Perfect

A perfect coin sun shone upon
the highest leaves and trickled
all the way down onto the grass
and our faces.

The river below was the cloudy
hue of water in a cup that a
painter has been cleaning his
brushes in. Aloft all the birds
chased each other. Squirrels
grabbed acorns and dragged
them into the trees that they
had recently fallen from. The
stretching flowers were politely
vain.
A spring breeze pushed the only
cloud away.

And then
the girl with the pretty, long hair
told me she loves me!

She Doesn’t Know

It is silent.

Her voice---like music resounding
Greatly---is gentle smoke in the air.
Yet it devastates me. She says,
“I don’t know.”
Airs of disdain point her nose.
Her eyes sharpen,
Lashes rigid.
Derision raises her eyebrows several
Degrees.
So I say something clever quick like,
“I think you’re going to miss me!”
Her lips are red-flower-petal coals that
Burn and lacerate my soul.

“I’ve no control,” I confess; pressing
Against velvet flesh.

Trapped for months and
Her limbs are pleasurable fetters.

Her hair---the scent of yellow summer
At its purest---reaches down long
Vines in which I contemplate inevitable
submission to entanglement.
Facing her, as I feared she is not smiling;
However stolidly feigning self-assurance.

But even still the dark points in her eyes rival
The mystery of the void at its deepest.

What she doesn’t know is that her face glows
So that I’ve grown slightly blinded to those other
Duller faces.

I lay down at her feet
In abject devotion
And she is cunningly aloof as she steps over me
And continues to walk away.

Label Murder

I am a masochist,
A pacifist.
I'm worthless.

I am a misogynist,
A chauvinist.
I'm flawless!

I am in disillusionment,
Full of lament.
The discontent.

I am a communist,
A socialist.
The arsonist.

I am the dillatante
That people want.
An idiot savante.

I am machizmo,
Pure libido,
A dildo.

I am a narcissist,
A nihilist.
Depressed.

More So

The ankle-high grass is a softer sand between their toes.

He wears white and she a brighter shade of red.

To her, as he expounds, his words are a plainer song
That he sings beneath the shadows of blacker clouds.

They can hear the river from here, but they cannot
See it.

To himself, he thinks her hair seems longer as he presses
The strands between his fingertips.

An infinitesimally small gap closes
Violently.

Trees rise higher around them.
The very chill of the air is sustenance.

She struggles not to imagine him
More so a hulking devil trying to
Disguise himself.

And passing that moment of first
Humble embrace on the unfurling
Trail:

He strains to not relate her more so
To a razor in silk.

Untitled

She has a waterpistol tattooed at the top of her hip

like a cum-target.

But I'm always overshooting.

I was aiming for her heart

when I came on her tits.

Running my hand through her hair

a hank falls out like

strands of her beauty in my hand.

Disgusted

I hit her in the nose with the hard part of my

forehead

until she told me to stop.

She didn't cry but she bled a lot,

Peering at me out of two perfect round sapphires.

And I even admired the way

that she ran away.