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

the golden goose skips the page
-conjunction ripe with verbose poets
at the tip of every would be ink dipped
feather light 
brick,
that lifts his neck
with the sexual dialect of third person
narrative-

disillusion:
the gift of flight for featherless
rejects,
that don’t even carry the pens
they’ve been said to scribble
the drunken rants of starving artists
across the sunsets with;

you were really a paper tiger all along
-siberian adjective draped in the nouns
that slid down the soggy cheeks
of opaque pages written in past lives 
through tears by better name:
alcohol;

and as those stripes wash away
from the tiger’s back,
his noun held hostage by slang
triggers 
fired like broken bones
at sticks and stones shaped like denial,
his beloved labels race against 
running finish lines
as they melt away before every finally stride
-and that final mark of identity
fades into new age jabber, 
and he can’t tell if its positive or not to be left 
a plain old, ordinary,
pussy.

run, run on kitty catastrophe
-the denumonte is just around the margin,
before the indentation 
that makes these writer’s blocks less than perfect,
despite thier beautiful structures
that are metaphormed with the source
of your stumbling paws.

keep running paper tiger..
keep chasing the foot note
as the fingers of bitter creators
pinch awake
every dream you could ever have
to make their own-
thier, there, here, i
am so sorry paper tiger-

this story has grown boring;

better yet than happy, 
is the death of a hero for an ending-

keep fighting for your write to live
and i’ll write every twisted turn
that you think you’ve earned
below that wasted piece of paper you call home.

art is the red root of death
that fed the leaves that turned into your roof
before the fibers of your very being
bound into a noose,
that dangled your life story
off the limbs of a rotting poet tree
before your eyes stared into my bark,
waiting for a heart in the crooked eye of conclusion… 

sorry paper tiger-
i’m great with words,
but better with lines.

the end.

our mangled bumpers
twisted grills and love of speed-
it may be two fast.
the breaks did not work
-no turn signals, switching lanes;
burning rubber.
horns blur to sirens;
your steel cage womb becomes tomb;
we were almost (t)here.
i’m almost neutral,
but way two automatic
-as i popped her clutch;
rubber split around my gasp
-and transmission falls.