Nautical Chart

It isn't obsession

if there isn't some kind of perversion

almost forbidden

behind the mad desire of it all
There has to be a rhythm
to the mathematic swing of your hips
to our bodies, clashing like waves

I'm so glad I went to church

they taught me sex was something dirty

bad, almost evil

a completely punishable sin

which I've always loved to confess

It isn't wild

if the lust isn't animal

it has to be there

wild and rare

yet discretely hidden

Your fatty thighs

so strong and alive

my hands, exploring mischievously

trembling while hidden under your skirt

My mind becomes a locomotive

my breath a sinking ship

my lungs begin to fuel and fill up

while my body becomes a machine.

... and I see you, standing there

with a bullfighter's red cape

and twisted she-devil horns 

Ivory monument in black thigh highs

plump next-door Helénē

with perfect grapefruit breasts

salt water skin and apricot lips 

your shoulders, punished by the sun
your hair, chestnut curls and almond waterfalls 

with the casual sunbeam highlights, here and there

sometimes I drown in awe
and I wonder...
how can you be so beautiful
and giggle in porcelain vase innocence
only to torture me
slave, trapped between your schoolgirl smile
and your sadist nails

Like a fountain of blood

like a prison of gold

a beehive covered in tangled red and blonde hairs

like a jewel and it's tiny white cotton pillow
where my dreams collide
in sudden death
where all avenues converge

in a train of thought heading full steam ahead

accidentally derailed, since the second drink

and I measure the circumference of your legs

and the fire in your eyes

and my thoughts unravel in your arms

lost, adrift and completely stupefied

I inhale the chloroform of your hormone spiked perfume
almost too dizzy to regain control

and I think to myself

this life wouldn't be worth fighting for
without a woman to tame

Godless

I see my reflection
naked as a vegetable
amongst silver brush strokes
on the liquid tension of the water
on a forgotten pond
somewhere under the winter moon

Again, practicing the mastered art
of letting go
watching as my story unfolds before my eyes
how my magical hands aren't so magical anymore
how starting over (remember? it used to be so commonplace)
has now become an insurmountable task

How every step keeps getting heavier and heavier
and my eyelids plead for rest
how my heart feels heavy with you in it
and my stomach empty without
and my clumsy feet step on a rainbow of dead butterflies
on my way out the door
undoing the shoelaces of what we were
wishing I could dig my hands in my chest
to extract you, like a rotten fruit
like a ticking bomb
or a little hell
somewhere in my ribcage
between my heart and my lungs
somewhere in my mind
in hurtful razor sharp memories
bleeding teary eyes in regret

Then I reach the moonlit pond
and I let my body wash under the silverlight
and I let my dick hang freely, like a vegetable
that's when I'm a child again
in pure innocence, and bliss

But then ...I remember
and I'm not that kid anymore
and I'm much too tired to start over
and I see my reflection
how I've grown old
the photo story of what I left behind, flashing by

and so I throw my belt over the branch where I engraved your name

and I let my corpse swing freely

on that forgotten oak, somewhere
under the winter moon
and in my stupid, idiotic heart
hoping you'll approve