I’m Done Melting Rocks

When you slowly nodded to
the third attempt of my lips,
was it pity you couldn’t say
or did you just want to suck
the smoke out of my mouth
as if a bowl wasn’t enough?

I’m tired of scoring that shit
for you, burning my thumb,
& forcing myself to swallow
its acidic aftertaste, thinking
that’s the only way we are in
this bedroom past midnight.

I’m sick of that diesel stench
crawling steadily on my skin
that only wants the soft tips
& the certainty of your grab
when you push gently, a yes,
or hold, the pull of my chin.

When you turned your back
after I took off my buttoned
shirt and belted jeans, was it
my breasts that shouldn’t be
there or my vagina that still
shocked even with red eyes?

Gothic Sex

His cologne, 
the fumes of rum
and rye whiskey,
clung to my neck like ether.

We found our lips
pale from winter
and tingling from the methanol
of a taxidermist.

On the tomb 
watched over by granite angels
and gargoyles,
we numbed ourselves.

My glance provoked his hands
to dissect my skin
with scratches
and morphine intoxication.

Smelling of sulfur,
we sweat on the black linen
soaking in blood
and turpentine.

Then he called me Annabel,
and I woke up—
the bells might toll
and the raven would come.

Piped Words

i.  fire

 

addicted
to sound of lighter
i click

i inhale
fume of gasoline
its odor

flame
i see flicker
yellow

i feel
rage on my thumb
burn

taste
after lighting
i smoke

 

ii.  water

 

i wake up every day
to the lure of instant coffee
dark and bitterlying on the couch
i stare at the wall clock
faucet dripping

reheated ramen
a soup without noodles
i sip quietly

to forget it all
i open an empty bottle
fume of vodka

i shower at night
to remember the cold waves
of the old sea

 

iii.  air

i smell it in spring
imitating the scent
of red geranium.i hear it coming
when jays suddenly
become quiet.

i see it at noon
pushing a leaf
to fall then rustle.

i feel it on my neck
as i look up to stare
at the citrus moon.

i open my mouth
for my cold tongue
knows its taste.

Art of Basquiat

canvas. no. skin
blushed 
to glow 
soft alabaster
white
browned by stain
acrylic paint
nicotine
drenched in sweat
high tears
saliva
mixed with alkyd
oil colors
linseed
sticking on brush
palette knife
fingers
layered with dirt
smeared grime
dust
collected by soles
bare feet
toes
wet like palms
warm handhold
nails
tearing thin cotton 
summer dress
spandex
reeking of petrol
resin fumes
turpentine
used to prime
melt images
cover 
before ink doodle
messy swirls
graffiti
in graphite pencil
aerosol spray
markers
fueled by cocaine
burnt grass
heroin
in heated spoon
insulin syringe
needle
inserted into veins
after tourniquet
alcohol
to mimic morphine 
narcotics
liquid hydrocodone
numbing pain 
wounding
skin. no. canvas.

Ode to Weed

A fisherman struggling to breathe
in the surges of the empty sea;
a listless boy in the orchard
waiting for all mango trees to fruit;
an old man on the veranda
staring at the hammock moon.
 
A flutist who suddenly becomes
scornful of the kiss of bamboo;
an erotic poet who loses all
his memories of fingers on skins;
a manic painter who begs
his canvas to blossom plums.
 
How they conceal it is the familiar
quiet of grieving acacia leaves;
they all suffer from the same
stodginess of my slow afternoon;
without you in the oak pipe,
I yearn to chop off my breasts.

Elegy to a Transman

At first, it was a cigar
spinning in his hand,
twirled between
his fingers, obnoxious
and wet in the mouth.

Then it morphed into
a bulb that blackened
his skin, shaming
his curled tongue
and calming down 
the epilepsy of his lips,
the silence of his sulk.

It never became
a silicone shaft.

When Cops Barged In

The spheroid part
of a glass pipe, its long
stem hollow,
its butt burnt black,
the hole
tiny in the middle.

The whole of him
a phallus, each anatomy
functioning
by itself, from head
to toe,
except his groin.

The wide can girth
of butane, seven inches
its stout length,
the cigarette lighter
a poor
mimicry of a gun.

The angle corners
of the bed, the bolster
pillow, the twist
of the cotton sheet
phallic,
but his bottom.

The knob locked
for safety, the side chair
familiar to heat,
plastic ballpen tubes,
tin foils,
a bottle, a strapon.

The boots kicking
the door, the steel barrel
in his vagina,
the cudgel inside his
anus,
save for the shell.

 

Strange Self on a Folded Foil

Tired of binding
to conceal
what should not be there
and rolling an old soccer sock
for an illusion
like the missing anatomy,

he began smoking laced weed
to make love
with the velvet elephant
only he could see
and later turned to
rocks melted over blue flames
to chase the dragon
slipping as if a mad thought
out of his seared brain,

on the wheelbarrow
as though he was just released
after a surgery,
his breasts sliced off clean,
an empty liquor bottle
stuck in his vagina.

Why I Smoke Shabu

My congenital curse,
the mind wants to shag,
but the body is built
to lie down on its back,
to sit when forced,
to turn for a dirty spasm.

The phallus a phantom,
clothed even in bed
to cover all the missing,
my hands make love,
my mouth is not a kiss,
my skin urges none.

Here in my room,
alone, naked, unbound,
the pipe full, I melt,
blowing blubbery clouds,
warming my fingers,
asking how to be whole.

I let the fat smoke fall on
my chin, cheeks, brow,
heating up what feels cold,
the unexplored thighs,
the flattened beaten chest,
the falsified false self.