i.

Triangular trade enslaving me,
     it’s all fake, this suffering sailing
     across my face, eyes sprayed with tears spilled
     out of place, I should know better than
     to think, than to manifest what flesh
     colours unrest with vagrant flavours
     synesthesia walks into loud flame,
     and listening to my Self, I hear
     only your name, I hear only your
     name, but it’s not the same as walking
     into the sea weighted in chains, it’s
     not the pain, it’s the same way we both
     imagine ourselves into blacker
     misery and let it become our
     taste, we lack foresight, always looking
     back to the past for unexploited
     light, illuminating nothing right,
     like ruminating throughout the night
     throws out lies, fingers, and hips, your sighs
     not enough to pick up the pieces.

                              ii.

Imaginations with their long tails
     condescend to none, capturing
     hearts and minds, inducing hard-ons men
     tend to with erotoleptic haste,
     wasting no time to greet attraction
     with incoherent abandon, sent
     heaven-south to pound them, whispering
     ideals no one can comprehend or
     meet, living up to fading daydreams
     slays them before perfection even
     plays its performance, so indecent
     is this affliction, such that it sucks
     from the flooded minds all passengers,
     all cargo, before it can float out
     to reality’s shores what never
     arrives, yet it’s this drive that contrives
     to sell us both on its purchase, this
     false promise of partnership built on
     sand full of martyrs’ bones, old lovers
     who fell through, throwing us off the boat.

                              iii.

Oracular rage foretelling days
     when desire’s direct sunlight fires forth
     its uninterest in flashing glares,
     paradise will chain its gates, and shade
     its perfect vision from your sight for
     eternities of blinking eyes, if
     you fail to remind yourself of why
     creation permits artists so much
     compromise, such freedom since the world’s
     earliest days to commit to page
     all possible contradictions, since
     all is possible only if one
     acknowledges the sole condition,
     in its finest print at the bottom
     of a soul’s contract, requiring so
     often total renewal of your
     poetic license, if you are to
     continue bending truth to conform
     to whatever ending you think you
     deserve, since this snake’s a devourer.