Hands

I dream of hands
much like yours,
much like mine,
much like anything intertwined.
But much like dreams,
they disappear.
And when I wake up,
you're still not here.

Poetry Fix Part Deux

We fuck in silken sheets

We fuck in silken sheets,
Giorgio Armani.
Our money, not theirs.
The feathers inside your pillow are all dead
geese and fleece.
Please do not touch that.
You cannot afford it,
you cannot afford to fuck in these silken sheets
when your bed is not a bed
when your mosquitoes are fatter
and richer than you.
Nets won't keep them out.
Money will.
Because when you fuck in silken sheets,
you give birth to real deals that change
the color of your hair to golden brown.
French fried to a crisp
like newly minted bills.
Look how great it is to fuck
in silken sheets when down
below
they just get fucked.
Pity them who writhe in rooms
with no chandeliers.
No tinkling when your head hits
the board, when you scream.
There's nothing like fucking in silken sheets;
it's a dream. Don't open your eyes.
Not ever.

Poetry Fix Yay

I've decided to compile every piece of fiction/poetry I've posted all throughout the years. As a back-up, I'm going to post some of the more recent here.  These are for the 100 Loves Compilation.

Reflecting (9/15/11)

There are days that I'd like you to be a mirror. So that when I look at you, our longing is equal. When I reach out to you, our want is the same. And when I show you the concave swells of fat on my belly, you do not make it smaller. You let my scars stay where they are.

But there are days that I wouldn't like you to be a mirror. So that when I turn my back on you, you still face me. And when I tell you I love you, you don't just mouth the words.

Daydreaming (9/12/11)

To sleep perchance to dream

of him. Of us. Of the places

we have never been

but are.

Where everything is

what I think of.

He sits with me, and

we eat

whatever we want

whenever we want.

Where happiness is just

a mind’s turn away

from reality.

There is such a place

and there is none.

Fluff and clouds and blur and

coffee that we stir

forever. Never growing cold.

Never growing old.

Where there’s a heart;

it is shared, like two halves

of a bun.

One for you.

Won for me.

To sleep perchance to dream.

Of him.