Find some truth, when the sun stops
When the last letter burns; A scar on the flesh of your inner thigh,
a sickness of time.
Flailing but soft and ribs under skin.
Attenuated and flush against ice under water -
Collapsed into itself and fed with colors and selfless fading rage.
Absolved after a liturgy of names and of dread.
Of unfocused momentum and a hidden and stifled cry.
Blown out like surf or a candle,
a light bulb a curse or a mind.
She holds on to each side of my face in the palms of her hands.
She tells me that that is enough, that this touch,
will not slip and not fall,
not turn from smile to snarl to water.
She is a porcelain flinch spattered warm soaked corpulent.
While the wind hisses in the night, mistakes harder than that to see.
Harder then than the points in her skull that flutter and grasp and creep.
Darker shades and a stretching reach; Tart and sharp behind her teeth and so bright
Red into a hallway and a fall.
A moment for us to press against our cheek,
a plate for us to hold it to.
To see her;
An angel of dissolution!
Warmth and comfort, solace and weight
And she’s so far less beautiful than the her that I had conceived;
My own memory a scratched cup,
a bent fork.
Each millimeter of skin
it’s own unique flaw coming together and
not making a whole but more pieces.
(Vision stabs into my mind
and I close my eyes
That makes it heat and noise, oblique.)
Fleshy and pallid like a clockwork moon
and I do want her,
Want to eat from her
Lick the life from her fingers
so real and so far away
Paul writes poetry (thought he had given that up to make more time for masturbation? Not true! He is using TIME MANAGEMENT SKILLS.)