Our mouths are our sets.
My teeth bucked an entrance,
your larynx gurgling the sap
like a drain full of Rebecca's hair -
we are repainted and toothed,
a storage room, a grime-machine,
full of slights fitted so tight
that not even speaking is emptying.
What could I say, except -
I do not want to see you anymore, little boystab!
I know what you are good for.
I will not lie with your hand in my gut;
You are shriveled at the womb
like a tree that fruits bigeyed and shoeless
(I never thought you were that pretty
anyway);
you can't bite off anything crisp and round -
it's all bolus with you, jellied and rolling
thick, against your gums,
against my tongue.
This is my family.
Here I slept, unmarked, in a hundred different beds.
Here I sat on the paunch of the couch, with my gluttonous love.
There isn't even furniture to remember us now.
See, we chose no props! We chose no real!
And then we tommygunned it gone,
fingers, metal and clamped, repentant to the shudder.
But they were never my fingers
and they were never my friends.
She self-enforces a temporary muteness.
A trick in which her tongue unroots from its dank cave.
A misshapen sea anemone out of its element
until she sends it back underwater to quietly undulate;
to swell, to lengthen, to regenerate...
When you struggled against her, she mistook
those death throes for pleasure. A cloying clam adorned
by filth-encrusted barnacles and poison glands
as you drowned in the moat of her throat.
Scratch that anemone. It was more
like baby eels forced through a funnel
into a small orifice. Or a venomous sea snake
insinuating itself between your lips, repeatedly
flicking that wet tongue like a salt lick instinct gone sinister.
You saw yourself pulling it out by the root, dripping.
You saw it writhing even after it was removed.
A trick in which she only pretended to be desirous
of your measured stylus strokes. You were nothing more
than a blot of punctuation at the end of a sinuous sentence.
She has enough black ink to spill herself, to be disastrous,
to gorge herself. Her dangling threads engorged into
pulsating tentacles. The suction cups engaged your hand
then elongated into fangs. Her triangular head became a messy tangle
of hissing snakes. She was nothing more than a vise grip slime case
seeking to envenom-ate. How does a lover suck that poison out?
