My love,
You love the fruit of my vines
The sweet intoxication – blood huéd wine
I produce without soil amidst buttes and scarred rocks
With just want, will, and worry from what I have not

To give,
I do, no thoughts weary mine
Rock-dented dour brow which seethes with sublime
Liquor; I languor, but to you I taste sweet
Then consume from my rib the last of my meat

Now ragged, rapéd bones do pierce my side
Through eyes bursted bled blood clots, I see the divine
Who loves the new vintage, the seed from my hand
Placed in the soil my love never planted.

A Black Tinted Sunset

Sometimes, I’m not sure
That I love you
But I hope that I do
I know that I think too much
That I get hurt with every slip
Of your forked words
But I’m so sensitive to you

Before, when I met you
I was entranced
With that first glance
Then in two years time
In a field of suns it happened
That you were mine
Still I’m so scared of you

Now, may I have you
Completely at home
In my new home
I’ve built these walls just for you
Each picture I’ve hung
All store-bought new
So I hope you love me, too

A Word with You

When will these words become my own
I’m too far gone from my home
To know just what to say to you
But I know I will soon

And when will my dreams turn out right
I spent so long in bed with you tonight
That I forgot to dream about you
But I know I will soon 

As I woke this morning I called your name
But to my side was an empty place
In vain I reached for you 
But you left far too soon

So now I sit with this book in hand
In hopes of explaining my left hand
How I want to tell you it’s you
My love, it’s you

To Tongues

Where from have I borrowed this tongue
To entreat this love of mine
To bed with me and dine with me
To spend with all her time

How do I use this foreign muse
In delicate distress
To code morphemes to deep meanings
My own tongue not express

Must I look to crafty crooks
To steal which words divine
A promised word for her favour
That only she be mine

(So) I rest not, want not, just I speak
The few words that I know

A Din with Devils

tonight i sit with the devils
sipping fire, quenching their forked tongues
entertaining them, complaining to them about them
futility in reality, but what am i
if not optimistic

we talk of abuse, the violence of language
the Beatles, Cannibal Corpse, and Charlie Parker in between
slithered words and back-eyed jabs
reaching for the soft spots of each other’s hyprocrisy
our hidden violence

how the abused slank into the corner
eyes red-shot, bourbon bruised, wistful, demure
in the presence of these devils, their slithering words
we whittle the while
still awhile

and i talk to the devils, each inch of my tongue
splits – separates, forming an emptiness
the middle less meat where my niceties explain
the devil i once was
is the devil each became