Four Words

Forgive me please, but do repeat what you’ve said while it’s fresh in your head—the way those consonants stretch—(quick!) before you forget.

Wait! There! That’s it! Just at the split of your lips—before your tongue gives to lisp—wherein that sweet sinful slip spins a crippling ellipse. A swell of strings sing ‘neath the pleats of my dress, which speeds what beats ‘neath my breast, until the song they suggest taps traces of wet. What wake that shape did make, conducting the way they phrase this endless refrain—and for the next several days I’m braced ‘neath the waist.

Creased of these sheets and half asleep, it seems to speak through me: this sweet symphony might simply be the sound of space between, conceived of where we meet. Might pure proximity then cease to restrict that which exists of such bliss, where that it rings of all things in strict consonance?

Bless we with breath lest we forget what you said to loose this noise in my head, for that in flesh unto death might we seamlessly blend. And should I pass away, I pray a tape be lain upon my grave, that these sweet remains may play that melody to set what’s left between these knees at ease.

Avenue of Trees

Oh, so young when first I fell to fawn, but now it’s four years on. And though slight, your shape belies the teenage tambour of your tongue. Face and frame, precious and plain, yet all such things one day succumb. You were ten as I turned twenty–one, but now it’s four years on.

Though liberties such as these scarcely trouble me.

Sweet, sweet weakness please! The way you tease [quatordici in spotty cheeks] favors me such strange relief from certain culpabilities, and renders scenes so indiscreet some day to which we’d seldom speak. So tender me this decency that stays thee safely out of reach.

“Scarcely half your age.”

All the sam—were it true—still there’s room for two inside of you.

But what’s come over me? Would I falter hapless in your fleur de lis, or the spare expanse beneath? Oh no, not me—so sickened to the teeth to see thee rendered free of hallowed modesties. But oh, that I could be among those fresh and fair–faced thieves that stand to seize your sun—bleached symmetries. And piece by piece, these brief eventualities would reap of thee, in feats flung far from m—who’d treat you tenderly (until we cease to be).


Sick then with pride, now scarcely recognized. And I felt his size close to a dozen times. His legs gave way like pages from a pop–up book—and I had to look.

Though presently unsure I was the very first one, what arrogance it gave me at the time. You swore to me before we kissed you’d never breathe a word of this, and I was satisfied.

Time cast aside, I held all your hopes as mine. And so what if Heavens collide? We all pass our primes in time. The fates subtract as legs divide, you came of age in quartered time, and I was mortified.

GUT Symmetries

One score and five: eyes wide, and blind now with fright. And your freckled pride bright white in this merciless light. Held tight to rise, entwined, and I in recline; your thighs inside mine, I realize we’ve no time to hide. So what wondering eyes might pry at the switch of this light? But much to my surprise, the brightness subsides before I catch sight.

How can you approach those throes in clothes your parents chose? As above, so below—or so have I been told. And though my age may show, no more so than that rose sewn in your underclothes: a joke, a callow hope. And should you choose to stay—or if, instead, you stray—I pray that either way, this nape lain chain remains in place.

One score and five: eyes wide, and sick with this fright. White lies aside, somehow surprised that I’ve missed my time. And yet, never–you–mind might my tide rise a little behind, for between you and I, I’d sooner die than live with this kick inside.

A Song For Ellie Greenwich

Pressed unto us, flesh still sickly sweet with scents of love. But lost of this lust, exactly what becomes of us? Just like me, they long to see you on your knees. But all these hes–into–shes irreparably slow these hopes we’ve sewn. And so we forgo what pleasantries we’ve grown to know.

Hand in glove, for lack of the words we called this love; but now they’ve cynical slurs to define what is was that we have done.

The tone that she chose shows mother knows what’s become of us. And if I start to show, well heaven knows, we’ll soon be sussed. False alarms—might I have meant to do you harm? For somehow, I’ve found much to distrust in what once ushered us through months of hurried hush.

Young Eucharists

Of all the tender, taut, and innocent sacraments I’ve tangled with—celibate, or seldom split; separate, as which was writ.

Chaste in desperate ways, and raised of fitful faiths; patience praised, and grace ordained, in face of these latter days. But what such traces must remain of a phase lately lain to waste? And what such fates we two betray, as your sacred legs gave way?

As sure as you are pure, my love: “a touch of blood, and so it’s done.” And though we spoke in tongues, my love, with words surely not sent from above.

All the slender, soft, and supplicant sacraments I’ve sinned against, as if in which I might relive your sanguine skin (or sins therein). Put prides and tithes aside if you must, but faith has nothing left for us. In stolen moments, such as this, by which I’ve placed my trust, but grace has no such place for us anymore.

As sure as they were pure, my love, I’ve chased of us in everyone. And though I know all things succumb, my love, what sanctifies my swollen sum but the tender, taut, and innocent, freckled flesh I’ve tampered with? Supped and split, or suffered through—who’d vainly take this place of you.


Was it trust which slew us? Was time unkind to us? Dust to dust to what once we knew. So severed—unfettered—yet tethered together forever, these weeks weaved we two. And who do you turn to when youth too eludes you? And red threads drew of us still slip through?

The Former

Engraved, appraised and upraised; so engaged you became. Displaced in haste and surname. Sir, her name hath claim lain. From thumb counts three, like clicked feet—efface we from memory. Unsure, unchaste, and waylaid—in vague ways— with what remains.

Impressed with pleasures of the flesh, and slept in beds you’d soon regret. He’s genuflect and pledged to death… though not whom you’d come to expect.

“As you kneel before him, love…”
“Through hopes, through harms I’ve dealt you…”
“…with spent affections on your tongue…
“…through borrowed arms you’ve clung to…”
“…Sunbed–skinned and lost of love…”
“…now helpless to remind you…”
“…as below, so too above…”
“…there’s room for two inside…”

You strive for happiness, I guess—though never blessed of much success. Wed two abreast, yet who’d suspect which strains still swell beneath your dress?

This Regrettable End

Might the strings swell again? Sound, then sadly descend? For to lend due respect this regrettable end? For I’ve slept with the best, as I’ve wept with the rest—ever–blessed with this sense some swift end might be met. Could those strings swell again, lest mine eyes well instead? For to lend bated breath, less this life that I’ve left?

Yet our song soldiers on, where each chord corresponds whom to all I’ve done wrong. Chest drawn of breath, throat red as fresh–stretched post–fuck flesh we’d both sooner forget. And yet strange successions remind: flush with desperate decline—certain prides thus obliged—I’ve resigned to this life. Rife with primes past behind, strains of wrasp–wearied rhyme, and no time to surmise all my wherefores and whys. Though I suppose—should it help to know—I’m oh so glad to go, what with woe–soaked underclothes.

And were that this the final phrase cast from these lovely lips, I pray, remember this: what once was wed with one’s past—though now no strings attached—for the lust (or its lack) just can’t help coming back. Well past reprieve we’ve reached; each creased of ceaseless griefs we’ve seen, save this one brief relief.