When There is So Much Skin
It’s hard to write a poem when there is so much skin –
so I’ll breathe a line that sears against your reddening,
make you feel every restrained sonnet,
gushing diary entry,
crazed burning riot that I compose,
not for, but on each blood blister and irregular mole,
a haiku in spit for your thick hard dick.
Hold my face in your two hands, take no word for granted as I paint them
all over your body.
You become the words I dream about,
a stunningly subtle and potent language,
words un-graspable in daylight:
heavy like hungry or umber for the pendulous way your eyes glaze,
the ripening, juicy hanging of the air, like swimming through a thickening wine
all expectant tannins with the decaying fruits of our sopping lust.
I’m convulsing the poetry out,
exorcising each phoneme,
incanting syllables into your sex, your depth,
bruising them into you.
You fuck me with Shakespeare, the bible,
every word and each halting intake of breath –
little death, little death –
you break me against your silences,
our clothed sadomasochism
done in full rooms
with things we pretend to say to other people.
I language you,
huffing it from your ringing mouth.
I syntax and letters you,
wetly and so slowly
consonants give way to vowels,
I verb you! I verb you!
Intoning un-writable poems into the strange city night,
rhyme-less and wordless,
urgent like red and the wide of your eyes
as you tell me a story within a story
using just one word
over and over
it sounds like promise
it sounds like –