Swan Vesta

This is... Swan Vesta

Lying between your legs.

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.