cultural infidel

Last night
I wrote a letter
Not a love letter;
salutation and small talk and signature,
so cliché
and typical.

C’est la vie.

bee

remember how i stroked the bee that hovered
over the bones of your wrists, and felt your strength
in that ink and epidermal kiss?

and how you stung, and tore out my guts.
swelled my belly with your farewell,
my baby larva, my honeybee.
born without your spirals and swirls,
but with your eyes
and your dark dusting of curls.

sin

raucous, moonlit laughter
hidden beneath
a stone ledge.
the greenery shades
our drunken haze.
but adam's nowhere
to be seen
in paradise.
serpent
lips tried
to find my cheek.
he corners me,
before we leave,
takes me, ominously;
and his hand slides past
my waist
to rest upon
another place.
where's the birthday girl?

for once
it wasn't me...

now

this is it,
can you feel it?

I think you do.

jesus bling

What could be better than "The Last Supper" bling?
One of my kids let me borrow his bling for a kodak moment. They were criticizing my lack of accessories- and in moments, all was right with the world and I was adorned with the Jesus bling. It's kinda like being King for a day. Jesus Bling is way more badass than a crown of thorns. my disciples are way more bad ass too.
anyways....

my brain is fried and my writing has been absolute shit lately. bollocks. all these random lines in my head and not a damn one of them has materialized into anything decent. it's just not happening. I need to write more or I'm going to implode...

the sweetest sin

You pray that jesus will visit me,
and help me to save myself
from abomination


I laugh...

my bed covers are tossed like confetti
a naked woman lay asleep in my bed,
spent
empty beer bottles, an exhausted bag of weed
and a myriad of clothing
artistically adorn the room
like an interior designer
who makes their living
stuffing silk flowers
in "genuine" crystal vases

is there really enough of my
sex-starved body left for Him to pull
from the pool of indulgence?
what, with it being so overfed with sin
binging on the touch of a
woman's hand, fingers...
lips
and the sweet taste that lingers on my tongue...


breasts touch breasts
the shape of a heart
draws itself in the space separating
racing organ from
racing organ
blue veins, red arteries
bursting like over-ripened
strawberries at the mercy
of her fingertips

necks arching elegantly
from cotton clouds of
sweat and estrogen

we were both as beautiful
as Cleopatra when our eyes
met those opposite