Poemflesh

The muse spills her student in incremental inky pulse points. The writer's thoughts nude on white paper, midnight cirles of O and more Os, soft and open. With black ribbons of intimate knowledge, Muse is killing her poet softly with her own pen, dippped in the inkwell of the mind. OneSingleImpresssion

* Summer Haiku

Clothed in green splendor
Fresh scent of cleanliness wakes
The sleeping rose bush

Cynthia

haikuheights

Transition

Eating red poppies
on their sheetless bed

her small clotting poems
pour down

into his open mouth

she once fed horses
stronger than this one

feeding them
is a silent art

almost like the best sex

a wordless asphyxiation of a small part of you
only to bloom more of you
unnameable

ONE

oOo

she
turns to
dust between

silken
fingers then
back together again

by
that velvet
voice in her

ear.

Dearest Diary:

It kind of hurts, but not enough to stop.
My flesh wants this, the knowing slit,
the raindrop of blood,its slow descent down my thigh.
So hard to control myself once I feel the first
trickle. And my rainsilver razor with her open
mouth: "again, somemore...just a little ".

Yeah, it kind of hurts, in an exquisite way.
My lips tremble, a tear falls from my eye like a fraternal
twin to the tear running down my thigh. I'm already
plotting my next time.

me

ThreeWords

Tip-Toe Here, Babe

His angst-filled tip-toe manifesto
Has rendered me to tears.
Makes me want to conquer all his fears.
With our souls laid out: temporary and

bare, we must love each other hairbreath slow.

I'm a heretic when in love, with an
acute separation of power and need -
give me just the right word and

I'll water your emotional seed.

Love me
while I'm loving you
Taste me
tip-toe inside my history

and I'll treat your theory as a life-long discovery.


Cynthia

Ode to a Melancholy Lover

I want to light into your beauty
and swallow the pain, forever
present in your veiled eyes

Cynthia