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.

this pornography gets me going
-with every clip
another falls and they’re only wearing skin
behind the bed of glass,
that acts as the covers 
they’re not actually under
-unless this picture of lust is so transparent
i really can see right through.

every touch
i pretend its us:

-that filthy voyeur,
with his eyelids rippling;
the climax to the film
never quite became
-enough to wrap his jaw around
the silver linings of cloud 9.
an arsonist is left in the dust
with under achieving passion
misleading
in to the palm
of slut.

their love tumbles off their backs
with the switch of a scene
-slap of disgust, nudge of a strap.
squirming in there, naked
-two sets of lips 
and a set of shriveling lungs
for each to bleed out of their mouths
as hollow screams seep through 
their pale white masks
in act one scene two-
the decieving of:
love. 

back against the walls
-between each translucent moan
the ceiling topples over her smirk
and the two of them fall.
in a split second moment
-you can read the script lines 
across her never open eyes
-until you hold
that brief second in disguise;

-not the originals given,
but her own revisions.
the screenplay she’s saving in her kisses
for the one who’ll listen.

between her broken flowers
and the stentch of winter midnights
-the bloom has died
and the tide has lost sight
of it’s guide within the moon
-so the waterline rises between her thighs
and he breaks her heart some more
with another quick disguise
-he read that script in her face
from the gut like an utter professional
of the upmost gutter 
with grace.

i’ll watch with one eye closed
and the other ignoring through my fingers
as i remember a better stage.

this pornography got me going
-the most beautiful moment
in the introductions of a pornography only.
i’ll watch the first five minutes
-where you can read the love
between the body lines 
of the passionately explicit,
before she gags on the editors notes
and coughs up the back hand 
of a directors dirty secret.

i watch five minute pornography
for six minutes at a time-
just enough to hear the subtle cries.
i watch five minute pornography
searching for love-
behind the hollywood that’s giving it up.

i loved you before you were trendy
.. before you wore alleyways 
on the topsides of your feet;

a filthy blonde
in argyle moral-
but before the floor made it yours
i remembered open sores.

you wear your designers like your long lost heart:
to someone elses beat.

the art in your face never used to be so abstract
-that dead canvas
only knows the eraser marks 
that didn’t take away 
the past.

.. provocateurs aren’t supposed to move,
so every tear you spit
in deaf ears 
adds another shaky stencil mark
to that crooked portrait you wear.

you’re your own fault.
-these backstrokes through your slate colored hair
only trace the gaping flaws
that were already there-
those flimsy stares and offwhite fears
will just keep fossilizing 
in that stone face, behind a logo
you hold so dear.

so keep crying
-beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and love is blind,
so lust just doesn’t try.

contemporary lovers laid to waste
-beneath the 21st centaur we’ve
not the color wheels to frame 
your oval maze.

you’re an ugly duckling 
all grown-down-
outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.

a face not even your own artist
could love.

you’re the doodles of Picasso
unripened in the after birth of Escher’s 
pale of rotten seeds;
a bad apple could still be painted
but you are the core that was 
given to me.

this vandalized heart
that beats in 3/4′s under stolen loops
on my contemporary walls-
is as hideous as the idea
you will ever be more than the downfall
of artistry-

those dirty stones,
so filled with indecency and lack of respect-
your grafitti glare in my bare-
you’re hideous;

you’re not art.