a new castle

I long
to leave
this childhood
bed.
this bed
is best
built
for one,
and I'd
rather sleep
by my man's
side;
someone to
lie beside.

I wish
to swap
this teddy
for more sturdy
arms,
and this faux
fur
for the swirled
black body hair
of a body guard
to guard bad dreams
and loosen my pajama's
seams during
thunderstorms.

I want a
bed built
for doubles
and adult sheets
to toss between
while we whisper
love sincerely
beneath down feather
blankets
feathering your fingers
through my hair.

I hold bated breath
for breakfast
in my double bed
of scrambled eggs
and buttered toast
we toast this space
our own
and only
when we are alone
we salute this slumber
palace
as our place.

anatomy of the universe

I am your
crotch rocket;
you,
my astronaut.

let's
play space
as we speed
away
towards
stellar
blackness
and
sex
amongst the
stars.
this universe
is ours,
a glittering
salted canvas,
art
of infinite.
small
inside
swirled
layers of
cerulean dust
you steer us,
and I fly
as your ride
while
you explore
my
dark
galaxies
and find
with pride
a solar system
for you
to stroke.
set off
to the sun
just as
we run out
of gas
you expel your
milky way.

dad didn't buy that

gold and silver gifts
from strange guys
glitter
across your fingers.
you wave them as I wonder
where the hell those hands have
been.

do you cuddle
with
the cocks
of new dudes
as our
familial
glue
flounders?

what else
has touched
the guilt-ridden
dinner you've just prepared?
you peel our potatoes
wet
in your starched hands;
holding them gingerly
as you think of the other man.

even your clothes
don't smell like dad's cologne
after a
(now long gone)
goodbye kiss.
no
I love yous,
we've all been dismissed,
and now
you've gone from Mrs.
to Miss.

I
cringe
to share your kiss
with
him:
a picture of
lipsticked lips
stacked around
his dick
swallows
thick
in my throat.

I vote
you put
those hands
back in both
pockets.
please go
sparkle
for
someone else.

an empty room

discos spin silvery
mirrors across my skin,
symmetrical in their dance,
I'm hypnotized again.

I dance in darkness
to forget me,
the things I can't be,
and to shrug off gravity.
these worries weighing
in constant rotation
seem to stand in line
to be forgotten.

lipstick smears across my cheek
and sweat seeps down to the
pit
of my knees
while I pretend no one
can see.
I've cocoon myself
inside my music
with nothing
but these discofireflies
to remind me
of life outside

half-masticated

my father was taken
from me
too easily.
a soul once so loved
was plucked
from us,
still standing,
rapid as a rug.

it was citrus season
when it happened.
his coma left him
with a comma between my first
father and a frosty stranger.
dad's slumber softened in still freezing
february,
and he thirsted for oranges
only.
nurses promised fruit when
he could finally chew
properly.

I
too,
had to learn to chew
properly,
but even now
it is hard to swallow

modern medicine
marooned
him to an island
on his own where
he rarely
paddles back
with a visitor's
pass.

I've packed it
away
as best I can.
stacked in a suitcase
in my attic
of avoidance,
food for fruit flies
to fight for.
I've lost this war
and even oranges
have lost their allure

nature channel

the cottony curtains
exhale
fresh breath from
beyond glassed
windows
croaking
like widowed
frogs
wanting mates

and I sit to
appreciate
the ways
to bait you
into my bed.

propriety
and modesty
are dead
weight
when all
it takes
is
shaved legs
silken smiles
and brazen gazes
to burn ablaze
this pile of pillows.

say you will
oh, and we can dance
with our curtains
like slippery amphibians
until night becomes day again

garbage day is friday from what I've heard

I see your wicker
waste
paper basket is littered
with
broken bits
of condom boxes;
their white insides
don't quite hide
your two-timing
from me
or dad.
you hardly even
tried
to hustle the
hurriedly ripped
package
to the bottom of the trash
where we could at least
imagine
this isn't happening.

the Trojan helmet
glares in your garbage
and you are his horse
that snuck up on our house.
you kept this new men as yours
while you let them fuck you
on all fours

and we are still at home
forced to witness
whorish
empty boxes of once twenty-four.
one of many things you've
thrown away.