Every time her hands began to stutter he became enraged. She threw these fits sometimes, and he never took the time of understand what they meant. Her words were wasted on him. Her hands useless birds caged by their quietness, and he would immobilize them, tying her wrists together so they'd jump like awkward fish, gasping at the shock of air. Un-heard they'd dance like that for hours, her eyes full of silent desperation, on the other side of the closet door. He never even knew what they were
saying. I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here! I want to fly from here!
Infatuation is a strange thing.
A bony creature thin with feeding on itself.
It is addicted not to its subject, but to its own vain hunger
And needs but a pretty face to fuel its rampant imagination.
It's humid couch and sweaty palms.
It's fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest.
But when conquering is complete,
the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted.
Disappointed even to the point of disgust
with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk,
emptied of its precious cargo
and left to fade like defeated naval ships.
A seed relieved of its transparent husk,
to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue.
There is a pretty girl
of the magazine
all I see
is my dirty
turning the page
Little breasts attached to
skinny ribs and hungry bellies
a greater threat to herself
than the cigarette
Taking The Slave
Burn her eyes, without hope of understanding them.
Kiss her mouth, that you may fathom its strange tongue.
Indulge in her brown skin because it reminds you of mother.
Rape her mind, because it is not your own,
but so sweet, so familiar.
Like coming home to a native land
your pale and inbred hands can only faintly fathom.