Are you making my coffee or my coffin—
                                        spreading the gospel or gossip?
Myths and mirrors tarnished when you walk on them,
                              silver worn with breath, lines spotted
as too much training betrays them, cries when caught
                    painting over silence with what
kiss your lips deny, defying sense with this
          tableau vivant we both live, we

whose babbling souls give out when giving it, this
                    broken brook of bubbling twilight
boiling our marriage-bed cabinet of bones
                              to curious tones of white noise—
burying us inside thick and viscous folds
                                        my eyes roll to drops, stitching seas
of cold regret’s most furious post-coital
                              sweat, tiptoeing as though slowing

its sanguine flow holds off the devil’s route, falls
                    of scorched foliage crumbling, foot
to path attracted as feet to meter dance—
          holding molten pens lancing your
attacks of angriest verbiage, we chance
                    memory’s credibility
as, with oyster-slick abandon, filthy hands
                              make of quaking mouths eager and

unclean demands, crooked canes of lust’s sweetest
                                        fingers breaking under a storm
of burdensome hunger, thundering in past
                              pretense, ravenous and crow-winged—
rapacious from the wait, how one lick creates
                    where destruction preys, fist to face
though in anger laid wakes from this debate heat
          enough to allay all hate, your

pacing in placing your palm an act at once
                    appalling and awesome, calming
with lecherous tact what war this world’s roughest
                              wooing of our immortal hearts
attempts to make temporal, globes we shatter
                                        with the gracefulness of flat soles
crushing grapes, heavy with haste enemies lay
                              on us, we ourselves what these chests

need to get off, treasuring instead what rust
                    cannot touch, this flesh passionate
crimes peel apart, wonders and signs wet with come—
          no better aphrodisiac
than love when it runs, whether pursuing us
                    or filling up emptiness left
by arguments against the separation
                              of dead limbs from their parents’ tombs,

digging up old wounds with impetuous words,
                                        little executions judgment
overturns, making of conflict’s appeal an
                              amputation neither hurting
nor curing its atrocious exhibition,
                    this meat of mine spared castration
when I pardon your mind’s limitations and
          indulge your oral fixation—

my supplications to ancient deities
                    occasioning celebration
when, sacrificing caution, throwing pause down
                              to its depths, we ignite dormant
firelight to glowing conflagration and fuck
                                        on a roaring bed of coals our
failed pairing rakes up, ha(s)te’s brand of attraction
                              no claws but our own can concoct.