A Storm

My vessel crashes thick upon these undulating waves

Gray and salty with tumultuous intent

I spy your lighthouse through the kaleidoscopic mess of my looking glass

The direction your beacon points scattered in the briny fog

My hands slip and crack on splintered wood and fraying rope

The prow of my vessel draws ever closer

To the jagged skerries beneath your lighthouse walls

Looming blue and white and beautiful with arabesques

I can still smell your perfume through this brackish haze

It mixes with the salt into some ambiguous alchemy, obscuring want

Thick upon a leaden compass skewed

By the precarious lodestone locked behind your eyes

The Lightning from Your Lips

I want to kiss the lightning from your lips

Feel the thunder of this storm crash into our abdomens

Leave a giant purple stain across my ego

In a shade more endearing than the gray before

Necrotic with the marks of countless fingernail regrets

Put to rest upon my wan moonlight bed

And slide fingers into the vortex of your pleasure

Pull the orgasm of your eyes down into your belly

Warm, soft, and supple as the stars it shines

My appendages cold and rough with calluses of want

With a pink afterglow I pull away and rest my head

Light with the airs of contentment thick upon my brow

As I slip upon you, a figure ivory, carved and marble

As soft as the finest Chinese silk brought across long roads

By the Sound of God

And this is the sound of god touching

The sky of your mind with his fists, cracking

“Who are you? Where did you come from? Where are you going?”

The synthesizer of your soul, detuned

Oscillating, faster, rapid back and forth till the tears

Questions every man is asked not only by himself

In the fabric wrapped gray and still around your head

Shrouded in a mystery of tobacco leaves and desiccated fish

There is a place the thunder will not touch

Beside your bed in the drawer where you keep

Your dull vibrator and bright pink dildo

But also by the Department of Homeland Security