted youth
Of Night,
Come to me now,
Sword in sheath, black heart
And butterfly kisses.
Promising what I know to be nothing
But feel as everything-
Everything I always wanted.

This affliction,
My addiction,
This steep climb
To certainty.

That of my life, With you,
Condensing into these
Precise moments
Slipping through time.
Moments I’ve long conjured
In my mind.
And taken wing,
Fetching me with
swiftness and sweetness
Of concluding.

Loving you-
A lock of my hair
Falls upon
Your waiting palm-
Will be the end of me,

So let’s begin.

Click!

Death to Patience


 

He is sprawled helpless, whelmed beyond measure
Here on the field of fetid cotton sheets.
He ponders: was it love? Convenience?
Whatever the case, it doesn’t matter.
Pain and joy both syncopate his heartbeats.
The difference, he reckoned was patience.

And there was an endless supply. Patience
That days and distance can’t seem to measure.
But he can’t help from counting the heartbeats
That always hasten when rain drops in sheets.
Pretense and a hand offers convenience,
Stalls him for a while in viscuous matter.

Habit later becomes inconvenience,
Question marks hover testing his patience
Every gap in time begins to matter,
The treasure of pleasure failed to measure
Up to the emptiness between his sheets.
A drone instead of musical heartbeats.

What good is a heart when one’s own heart beats
For nothing? Certainly no convenience
Can expunge forever the empty sheets
Of his love story. Understand, patience
Has betrayed him of wealth without measure.
Abandoning the heart for gray matter.

He asks himself, “what the hell’s the matter?”
The mind cannot pulse as the quick heart beats.
Feelings make thoughts difficult to measure–
They refuse to settle for convenience.
The heart will destroy the walls of patience
What it seeks lies beyond these cotton sheets.

He takes a torch under the wretched sheets
The healing flames make nothing else matter
Flames of the arson put death to patience,
Music, at last, is heard in his heartbeats
The cotton mistakes and inconvenience
Have found their end in overdue measure.

He has left patience in the ashen sheets,
Figured that measure should not so matter.
Summoning heartbeats defies convenience.

Die Hard


 

I awake to the sweetness of your deserting
Scalp raw where you tore off clumps of my hair
A stinging manifestation of how I cannot get you off my head.
On my sheets, the bloodstains have dried a rich chocolate color
Summoning the rest of my sap to flow forth.
My lips have the familiar taste of rust where you bit them.
I lick them and it is your tongue that I am reminded of.

You adorned my skin with bruises,
Just now turning royal purple against the black and
blue and yellow of days before.
I trace their patterns, pressing here and there as
I do with embroidered silk.

The aching becomes your fingers caressing me once more.
Like a love song, your curses ricochet in my ear.
Each syllable of profanity sending pulses of heat through
my body to the beat of a tango.

I am the clay whereupon you leave your imprint.
I am the vessel that turns your sweat, your saliva, your
urine into wine.
I am the well from which you draw sanguine nectar.
I am the bough you break to partake of the forbidden fruit.

My flesh is your ambrosia.
My tears are your precious gems.
My pain is your delectation.
My cessation is your genesis.

Should you feel the urgency to heed the carnal calling,
Pick the flesh I left underneath your fingernails.
Or return to this fetid bed

Where I will lie half-conscious and dilapidated,
Where I will corrode slowly in the mixture of our semen,
Where you will love me nonetheless

As I will you.