New Poems
Deliver Me
Half-up, shoulder over.
This is what we meant to say.
The liquid edge of tension taut,
And I'm of sheer insanity, I know.
But these are real questions I've asked you,
Not just the calculated metaphors which
You hate for being too potent and I love for the same reason.
And I asked them not expecting an answer,
Like I'm standing in the room naked,
Because I know no one will walk past:
An empty threat.
Or my saying "I love you" not because I mean it,
But because I wear well a look of tragedy,
And I know you can't say it back.
Too many shrugs of language went unnoticed,
Languid and supple syllables struck against some
Odd moment from which I was then distracted.
Now, I say it was just for want of your skin.
Is this a lie or just another unnoticed truth?
The Oldest Greed
I am a young man chasing too old a passion.
Dying from the flame of someone else's tears,
The splintered ache self-inflicted,
Introspection back over the edge of blades,
And the soft bend of my bones which says:
And this, too? When is it ever enough?
With my mind: thick, gorged, pounding,
Though many a time anesthetized,
Saying, over and over,
But what more could you want?
Half-up, shoulder over.
This is what we meant to say.
The liquid edge of tension taut,
And I'm of sheer insanity, I know.
But these are real questions I've asked you,
Not just the calculated metaphors which
You hate for being too potent and I love for the same reason.
And I asked them not expecting an answer,
Like I'm standing in the room naked,
Because I know no one will walk past:
An empty threat.
Or my saying "I love you" not because I mean it,
But because I wear well a look of tragedy,
And I know you can't say it back.
Too many shrugs of language went unnoticed,
Languid and supple syllables struck against some
Odd moment from which I was then distracted.
Now, I say it was just for want of your skin.
Is this a lie or just another unnoticed truth?
The Oldest Greed
I am a young man chasing too old a passion.
Dying from the flame of someone else's tears,
The splintered ache self-inflicted,
Introspection back over the edge of blades,
And the soft bend of my bones which says:
And this, too? When is it ever enough?
With my mind: thick, gorged, pounding,
Though many a time anesthetized,
Saying, over and over,
But what more could you want?