Scholar Chemist.

Scholar Chemist.

one.

he is a scholar chemist.

plying the spray-painted suns
that seeped into my spunge-brain.
iller ones,
scaffold-dreams,
lulling at length my diluted soul--
cluttering, gland by gland, the corners
of forwarded rationale
alongside my eel river veins.

every day towards nothing and everything
i descend a step-- loading the
polluted stories i murmur to myself with his
involuntary florescence and nebulae-eyes.

[the absurdity. the error.]

i continue to re-embroider the accolades
i have offered up to him.
continue to be the vagrant--
nourishing a flesh vermin;
oh, the loom of a spirit uninhabitable.
a tinder between threads, reinforced
with the roots of my own hairs,
apparatus weaving tinsel over and in.

two.

i had once believed that giving myself fatly
to my confessions in the
blackbird of night
would slickly loosen my eye joints;
let them mason into movement a newer
pair of hands who could tell the tales
of a heart that lengthened-longs.

yet that blackbird always flee-flies.

so, the regret has become a loosened thing.
hinge-like, ebbing and regurgitating.
do i return cheerfully to a bosom of hope?
do i fly, and work my own clandestine
pair of weepy, festering, boil-born wings?

[the situation. the antiquity.]

three.

anomalies.
anonymous animal animus.
an angelus of debauchery and guilt
severs the cord, the tendon, which
tethered me to hours i know i needed
but knew i did not want to need.

i lust for an immunity to this--
to this world;
an anodyne, a tincture,
a shroud to absorb arteries of it,
a cross to award a transfiguration
into a universe that, perhaps,
i perceive to be limited
just like his will for more of truth
that pales against his will for more of me.

four.

i cannot heal, yet.
i cannot shed my demons,
for they are helping me
construct my stairway to the heaven
the sky
the deliverance
that is him.

five.

and i welcomed his quiethush rape of my
abdomen and chest
with a strength anew; my vice
uglier, yawning wide flush with a mouth
that screamed
become me.
become me.

and then there is a wizardry of perfection
within his faces,
all facets of a menagerie possessing
delicate lip and claw, overtaking with rib-kisses
and lush gnaws on what lies
within my temples.

become me. then you will know.

he cannot hear it; he only hears
the flutter of breath on shells,
the ache of pulses in a neck against teeth,
the individual letters rather than what they become
when linked,
so unable to whorl them together.

six.

am I the prostitute, or is he?
we both sell ourselves to the sloth
and stomach-twisting ardor,
the canine appetite that hope
mechanically wields;
outer-cores wrenching with the desires
of each other, sired by cloak and
funhouse-mirror-swathed.

are we each others’ hemlock,
bearing the ironmongery that slowly
destroys us both?
he inseminates me with zeal, i in pain
bear his lofty seed.
it is a circle, we are a circle,
we are loop
without each other, we discontinue.

seven.

he is a scholar chemist

trafficking into me a fervor, a cover
of my spotty faults, finding charm in
my repugnant personas, finding the one
hair that did not net the sun,
feeding me with a finger-dipped cocktail

of grief and gratitude.