Lotion does not ease
The passage of a heart
Once the pulp has set,
Anymore than liquor
Exonerates the suffering soul.
We all have ghosts
In our mirrors and chickens
Dozing in the hinges
Of our open diaries.
My brain sloths in the presence
Of your pitiful machine.
I lust the reel behind
Your gimmick-ridden eyes,
It must be torture to live
Sewn into the uniform
Of your hypnotizing flesh
Never free the train that rapes you.
Nothing spoils like ink on revision
The sultry muse who teases
Without origination, without obligation.
The plump, unfertilized womb
That bleeds her loneliness monthly.
I await my divisions, my miracles
My tears burst on the pads of your thumbs
A diaphanous spore cannibalizing
What it cannot readily possess.