whilst spreading melancholy
on my toast
regret butters my biscuits

I still can’t let go
of what I thought
you thought
we felt
about one another

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32 flavours

My face is pale, one could say vanilla
My neck like lavender, and fresh strawberry
Lower boasts of ripe muskmelons
My heart is dark: chocolate and cherry

Soft gelato, like mulled wine
I have no stomach for milquetoast
Coffee keeping straight my spine
Espresso or, in a pinch, French Roast

Roast chicken is a tasty dish
Occasionally broiled fish
In a pan with rosemary and thyme
Olive oil and a squeeze of lime

Some days I can be sour
Marinated in vinegar and lemon
Don’t be afraid-the mood will pass-and
Delight like sweet apples and cinnamon

Do you suppose a touch of rose
Would be tasty in a dish so sweet
A smattering of blueberry, memory of home
In the air, the scent of grilling meat

Yesterday I took the powder
Ran home and stewed some creamy chowder
I sat with salty tears in my eyes
The music was loud, I turned it louder

What flavour are you, on days like this
Your sweet embrace, your salty kiss
Endless french fries and midnight omelet
So wonderful, I will never forget

Mornings tasted like fresh mown grass
Evenings were slow and caramel
I imagine the winters were peppermint
Spring came stormy, with deep lament

Dipping our dreams in rich fondue
Shall we dance once more
smelling the smoky Gouda, and
Armani on you

Then have our coffee and cake
With icing
Red, white, and blue

Didn’t we die, bit by bit

each night
something new
tossed into the stew
with the carrots and red potatoes
the gravy and its
discontent
covering everything

I walked around
the disease
adding up the slights
I heard talk of gangrene
as I searched
for that four-leaf clover
since ten
(holy shit)
that seems foolhardy

Then wasn’t it sweet
following that wretched meal
with cheesecake
and café au lait
each measured step upon rose petals
toward silk bliss
the decay forgotten
for hours

altered chords

this morning
six days before Christmas
beat poetry and jazz
run through my veins
like homemade caramel

do you judge me
for how well I groove
in the middle of my pain? From
somewhere
a cornet holds the note

I don’t dig frigid weather
but there is
something cleansing
about the other extreme
of the spectrum

how my body
had melted into July
and now when I walk outside
my organs have blended
with blood and water

and a tune that keeps me
walking on

Eating fried shrimp together

We fed one another shrimp
my long hair getting in the way
hanging between us, over our arms and laps
he would chew, and take it up in his fingers
playing with it, smelling it

I would lean in, not wanting this to end
kissing his chest–what is the rest?
what do you want to hear of hedonistic folly–
days and weeks of answering to no one but each other
consuming only from the earth

We lied to those we loved
and lay over one another for months
taking turns being on top–‘don’t stop’
he would say, surprising me
with his submission

From out of the blue, he’d say,
‘You are too kind. You could be meaner.
Too sweet and good to wield
the strap and the rope.’
And I would just laugh
pink nail polish on my toes

Never giving away my true intentions
to keep him held in my grip for as long as–
well–as long as I wanted him
wanted only him
he and his flesh my undoing

His voice I still recall
‘please don’t stop,’ and I
would say –please don’t–
I won’t want
to stop