Prose

for Rael

I would like to meet people who lack depravity and gravity. This crowd is so wickedly static. And I will surely burn in the heap with the rest, unless I go alone. But this girl unfurls her curls, like chains, and my cries of elated disdain resound as I'm bound down. She laughs at me, as I reel in knotted steel. Tension spreads across us like the dissemination of her redwine tears across the wet cement. We hide knelt beneath a street light. The moon beams white indignation upon us. We cannot see the stars. Tar catches at her heels as she leaves me in the rain, to breathe.
And she will die in Estonia.
And I will die in America.

Was it the Lover or the Beloved...

Was it the lover or the beloved,
who was pimped by
the simple logic of his hand up the lady puppets skirt.
As his fingers parted her lips she spoke:

"The heat passing these moments
burns and turns the furnace
where passion was fashioned,
in steam, by the friction between
two afflicted souls"

With that he took his hand from her skirt and ran it the length of her legs.
"I'ld like to stoke that factory fire with dynamite kegs."

She pretended this offends her,
so he might've lent her
moments romantic leisure.
These he couldn't render.
So her Tuesdays love letter
was marked return to sender.