(The silent science of reconciliation)

The silent science of reconciliation
reverberates through my skull empty as
it may be though you are
in my lap in my palm wrapped around my finger
(like a wedding band and
so i ask who or what traps who or what
manipulates who or what binds who or what
am i are you?) but let's move on let's
get to bed let's fight let's fuck it's
what we do let's never resolve fix the car
walk the dog wash the dog wash the
car fix the dog never talk only
speak never listen only hear scream shout
silence scream shout stop slap shove bruise batter
leaving left lone lost lust lest love(lorn)

(copyright a(scetic)verse, September 04, 2009)

Pleasing

I, with reckless disregard
for the bile collecting
in my conscience,
settle into a familiar mindless
rhythm I've heard called making love.

This is, at best, playing at love,
as children play house.

This is not even making amends,
cannot be construed as making,
but unmaking.

Your touch-
my god this cannot be pleasure
as you brush away my dead outer layer,
this senseless shell and husk of
memories which litter sheets,
carpets, clothes, drains,-
my new skin I wear like
an infant in a baptismal font
abandoned by its priest.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, April 4, 2009)

"Can we just flash forward..."

Can we just flash forward
to the petty, sweaty, fumbling,
tumbling grope and grab
presaged by your first breathy
grunt of "You're so hot" in my ear,
warm moist exhalation and chin stubble
just as irritating as this untoward advance?

I know myself all too well-
I have lived this night
too many times and
I am so fucking tired
of swallowing my nausea
of subsuming my pride
of sacrificing my self
to testosterone's
hair-trigger
and of being repulsed
by any touch the morning after.
My cup runneth over.
Old news.
I quit.
Who's next?

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 24, 2009)

Toward Iconoclasm

This first legitimate taste of truth,
a scant sip from nectar's vein,
sates not, but stings.

You, who are lotus of flesh,
who are nectar of blood,
blood of aubergine hue,
you, in your giving of gifts,
play Siren, Scylla, and saint.

Yon Doppelganger:
     as Lazarus, in your solitude sleep;
     as Midas, ruin whatever you may touch;
     as Pilate, cruciate pain bestow;
     and as Eros, let your arrow go.

(copyright a(scetic)verse, February 5th, 2009)

Why do I try to write love poetry? (scraps of something in progress)

Love may not sing of itself,
Nor answer calls towards its providence;
And love may not, in its silent
Arduous climb, make footholds
Where none exist.
Love gives no
Guarantee of safety,
Nor offers its hand to help
Others along.

For the life of love
Is the mountain itself,
And its cragged footholds
Are all the promises of safety
One could need.
It is the mute life of quiet assurance,
The self-satisfaction of sharing
In the comfort of the hand which
Proffers it-
((((more poetry here))))

(copyright a(scetic)verse, January 29th, 2009)