different pens

like the lake laps at the shore

and stretches languid like a rug

thick and weighted on the surface,

I hope you are, up above,

with a weight of cloud to blanket

and cocoon your tired frame

even could be that you're dreaming!

in that new fantastic plane

have you swum laps through the sunset

have you found yourself some time?

is She beautiful as Her images

that walk this world of mine?

have they shown you round the stars

cut the veil with a knife?

is death a languid nothing

maybe just a second life

or maybe like a single story

written out with different pens

when one of them runs empty

doesn't mean the story ends

have you come upon the coda

reached where all begins anew?

seen the maestro flick his wrist

and the whole thing start on cue?

because either way

i miss you

Recent Posts

See All

Approaching the body through metaphor every trans person is a poet I lick that forest between your thighs hold that hungry, compact cock of yours between the edges of my teeth . I only fuck people who