johnsonboy

If I write a love poem these days, it's not directed at any one woman. The same goes for this kind of thing:


Fit To Be Impaled

I want you all over the place
in all kinds of ways
I want your 'yes' and your 'no'
together
and later, if we talk, I want it all
hot,
running down my leg,

through the mouth like butterflies
whether speckled or dark,
all true.

I'll run you through.

Where is your heart? I'll see

Here's mine, on this side,
only blood and and a little flesh,
go and tear it out
like thatI want
the separation anyway.

I want
you to want
my smoking bones
my waterspouts, my flume.

and to gasp out the word 'fuck'
as I dally, as we fiddle, while I bloom.