This is... Swan Vesta
Head on your hip while you read Brecht.
Doing anything else would be a waste of time.
This inclement June.
I nuzzle into your cotton.
My rib-cage slips under my skin from my breath.
My fingers sliding underneath the elasticated band
Of your ankle sock.
I might as well try to stop the birds in the trees
From singing as here and now stopping wanting you
"The curse of reincarnation
Is growing pains"
No more than a growl.
You say:
"Your monsters are like
all you have read are medieval texts.
Flowers grow crooked in angled sunsets"
I say: "Leave me to preying wolves"
You say: "Even when your empty skull is found,
I'll put my middle finger into your eye-socket and
I'll know you again."
"Writing is eroticism."
"Intimacy of writing in the ink I gave you"
I say: "I run a finger to a smear of wet ink
letters across the paper so I might place each
word on my tongue."
Your reclining whisper:
"It's like an indie girl taught you how to kiss"
Quote "One's freedom fighter, is another's terrorist"
I spat a lot of blood out
in the bathroom sink.
You say:
"When time turns flesh,
You can twist a knife in, really mean it,
And twine ourselves between its naked warmth"
I feel every moment
When you enter my head.
I say:
"Spending time with you is a fetish you sell.
Quote "What isn't Heaven is Hell, can't you tell?"
Our rib-cages slip under blood and flesh
When we breathe.
