I ease myself into his throat

decalescent and substantial

like a memory too exclusive

to divulge in conversation.

I clip his tongue, dance

in the groove of his soft palate,

slide sideways along pink gums

and imperfect teeth.

His first confession

and he’s all nerves

and no etiquette.

Not a word but a murmur,

a subcutaneous plea

extricated from a darkness

so vulnerable it bleeds.

I do not even hear her reply

but I can taste it and it’s as if

all the oceans submerged themselves.


Becoming ID


I’ve got one hand flexed

Around the stem of a fertile pen

The other unscrewing

My cardiac valve

If I expose my blood

To the elements

Will I rust?

Tetanus immobilizing

My swaying limbs


Resolute or intransigent?

Will I flinch when reaping

Stark white monosyllables

From a verminous subconscious

Or will I burgeon as the Taoist

Spirit ripened through exposure?


My falling voice

Creates no ripples

Without witness

Do these despairing stanzas

Animate the way

They were intended?


Only foolish men

Need the comfort

Of vanity

Genius is complete

On creation


Here I stand

In pieces

A foolish man

Whispering to a crowd

Narcissism inverted

But equally self-obsessed


Of my flesh

These poems wear

The same cloak of invisibility

That I have worn,

Heedless of season

An impious hibernation

Silencing dissent

Fearful eyes adjust the margins

That I may continue unabated

To rest

Mediocrity, aborting



My treasonous heart

Goads my pen

Tap, tap, tap

An illithid stripping


From an onerous womb (mind)

An illithid stalking

Psionic walls

Emotional constructs

That lust not for revelation

But preservation


Confession, imminent

Vital to the integrity

Of my scaffolding

I must allay these burdens

Or abandon altogether

The wind


There is very little left

Of my super ego

I am becoming ID

Impulse over procedure

Viscera over vision

Semaphore over soliloquy

Mascara black, my words

Run on inquisition

Any closer and will both

Go mad


This poem is about my writing process I often start out very reserved, locked up, rigid, disconnected from my feelings, insecure I worry what others think, what I think about myself which isn’t good (this isn’t always the case but I am writing daily now and inspiration varies), I edit out things that are too personal. I end up with a few very tense lines and then I get to business hacking down all those barriers, barriers that my extreme shyness reconstructs daily. I eventually get to the vulnerable, juicy center and that is what I try to give you guys. By the time I get to the core I rarely care what anyone thinks because at that point it is all about the writing.  Writing is cathartic for me because I tend to be very very inhibited normally and I feel like myself when I write. The reason it sounds like multiple poems simultaneously is because that is actually how I write, several poems in the same breath all running together sometimes of a similar theme sometimes of very contrary themes.  I will invariably use all the poem but maybe not at the same time if it doesn’t fit together sensibly. This time I left it because I wanted to show you the untamed version lol

Illithid if you haven’t heard of one.



Your teasing smile

Abrades my ego

The intimate posturings

Of your limbs

Binding my reservations

Your touch nullifies me

I withdraw self-consciously

Too famished to warm your flesh

The curve of your brows

Rising and falling

Over riotous seas,

Articulates my unspoken needs

The atmosphere shifts

Or is just my neurasthenia buzzing?

Desperate for your love

I wait in the paranoia

Of my condensed breath

For you to move

If you pursue

Then I can avoid

The disappointment

Of unwed plans

My echo is too emphatic,

She relives the humiliation

Of my incongruous steps

I cannot bare to stand

Too long under observation

I’ll take my exit at the slightest

Falter in attention

My belligerent heart speaks

Without being spoken too,

My sullen secrets exceeding

Your pedestrian expectations

Too damaged to be loved,

Too broken to satisfy

A needful equality

In your shadow,

Wrapped in a rapturous ambiguity

I might have lingered

But I had to question our status

Even knowing

That we languished formless and unborn

Even knowing

That the definition would dissolve

My sin

Is a conscious deconstruction

The need to fix

That which is not broken

A compulsion

To distort nature to my ideals

I turn my hooked smile inward,

Cracking open each marrow-filled bone

That I might feed you of my essence

At predigested intervals

I never respected

My own privacy

Or the sanctity of your margins,


I am guilty

Of trespass and treason

When you leave

The interrogation will begin,

The tears and the apologies

Surrendered to your absence

For a time I’ll affix my likeness

To you that I might hate someone else

But the true villain

Will remain unchanged


This is painfully autobiographical

Sparrow Cell


I cast off my shackles, the hollow-ringed

Anxiety that tethers ankles and wings to an

Inert platform, to a potentiality framed by the

Deformations of dreams left to harden into a

Sparrow-cell of regrets. I have assumed a slavery

So claustrophobic that my breath is measured and

Vilified for its occupation of space and resources.

Primitive and neglected I flap only, the heavens have

Never expressed my higher instincts. The ceiling hangs

So low that I cannot stand with my back erect, I can

Only stoop, humiliated by self-imposed limitations


I cast out these euphemistic silences

The bony dialogues rendered unsteady

By a bewitched tongue, the volatile plexus

Of hysterical butterfly nerves that summon

The essence of rose into the morbid pallor

Of flesh. Blushes erupting, volcanic and

Dangerous, irrespective of the provocateur,

Irrespective of the prosaicness of the incident


I cast off false grievances the imagined

Scenarios that decimate will, alternate universe

Alternating between gradations of a black hopeless

Panic. I have experienced the most terrible, despicable

Acts of criminality at the behest of my own imagination

Events that bare not the slightest resemblance to life but

To which I nevertheless offer my paranoid convictions


I want to embrace a world beyond my cloistered ego, to

Love mightily, madly and with ruthless abandon let this

Ubiquitous womb of a mind, this bone-guarded architect

Break free like the entrails of a pumpkin scooped cleanly,

Spaciousness allowing for the passage of light. Happiness

Is orange, invigorating it does not last but it will come again

And again if the door remains open, even a window would do


(the poem is written about my own debilitating shyness and anxiety but I attempted to write with a bit of a Sylvia Plath/Arthur Rimbaud vibe if that makes any sense whatsoever lol)