Wordle #138

Week 138.png
I hold you locked
between my contemptuous thighs,
inwardly and outwardly
our expressions inscrutable.

Our hybrid limbs furl and thrash.
A welcome assault,
a senseless pssitacism
my green heart froths and boils over.

A prickle, a trickle, a crush of stars
my toes grip, struggling against the dross
of your counterintuitive facades.

We pour incognito,
into the shadow of a yew tree
harbingers of a long deceased God.

Wordle #130 “November 21st, 2016”

Week 130.png

Within each heart a rathskeller,
a chamber tethered between
the spontaneous and the habitual.
End to end, our antipodes tremble.

You are a stack of letters
rubbed to cinder
beneath coils of fire.
I am a television, a ransom note
scrawled in carnations.

You gather my freckles
underneath your fingertips.
I stroke your conclusions
and restructure the flow.
We open, two margins
pulled together by need.

I remain innocuous
despite years of acedia.
You force me close,
we exchange elixirs and enigmas.
(I am in love with you nuance.)

You are striking,
a four-cornered god
encasing my orgasma.
You infuse, I devour.

Wordle #91

Week 91

Even your entropy is rigid,

the lymph gurgling behind

your prostrated smile,

the admonishing aftertaste

of your subcutaneous adhesions.

Skinflint, star-caster, striptease

my thighs pulsate beneath

your extraneous gravity and what a let down,

what a climax, what a keepsake it all is.

The tobacco churning behind your lip,

turmeric-spiced silt sticking in your nail beds,

the subtle admonishment of your filaments

breaking me like a riding saddle.

How vile, how terrible, how irrefutable you are.

Must you control everything?

Must you crush the throats that sing?

Must I, the shameless, the purse-string, the mule-headed thief

love you, contend with you, worship the soles

of your endless retreats?

managed to barely get one in

Wordle #169


I stitch the eclipse stirring

In the cheeky blue of your irises

That the blackness

Will not engulf me.

A shot of stars assemble

Piecemeal in your throat

In the manufactured room

Between your elegant thighs.

There are a million honors

I could bestow but compared

To your name they are lackluster.

I grip your sides,

Salubrious fluids merging

After a triumphant hike

Through your wilderness.