Sexting Scriptures

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Open up
to the trickle of uneasy strings
let it build up the scale
by the skin of your teeth;
chatter at the melody —
this sonic provocateur,
so scary that it becomes horny,
so that it can break
both of us down —
Show me
exquisitely
what you’re really made of

Touch me now before
I finish writing this line,
riding this high.
Whisper sacred yearnings
softly through a fluted mouth —
blow them away, enchant me
with hydroponic exhalations
rolled with one hand on the
thoroughfare.
Sext scriptures
of saccharine musings to
tease yourself
with our off-canter tune.
Sweep vacillation there —
under the table of forbidden
footsy-playing.

Hard-headed, savory-toothed, but
sweet to me —
French restaurant breakfast-in-bed
on the tongue
unconcerned by possible casualties
of swapping spit
ooh la la...
Coo,
baby bird boy in
Cocteau phonetics;
regurgitation of
the mouth
satisfies that craving.

Drink life from the palm of my hands —
relish in the fear of tenderness
a little
more. Put faith in it.
Would you tell a heart surgeon how to do their job?
love in motion beats relentlessly,
and love-making is my legacy.

 

Crescendo crashes into inevitable refrain
And
You
With a love-blinding birthmark on your brain,
beg the cosmos to reward you
with a backbone.
Unanswered, no use

 

my ears perk up to your stagnant siren song
of spinelessness,
and I hum along,
serpentine-ly
greedy to keep it a while longer.
Droning out into
unrequited soliloquy,
take pieces of me, just as much you,
broke in two.
Maybe for the better...
Sweet dreams to Pangea mythology.

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i am sorry for shooting angels

i am sorry for shooting angels;
splendid silk-skinned, sun-kissed, celestial-sent
and made of rose, mary, thyme,
those ones burning my nose like powdered lotion
provoking my sordid
short-comings

i am sorry
for unsheathing my
weapon of diffidence
towards auburn locks
adorned in gardenias;
for flicking vowels
behind backs with
a forked devil's tongue;
for sucking life out of rosy
cheeks and for
betraying
the fae,
those one’s spit from heaven’s mouth,
hitting the ground and set starry-eyed
upon impact

i am sorry for plucking
feathers to fuel fire;
For snipping vocal chords
wavering in castrato,
and for toying in the sweet mulberry basket of belittling beauty that isn’t my own,
cuticles caked
in pulpy poison,
pathetic brow furrowed, loathing
sulking