jo☆jar

A stone doe stood, alert,

in the middle of my walking field.

Sickly sweet light pours over her

the last embers of a full day's reign.

I watch her for half a mile;

my body's aching beautifully

from the melody's of today,

where everything is dying

and coming back to life.

I can't wait to keep this:

my visions of wild horses

in fields of shedding barley.

We're equals, here,

until I walk on by

I'm dry eyed I say,

dry eyed - a mantra.

As if miles away

you'll sniff that salt.

My cold cut through

the hot spring you built.

I know your snear,

that angry inclination.

The rapid slash of

murdered erosion

opened a gaping

carcass wound:

resentment.

Resentment gushes out, still.

The old blood and tears;

I would've worn

yours around my neck.

I'll starve it now,

instinct.

So you've returned.

Good morning Mr Eden,

your scales are looking particularly sharp today,

your grip particularly tight.

White noise colours your camera shutter blinks

and I suppose i don't mind,

its repose from my snake eye reflection.

I'm submerging my hand in Narcissus' body

watching my strength's effect in

rings and rings and rings.

Mr Eden, tell me i can do anything,

all creatures have thick skin like us.

So away,

spear with your pitchfork tongue,

my faux shock will fool nobody when

hot blood splatters from stare to surface.

I think we got some on us Mr Eden,

warm, sticky and contagious,

so, lend your cold embrace now

before turning out your parasitic skin.

I reach for you on my shoulder

to find you've left me with your

dirty laundry;

an empty and tepid ecydesis.

It lies on me, heavy.

I'll crumple to the floor

without you constricting me tall Mr Eden,

shame's hot clasp will thaw me through,

until I'm in puddled liquid like the rest.

so, I'll feign warm transmission veins hook round

me.

Stringing myself out, I'll be thin and spare for your return.

I'm ready for your bite back through my

wires, fizzle me out, kill us both.

I know sparks will always fly

I'll draw a line in the grass for you to cross,

shallow green.

It's a ravine that sand makes.

I'll fall on my back and pretend I can't roll over -

and when you kick me, i'll kiss your feet;

watch as I brush the dirt off my denatured spine.

I want you to see me shed your consequence,

moving with the grace of bloom.

I'll use your virility at my will,

until my soft underbelly unfurls at the light's caress.

I'll lie and let you dig in your fingertips,

uprooting me.

Snap off your rib, let me swallow your marrow,

it'll settle in this body of clay as you mould to your image.

Take a bite out of me.

Treat me like I hate it,

I like to think the world shaped my desire,

It swaddled my elastic sinews and beckoned all

limpidity far out.

The dips in my moulded brain became stippled and misshapen.

I like to think I hadn't a say in the matter,

and the fall lies with the porn addled tunnels that

infest, infect.

Burrows filled with scurrying creatures that latch

onto cognative, naturalistic vulnerability in each of

Darwins children.

I like to think that sexual affliction was germinated

in my juvenile mind, carefully attended to with

stakes and ties,

forced, bent and snapped into deviant form;

thrown over the knee of society and taught a

lesson for thinking so clean.

I like to think that the 12 year old shame of a collar

too low,

a hem brushing my shaven thigh.

The disgust of developing breasts,

was simply a side effect, a nameless ailment

for which we're all responsible, all responsive.

I like to think I'm blameless, that I don't indulge.

It's not my fault that I ache.

My proclivity was given like a curse,

a neuronic heirloom passed down from my earthly forbearers

as I will pass it onto mine.

I like to think that the humiliating and uncomfortable

blur between our legs,

the eternal chagrin,

the blood in my cheeks,

they're symptoms of the human condition.

Not just a wicked secret of mine.

The key bangs against the door when I open up to

you.

It crackles with the wood and the paint

I smell you in the air when you saunter past;

it's feigned awkwardness you're selling tonight.

The look of you makes my stomach turn,

yet you sit in the place I imagined.

I follow, like always.

Am I too close? Our knees are almost touching.

The intimacy of fear and loss mingles with my quietly aquired grief.

My voice shakes

and I can't quite get it out.

For once, you make it easy for me.

I'll thank you for it now and hate you for it later.

You don't crack or splinter, you nod and nod.

Did I ever make a dent in you?

A ripple?

I'm angry at you I think.

I think I always have been.

I wax about a half of my soul, about my developmental brain,

how it grew around you like a billowing sheet,

or maybe more like ivy,

like rot on wood.

My eyes have been blurred for a while now,

I'm trying my hardest to make you out.

A lukewarm haze hangs around us.

Then,

slowly,

I get warm.

Fond.

My predictable heart bangs against my sternem

to claw its way out to you.

The motions feel easy, well worn,

I want the flat of my palm on your wet skin

I want to warm you up,

to see the suds - fruit of my labour.

But I know I'll be sorry,

when the new morning dew wakes us from the

past.

We're sole to sole now

and your compliance is starting to feel like pity,

an empty platitude you give as obligation.

But I guess that's just nostalgia.

I see you out,

a cordial goodbye, perhaps withheld...

But,

there's a pause, a question,

the scale balances just for a second,

before I let it tip when my cheek pulls away from your neck.