IN THE HOUSE OF POEMS

in the house of poems

there are no words

only sheaths of rapture

color and puzzle cutouts

on an empty table

mute

composed of shadow thin

aching smoke ghosts

desires

aphotic and tender

twisting souls in labyrinths lurid

cum shake sweet inky orgasms

that turn earth

to pleasure domes

and shadows

like cimmerian children

in harsh judgment

sucking on

purple night shade candies

burning incense and black candles

uncrossing energies foreboding

while subterranean crystals

refract burnished glows

pulsing blood diamonds

in sacred heart manias

throb with warm breathy kisses

on plates of ash

engulfing

a terrace of pink flickering tongues

drooling and biting

that turn mere pleasure

into inflammations of ecstasy

oozing creme de menthe saliva

where souls levitate and flutter

on bilious stained beds

copulating

being impregnated with verse

smelling of warm cunt cauldron

fetuses curl

in their little crib's

and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles

afterbirths purged

poems emerge

like sand bars and palm tree islands

from

sopping woven tunnels

and

caress upturned poetic posteriors

dancing in glitter frilly word tutus

while torrid confessions

dreaded breakdowns

and resurrections

dress themselves in garments

of language re-pleat

quickened by eloquence

in the house of poems