dykewithwrites

[dykewithwrites]

“I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

[dykewithwrites]

“The flesh is not obscene, it just takes a lot of poetry to tell it.”

— Roland Barthes, from Critical Essays; “On Love,”

[dykewithwrites]

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”” - Jack Kerouac, On the Road

[dykewithwrites]

Orgasm

There’s a ghost of your mouth there when I reach down

between the hungry spread of my legs

and a pulse dancing wildly beneath the touch-

of my fingers pressing against the warmth of feverish skin,

moving in phantom rhythm with the memory of your eager kiss.

The descent is achingly slow,

to feign the tension my body craves

from the pull of your existence,

yet I sustain myself -

Painting tiny, calculated circles with my fingertips

Playing the music that drips down my thighs

that crave the sting of your palms,

the thrill of your eyes,

The music leaks from parted lips-

your name becoming lyrical

in the subtle, desperate sway of my hips

As then a brief cacophony flowers from my tongue

I’m aware

there’s no greater delight than this

[dykewithwrites]

[dykewithwrites]

[dykewithwrites]

my reality was composed of small things:

the first rays of sun reflecting off of the blinds

her coy & sleepless smile catching the light

a brief flicker of her eyelash

a taste of a thought

in the uncharted depths of her eyes;

it would be a memory

framed easily in the stable minds that plague mornings that dare take place in Montparnasse

this fiction of a romantic world aroused in burning cigarettes and the fragile idea of love

[dykewithwrites]

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.”

— Allen Ginsberg

[dykewithwrites]

Épitaphe

essayer de me tuer tendrement

boire mon sang

sucer l’amour en moi

et nous embrasserons la Mort

une autre fois

[dykewithwrites]

honestly

it’s quite bold of you to assume

that i picture you in any way

that can be defined as perfect

i see no merit

in loving illusions

[dykewithwrites]

Quand je t'embrasse,

tu sauras combien tu m’as manqué.

[dykewithwrites]

Dearest

your presence has become

something i crave

i’m addicted to the pull of your flesh

& the drink of your mind.

i have been reduced to a thing that wants

(you)

not the idea

the cracked version you’ve yet to forgive

that paints your walls with sanguine humor & taste

that savors the quiet mornings

with a sunrise whisper that pools in the pit of my stomach when i hear

my name exist on your lips.

you’re a version of earnest living

i’ve yet to run my hands against

and

i want to trace every line

so that i see

the essence of you in

every crack that veins through the city cobblestone & cafes,

& in every word that falls on my windowsill;

you’re a feeling that lives in the scent of cigarettes

on my fingertips

& the taste of black coffee that

lingers on my tongue.

you occupy my mind,

like a wildly growing thing that’s

attempting to envelop me

& though i could gasp and catch a breath before my lips dip beneath the surface of this infatuation

i dare say I’d prefer the asphyxiation.

i’d gladly drown in you.

[dykewithwrites]

the kings men, nora sakavic / virginia woolf to vita sackville-west, 1928 / saw you in a dream, the japanese house / work song, hozier / mad girl’s love song, sylvia plath / blue lily lily blue, maggie stiefvater

[dykewithwrites]

[dykewithwrites]

Wanderlust

i filled my chest with stars

picked fresh from the branches of the parisian night sky

collected in the subtle cradle of my ribs

where the meat of my heart clung to the marrow of life

sucking it softly, dilating my mind

so that your kiss was velvet against rigid flesh

and the world spun tenaciously under our bacardi tongues

with soft hair and angel orbs

you batted at the seams

there was an emptiness

that carried its evidence

in the reflection of your eyes

so i cured the haunting rumor

of inevitable demise

does it matter if i lied?

in the countless bullshit psalms

to fit your world so finely

in the pit of my palm

[dykewithwrites]

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing.”

— Virginia Woolf

[dykewithwrites]

A Prelude to Sleep

The drop of crimson blossomed into a patulous stain against the stark white—

It took flight from reality and precipitated us into a seething, soothing cauldron of delight

Where it stirred, unifying with all the licentious pleasures of the soul—

Transfixed and imbued... eyes like dark hooks, brazen and cold

Locked in the futile dissent of internal feud... seduced by the fire of symbiotic suasion & mouths leaking gold—

Translucent defenses, seeking embossment, emboldened by the hearts of lions, statuesque and impenetrable,

“les lèvres de la vérité” brand the realm of flesh, caressing the warmth of a marble cheek,

a sacrificial attempt to touch what’s underneath, cataclysmic & inevitable—

I decline as her spirits rise; chaotic and intrinsically interwoven into my demise:

“I am her truth.”

fingertips rooted, climb like vines

between her ribs and through her thighs- intwined they fall, together but broken

Fragmented mosaically across tin skin, stretching for miles

And miles to go.