Hears to the Mute

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.

her shotguns barrels wore that tinted iris
like a velvet exhale,
loaded questions – fired guesses;
her gaze was the suicide marriage
in the distant veil 
beyond the dead man’s grave.

back hands in reverse – even worse poker faces.
they made love in a house of card
hearts and shitty whisperers on windy days
-they made lust in a house of card
sharks and falling spades 
swollowing every papercut, he made
her concieve the abortion
of his rotten egg.

before she batted bullets
there’s was the soul that folded;
before he shot his mouth off;
the day irony went and pulled it.

the cloud went spoiled and shit it’s tar ridden lining
across the wedding bells and ivory sighs.
the bride dined on rape 
as the honey-moon grew full of ego.
she reached for stars
to help her find her way to heaven
but they were too dim to light a blackening wife.

her eyelids pinched his filthy stare so tight
that when her eyes split the terror blind
rubies rained from down her eyes…
and spilled down into
her decaying chest
-to form a rosary between her breasts.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies.

picked every shard of fragility up
and made an art of plots to kill
-benieth the miniscus of what use to be a heart
shaped vase 
she watched his face eat the sun she couldn’t save
as the blisters start to raise!

guilty murder, filthy burners
-faulty eyes killed a husband dead without a quarter
to guide his slut wide eyes.

her skeletons wore whiskey bottles for slippers
as hollow ribs sang like wind chimes;
while they tip-toed through alcohol wishes
and panting land mines
to find their way back in to her closet.

she never hurt a man,
but she murdered flies, she murdered rats
she never hurt a man,
she never met a boy-
who could look into her eyes
without collapse.