Hears to the Mute

he rolls his tongue like a bullwhip
through the grooves of her curling spine-
her toes crumple 
-eyes sea red
as an ocean coughs up the moans
from the agony she wore between her legs
to fill the sky
for another son-set
aside.

jigsaw stares 
and his jaw bare-

she shows her teeth
-her pearly off-whites
to the giant negro of her eye:
the midnight sky.

they spit civil rights 
into latex resevoir tips-
hate crimes with sheets and slipknots 
parade across the bedroom floor
with the promise of a kiss.

she grips his nappy head
and lifts the veil between her legs-
his fingernails flee the scene
and rape the gashes on her inner thighs;

the bed gives out-
the blood for her to curdle
in scream ripe enough 
to dare and dream!

her eye’s roll back; the room fades to black
and blue hats with filthy voyeurs on their minds
grip their pants in anticipation-

it’s not snuff, it’s just enough!

his hips ride the Amastad between puddles
of blood, lust, cum, and whiskey trade
as one last thrust drives through 
her underground, and rides her tracks until the two rails meet
at the same place to a difference destination-
and the blareing sirens rip through her throat
as the air horn rides the crooked sound waves like a prostitute
and the blue hats bare the badges
of their guilt as the zippers split, foundation rots
and jaws all drop as they witness
the climax of two trains of thought!

her eyes rip open her own eyelids and suck the flames
of his forrest fire-
as her neck gets caught in her tethered wrists!
as she bites at the open air for a taste of 
breath;
and her sulfer ridden eyes swollow the opaque
glimpse of that rusted cross- 
covering its eyes
above her bed!

he pulls his shackles and eats her lashes
as her eyes bat burning desire-
glistening in the reflection 
of that crosses blistering ashes.

the hate in this lust
could fracture all of us!

he hand slips from his head-
holding his last straws in the air like a trophy
as his tethers tighten and her lips turn blue!

the blue hats sit on hind legs
with saliva dripping off their fangs
onto those curiously shaped billy clubs and batons-
they’ve been waiting for their chance all along

.. even voyeurs like a happy ending.

her eyes roll back on last time
-the sky turns black and the stars burn out,
his hands go limp and her legs walk away 
from where they locked mandibles
for that walk along his spine..

the wolves throw their blue hats,
as the sheets blow through the air
while the billy clubs accept new members-
the streets fracture, the curbs grow cold
-the backs of buses explode!
the wolves, worked up so sexual
race the clock beneath the sheets!

until, it all.. stops.

the sheet grows still-
the stench spills from out of the covers
like fire hoses-
subtle grins form in the silhouette of this climax..

the blue hats brushed under the mangled bed frame,
with the sheets worn like a badge of honor
-one with out serial numbers or the idiocy of selflessness.
the wolves don’t wear thier sheep skin anymore-
only the voyeurs coat of arms;

the thought of more sex- or, 
sexier,
weighing heavy on the mind.

(haiku)

gonna kill myself
this isn’t a metaphor
i’m dead serious.

-atti

last time i wrote a poem
the sink spit me up,
while my belt loops sat alone,
waiting for the notches around my throat
to let go.

the footnotes at the bottom of my heart
beat more readily,
than the body of my work.

i used to think it was poetry
-before the lines turned themselves into a noose
and haiku’s that read like bullet points
started to back fire, 
through the backsides of a few ambiguous
water lines, 
that were just shallow enough
for me to try and drown myself in.

i used to think it was a pen
-before it made a better weapon.

a few metaphors and three broken women later-
this isn’t poetry,
it’s a battle cry 
that started as tears and went to war with itself,
and never realized the field 
was never actually a place to step-
but who knew hearts could eat tread just as easily.

everyone wants their signature poem
-it’s supposed to mean i love you;
but this poets love stinks like lust
behind red-rose revolvers that get used like crutch. 

one too many rest their heads 
on my barrel of monkeys from your back
fired into the last place you’d expect
to be dead.

i used to call this art,
because i didn’t see pain it made.
my own splinter ridden veins where the page
like a mask without the eye holes
to see who they bump in to. 
this depression wasn’t meant for display,
but the day my scars stumbled into your arm
you wore them like the neglect
to which you had always set the stage.

search my poems for your answers
-because i don’t have them.

i used to think i was cutting my own wrists
with the margin of this half finished poem,
until i watched you bleed
-and assumed you knew what to do
if you had the will to reed.

still writing
-i’ll take your life away,
while reaching for your breath.
these poems aren’t made for praise;
they only frame regret.

i’m the martyr of my every word,
followed by myself as the rope tightens
before a crowed town of my own emotions-
each one standing as its own person.

it was all for me,
until i started to see the strangers 
scattered across the executioners veil.
it was all for me,
until a few decided to watch-
and they didn’t enjoy my death
as much as i did
-because the parts of themselves they had put in me,
swallowed the axe much slower
than i really took the blade.

that broken heart doesn’t entertain you
the same as it does the reader,
but i still write it into the story
because this isn’t poetry, it’s the overly dramatic truth.
so keep reading until your stanza ends,
and the next begins with another name-
and you can’t enjoy the read again,
if the last poem hasn’t already pushed you away.

so, ask me to write you a poem,
and i’ll slit my wrists and dedicate it to you
-because i don’t write poetry,
i kill off pieces of myself, for myself,
regardless of the voyeurs 
with hands over their eyes
watching through the gaps between their guilty fingers.

don’t ask me to write you a poem,
because i’m running out of pieces to kill;
don’t ask me to write you a poem,
because i never will;

this isn’t poetry.

Life’s beauty is only achieved by Tasting a Death.
So I Kiss the Blade’s Unforgiving Lips to Acquire its Taste.
Yet, when does the Taste classify as a Hunger?
A Cutter? No… I Dance Reality only for Progression.
Or, am I a Glutton? N- no not me, Never That.

I’m a Victim, Y- yes, I’m Attacked.
Grip the Razor Blade and attempt to Fend it Off.
But in the struggle his Personality Rips at my emotions.
In Tears; He breaks my spirit…but he Doesn’t Mean It.
Honestly, He Loves Me! That’s Why He Wishes To Help.

“I’m Sorry, Let Me Kiss It And Make It Better” 

I- I feel his Compassion. He’s is True.
Like a mother he tends to my Emotional Wounds.
As his fingers Rub Divinely along my Wrist, He Cries.
I watch the Tears poor down his face, and I ask “Why?”
My Lover grins at me as I wipe away his Tears.
I smile vibrantly as I know the intention… Love.
But I’m so tired. So I lift him from me as again he Cries.
I wish so that I could Please Him, but I’m-I’m So Tired.

I gazed at him; Teeth Salivating with a Metallic Stare.
As he overpowered me, “STOP IT!”
I scream at him to stop, Why Isn’t He Listening!?!
This Isn’t Love Anymore, This Is Hate… This Is Lust.
This Is-This Is Sin. As Innocence Hurls Itself,
It kisses my eyes good-bye, I’ve left it no choice.
The Blade Tares continuously at my Veins,
Raping away my every Metaphysical Being.
Its not the Physical Pain, it’s the Distrust. The Force.
I know longer know him. He is a Stranger.

As he finishes, he gives a Last Kiss before I fall.

Faint and Pale I stumble to the Mirror…
Only to find that Death’s Beauty,
resides only within the Mind Of The Killer.

*Grins… Looking over his Masterpiece*