Poem: and we will think of you no further

why would i drag myself into something foolish such as the folds of your words, but not the trust of your body?
not the image of your body stabbing into my body,
or the funerals, i balanced books on my head for,
the look in your eye is no look,
there is nothing to fear but me.




and so i am telling a story again, in the breaking of the oceans, a rolling of a million tongues,
uttering the numerous murders of sailors, grecian cargo, they roam with lack of a skeleton,
lack of a pair of eyes, yet eventually, finding the sand, these waters reaching like a useless hand
a temporary stitch into the grains, slipping a kiss more like a bite,
this is how they will find you, that is how they will insert their might,
into
every opening, every good intention, every little excuse and creeping lie;

i remember drowning once, i am telling a story again,
i was not four years old, maybe five, with mile wide scar on hip, with purple coloured
and suckered lips,
and the light was pretty smiling,
and the fishes were swimming, swimming with me,
all the aquamarine
figurines were breathing, but i, with no escape of the punishment of lungs, and
myths of man, in the deepest of stomachs, swallowing the blood of christ
with no chance of a whimper, feet standing like pillars, feet among
the stillness of an unaltered season, forever, heavy with sea sick buds,
blasting, blooming, bleeding, on the bottom, we scraped together;

i am telling a story, of how i took his virginity in the bathtub, porcelian
has no face, no veins, but one smooth eyeball, no lid to shut it, a cyclops
with handles and uncomplicated machinery, no language but the scenery
of a leak, running and running through obstacle of foreign shapes
hair and grease and cells, eaten by the iris, its poor lousy gape
down fumbling, down strength,
down bible, down arms and mouths and legs:


the worst part of water is not how it evaporates, but how it always returns to itself.