the world only turns once

A lonely cigarette turned into a part drunk,

Part enraged charade of false turns and promises

On a park bench on a rainy April day

After we call it a day.

They come, they go, they stay

But nothing compares to that picture

Of you with my lungs on a platter

And heart on a plate.

Don’t turn away when the moon is a chipped

Saucer in the sky and I show you my change;

Don’t be alarmed that I seek meaning in stars

As the wax and the wane is the rhythm

Of a drum banging on once a month

We’ve spun gold from straw;

made milk from cum.

We’ve distilled wine from spit,

boiled the marrow of our bones

to feed scraps to waifs and strays.

We’ve coagulated blood to have black

pudding for lunch and we’ve borrowed,

begged and stolen brush strokes of integrity

to remember we made our blankets of skin,

that biting that apple was the ultimate sin

I categorically want the radio

boomboxing ballads of love;

I want to leave this empty,

thrusting silence

in the kitchen sink and blink

on the taps to wash off my blood

with soap sudding tallied cuts and nicks

aching to touch; vibrating

your vibrato of pain in the brush

of a finger as you measure

my threshold and train me up

These words will lull

magnetic waves of terrible

frequency

to placidity; to submission;

to a supernova taking over

the halls of Valhalla;

to a mouth stretching open

to a black, black hole and teeth, spat

Don’t kick a gift horse

in the mouth when it’s canter

is the sound of greatness

to come.

You probably shouldn’t

break your arm in a door

to get a bit of time off so try

- please try - not to do it.

I don’t recommend trying

to displace me; my job here

is not done and I am more (am I more?)

than a master of none;

I brine in pickle juice

to keep myself young and the blood

of virginity is the course I drip-feed

you month after month.

Under no circumstances should I or you

disagree; our hips must melt

esoteric waves of motion (or hands

Suddenly lonely, you bite

your lower lip to imagine the nip

of incisors piercing skin or the cupped

suction of a hickey on a collarbone

that rears up every time you arch

your pretty neck and pretend - just pretend -

that somewhere - someplace - there are hands

that could crush the living daylight

out of it

until you blink because no tears will come

You’ve opened your mouth again; opened  it wide. Now you’ve a fat lip. The shame of it will drop from your stomach to nestle a face between your thighs.