i. Man-of-War

Some unseen force keeps putting my foot in
my mouth instead of a foreign tongue, so
much for that Portuguese husband I’ve been
wanting, lounging around loathing too much
instead of translating my longing to
something other than resounding silence,

          something nice which might entice the entire

Universe to remind him where to find
me when I’m done soiling my couch with sweating
thrusts, getting off without giving up on
love, grinding more than enough as I come
torrents, lustlorn from its illusion of
being reborn in the cock’s deflating

          moment of dying from trying too hard

to rise again from inside a gold mine
swollen with pearls of light my darkness has
been denying, wisdom sighing at my
mind’s lies my swine mouth tries to blind with kisses
tying down with paradigms networking
against both flesh and spirit’s sciences,

          crying out names I shout in my head with

perfect pronunciation, reliving
them each without ever once recounting
or recanting any of my hungry
heart’s many crimes, ravenous as they come,
tumescent tormentor of what I tempt,
growling so discontent at leaving left

          untouched this origin of life, seed around

which my unrelenting hand bends, gripping
its wand splitting spectral evidence, thick
sceptre dividing my shaking spheres’ left-
leaning, queer, leering kingdom into spears
of visionary spit, its ideals more
digestible than coming to terms with

          creations lost, my world’s hole volatile

bubbles fill, its essence, my own scent, through
which my diving fingers dip and swim,
getting a grip on what should be rubbed as
much as my very existence has been
overly examined, so frequently
this is no apology, won’t try to

                    ii. Tentacles (Ouroboric Tales)

psychologize why this is what I
turn to when I want time to fly the way
life’s meaning evades reason, can’t ever
be analyzed or answer if questioned,
rolling the way my eyes do, away to
hide at the back of my head, behind my

          mind, exiled by a blue movie’s grunting,

jump-cut movements, its wilderness wildest
when extreme close-ups burn brightest those drenched
bushes Moses would need stranger, stronger
tablets to survive, the way thighs collide
on celluloid, when night as viewed through a
window so steamy as mine inscribes with

          greasy figures lewd new laws, decadent

dew spread like the arms of a cross, ardent
forms exalted on high by similar
worms as me, pervs dirty as I am, too
defiant of god’s commandment against
covetousness to deny him how much
we delight in sinking lower, power

          over desire impossible as mind

over matter, no wings yet in this quest
to fight the flight of angels in my soul’s
descent into darkness, my body’s rust
Titanic hurt reversing engines an
inch away from the iceberg, turning to
coldness of heart this gift I more often run

          from than toward, better hardened than burned,

my rings’ aristocratic fingers are all
calloused now from doing too well devils’
work, bruised skin blood’s blushing now from just how
badly I want to rush into, and be
flushed out of, some body more accustomed
to being costumed in such decrepit

          finery, so destitute from being

abused so willingly and wantonly,
from publishing these phrases your absence
coins, putting your poverty’s words into
circulation, wanting more than this noise
to bide my time anticipating our
kind of worthlessness becoming worth it, boys.