Real Love

I want to rip you open and climb inside

I want to grab a tit in each hand
      sink my teeth into the flesh between

I want my teeth chip on your breastbone
      tear you apart and put you on like a suit

I want your flesh to close all around me
      discover gills, breathe sanguineous

Because your words are nothing, just vomit and pre-shit that you shove into my ears. I want to plunge my head into your liver, your intestines; I want bile to spill into my ears. Your words are useless unless I can get them where they come from, from the shit of you. What your heart feels is nothing unless I can feel it too, unless I can wrap my fist around its beating and squeeze every drop from it, stain my teeth with it. I want your blood to cake under my fingernails. What you tell me is in there is nothing unless I can find it for myself. I want finger-fuck your ventricles. I want to rub your aorta like a clit. I want to fist your heart. I want you to cum blood.


This is real intimacy

snotting in your lungs
      pissing in your belly
            knowing what it feels like when you shit

Intimacy is fucking you from the inside out

Your body, your words, your love is nothing

unless I can hatch from you like an egg
      a ruined vessel
            drip with the afterbirth of your insides
      and lick you off my lips

Real Love is breaking you into pieces and smashing what’s left of you beneath my feet

Itchy Linguist

sorrows by the lisp, waspily, chooses stress

as a means to get through this stenciling

of unpredictability. Every theory cringes,

trembles behind the viewing glass.

Pardoning my cough executes the edict

of let’s ensue. A favorable weathering makes

her a churchly and flourishing nation state, bustle

then bust. She harvests the headstones of dead

languages. She flapjacks onto an onionish stack,

can’t tell papery film from inner layers, epigraphs

from their epicenters. Borrows the auditorium’s

echo, won’t give it back. More chandelier than

me, whistling a nervous gleam. I scrawl her words,

siphon their hiving syntax. Outside, the thrushes

no longer chirrup, bandaged to branches or tangled

in stonewalling, struck by their collective

coverage of grubs. She smacks the back of my head

with twiggy logic. It scratches thick, a foreign tongue

borrowed and fumbling. Thus a feather ruffled is

an announcement, a sound, an erstwhile accent.

okay hopefully jeff can come back and fix this if i mess it up again.
i am planning on finishing this to put into my packet, but it needs some real finishing. i feel as though it still needs another stanza, between the 3rd and 4th, mostly so i can get away with the last two lines of the poem and whatever is going on in the second because i don't think i've dealt with that appropriately yet. i would appreciate your thoughts.com.
thank you,

House on the hill

Long after you,
I slipped into the house
with keys of matted twig.

It nestled
& I knew the train would come.
The engine that moved
under your voice & I a mouth
buckled, it never pronounced.

Clouds molted.
The tracks behind the house
stretched under the train
and shrunk back.
Dust sifted
& plumed as my fingers
wandered sills, jams
into the yard.

I fell to your palms
& they held
the long beat of night
when it was birdless.