This is what I want:
grab what you can of my hair
as if it is my soul
and pull. Pull me against you,
pull until you’re sure
I’ll fall no further into hell
than your lips on mine.
Pull until I come against you
like your own hand, like your own skin;
and then teach me everything,
eveything you’ve ever learned
about making yourself shudder
and break and die. Only now,
only this time, break and die in me.
All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket. All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles and miles on end.
Been Catching Rivulets
Entranced from dream states apart, of and from
night glows notwithstanding, I’m shining from in here,
beacon on your coast.
Could we talk for awhile?
Morning grey cools my coffee, The Fly’s in my headset
tell me how to be about things. Star alignments
mean so little in the facement of choice.
But, “what’s your sign, I’m dying here…”
I understand me, how I walk, what I say
how my couch embraces my warmth as
a lover reaches into me. But, could you
explain this feeling of wanting
to run to the airport, intimately?
The soft rain here makes for soft landings,
and weary heads like soft pillows for
soft dreamscapes, and I think, maybe
I can fall softly to rest with you.
As opposed to landing hard
face up on a tarmac, catching rivulets to quench.