About stupid

I painted you
sacred,
Despite the hollow
Pocs and voids
you’re made of,
I shadowed you
In grace
But a devil is still
Filth beneath
White
Lace

Hand me down

Ornate paper ships
Are lovely in the
Half-light,
Whimsical, sheer
Simplicity,
As significant as
Melting ice, like
Counting snowflakes,
They dissolve before
The dawn.

A daisy and the primrose

A glass jar of daisies
Waits,
They are humble,
And not the wild
Orchids you dream
Of,
They are plain,
They will never be
The prim
Rose

Drained

You only thought
The fruit was good
Because
Someone told you
It was,
Before that,
You spat half-chewed
Comments between
Peels and pits,
You don’t know
What’s funny
Or the value of
Hope
Despite stonewalls,
You are silly, palpable
Puty, the product
Of electronic
Relationships,
Mindless

Dolce

A captured verse
Of an old lullaby,
I thought I heard you
Humming,
Was that love stirring
Your wanderlust,
Evening eyes
Or the smoky smolder
Of lust?
Do you think
I will not bite
The red ripe skin
Inside your lips,
Savoring
The way sections
Of a blood orange
Feel between my teeth?

Number 9

An unripe nerve
Bright green,
Burnless or worse,
Empty white space,
Dim,
Tripped outlet
Blown fuse, a
Void

Humid nights

With the same teeth you bite
Forbidden flesh
You demand unfettered
Loyalty,
Bit by piece;
All of me,
Your Oracle eyes
Are steeped and
Murky,
Disturbed, I look
So fragile
In them

Cardboard houses

Two hundred and twenty two trips
To the furthest corner
And around again
With mildewed books
Cracked dishes and
Christmas things,
The trees all grow
Toward the sun,
Rents come due
Wedding bells
Sound and the rain
Still falls,
My tattered bags
Are fraying

Dividend

I wasn’t coy,
Dry or insidious
Enough,
I grew sea sick
From the constant
Stroking,
Numb from
The curt goodbyes
That were doors left
Open and dropped
Calls,
The symptoms of second
Best

The grieving

Her life would have been
More remarkable
Had she not
Rewritten her eulogy
Each night before
The witching moon,
Had she flown
Summers sooner,
And kept a still
Tongue,
Her death,
The slow dredge
Of a famished herd,
The dragged breaths
Are sacs of water
Struggled back
To camp,
She was always empty,
A vacant hotel,
No place like
Home