The Almighty

She told me:
Women like poetry where a man worships
her body.
We want to feel powerful.
irresistible,
and hot as hell.
We want to know
that you want us.

Two days later,
she broke up with me,

and I spent
the next four years
kneeling at the puffy pink altar
of femininity,
kissing the curves
they spread before me,
sucking,
swallowing,
singing the hymns
of their flesh,

trying to write poems
so vivid
you could taste the cream
leaking from their lips,

something to make all the women on Planet Earth
feel
like the goddesses
my ex convinced me
they were.

Whether or not
I succeeded,
however,

is not for
any
mere mortal
like me
to decide.

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Divine

I want to spread her
like a banquet
across the mattress,

part her legs
and snivel,
weep,
grovel
at the altar of her
womanhood,

peel it open
and taste the blood
of the lamb.

I want to be the
first man
to make her feel
holy.

She’s my little militant atheist,

but I want to show her
Heaven exists
inside,

and she can find it

if she simply
closes her eyes,
takes a deep breath,

and believes
in
Me.

Her Lips

They used to kiss me to sleep,

now
they’re out there
in some other darkened bedroom –
warm,
trembling,
painted red,
smudging against
some lucky bastard’s neck.

When I turn off the light
and try to sleep,
I hear them.

I pull the blankets over my head,
but that just makes them hum
louder.

Hold your breath
and listen carefully,
you’ll hear them, too –
murmuring,
gasping,
sighing
so
softly
you might mistake them
for the wind.

Alone With Yourself

Fingertips bleed
as you pound the keyboard,
purging yourself
of everything that stings,

but it’s not enough.

Treat one wound,
another fresh one opens,
spilling black blood
onto the buttons.

More words,
more shame,
more dreams
and desires
ejaculated
onto the page,

but it’s not enough.

It can never be
enough.

Art is the bandage,
not the cure.

You can write and masturbate
and write and
fuck,
you can quite caffeine,
eat more broccoli,
take a walk,
masturbate again,
write another poem,
and cry to your
therapist,

but it won’t
ever
be
enough,

and you know it.

Red

I sit at this keyboard
on a gray
January morning,
dreaming of a woman
whose face
I can’t see.

I want to lie naked with her
in silver moonlight,
legs tangled,
squeezed between sticky arms,
glued to her flesh with sweat
and grease,
pressed so close
I can taste the Cabernet
on her breath,
my stomach trembling against hers
while the stars hold their breath,
leering at us
through closed curtains.

I want to bite her earlobe,
ask her
if she likes poetry.

I want to show her
there’s more to it
than soft raindrops
and quiet meadows.

There’s blood,

hot
red
crackling
blood,

six and a ha;f inches
of it,

pulsing
for her.