Poem – “Asleep in your Heat” – 1/5/2023

More moments like this,
built as stretching figures,
with fingers –
letting fall all those hands
counting our figmented

Drastic, plastic
smiles – all seeping
and connecting our mouths
from being apart. Though, we are
a flower becoming burned,
lost in desire,
roaring in our fire.

An entertaining trail,
an engraved heart
drawn as a subtle proportion,
standing out above eons,
above marks
left on floating glaciers,

and won’t we be here, forever?
Won’t we stay
to count stars in either’s eyes?

No one’s funeral,
we should attend.
No one’s wedding,
we should amend.

We are among the foulest
on bloodied earth,
nestled, dancing in between
the fog and the unseen.

Poetry Collection (Tears and Later Years) – Poem 23/100 – “A Bottle of Fervency”

Bold nights. Centered frights.
I wake to find you
less than a note away
on a scale of burning
sheet music.

To shadows, that escape
with greater speed
than fading sunlight.

You will be morphed
with all your sunset curves.

You will be more distant,
than when you dimmed.

You will be blackened
at connections of heat,
becoming further
than stagnant distance.

Fires extinguish
at a bottle of tears,
worshipping all that
grows a garden of fears.
One rose, once gentlest,
in how thorns
caused you to cry.
Petals lose their scent
as all feelings
will eventually die.

But memories are close,
lifted in song –

but buried within
closed doors of a mind
that finds itself,
in embracing corridors –

in all spaces,
our anguish retains.
Once dripping
from passionate fingers,
here for tracing
of entrenched stains.

A presence fallen,
at its crest, while I am unaware
at where you’ll enter next.

To bleed in being devoured,
from a repeated need
from a drained,
discolored flower.

Poem – “Entrenched Claw Marks” – Erotic Poetry – 10/3/2022

Those wraparounds,
bold curves. Wide in swerves,
undressing in shadows,
dressing in lace.
Broken hands come around,
embracing poison of sweat,
water of lily pads.

Between you, to be
within you, I hold all of
your declining droplets,
meant for my mouth
scarred from absence,
meant as a substance
to feel like real presence.

I bring you down to softness
from those rocks, clogged
in your eyes. I help you to swallow
this dust, this sickness,
those clouds that showered you
in rain that comes
from high above,
not deep down.

I let you swell, I aim to quell
all those profusive moments
you were directionless.

Rope answers from my eyes.
Let me cripple your disguise,
digging you above ground,
beneath Heaven’s lies,
to be merged in all sounds
when seasons merge inside.

Flash Fiction – “A Crashing Spark” – 450 words – 2/13/2022

She undresses herself to the perpetuating tune. The offset of the offbeats, running ripples in soundwaves through heatwaves. There is an aridness to the room she stands in. Her clothes fall like landslides from her velvet flesh, though were loose to begin with.

A pair of eyes, glancing to riveting nudity. A man sees a moment for a viper, to be the fangs buried in the vulnerability. The trust she expects is amiable and admirable. Her surroundings are whitewashed and vapid, while drawn to the expert’s stroke of a brush along to create, for a viewer’s sake, painful streams of portraiture and vacant urns. Her own eyes, her look of sadness; there is a weight in her from an emptied safe. It yet holds weight, even while her screams will come to soar a perfused form.

Gliding forth as the freed, encaged bird in a pair of arms that wrap as both bandages and curtains. She is freed – thrown; she is drowned – burned. Pierced. The heart before the flesh. Her eyes close to look up. In darkness and in pleasure, while feathers from broken or clipped wings are behind a divided mind.

He washes himself in her skin. She conceals and connects her skin to sin, whispering what her thoughts escape. Out of a mouth, the pauses come, more than the words. The waiting game; the fading of sun in the heart to be permanent with the moon. Waiting for the minute to perish in the crevices, the scars. Her highs are the same as the lows. His face finds her deep in sensation. His view is blinded in the bond. Hand on her neck. Eyes down her throat. What a view in seeing what is, once again, all over with the dying light of an exhausted candle, becoming raw in its undisguised wish. That is, to be the martyr, the whore; he sees her more in space than in grace.

High heels are wheels. Fingers exist to linger, to hush the lips and cancel the breath. She turns to burn against someone else’s scar, where in hoping to find vague renewal in beautiful connection, she ends the idea in a bed of warm softness and cold metal.

Walking in her eyes, speaking more than her mouth, will entertain us for a feast. We could feed or we could speak, finding the tears that descend upon us to hit the plate as tidal waves. Will we notice what splashes us? It is different in two directions. One of lies, the other of truth.

What she likes is not what she loves.

Short Prose – 400 Words – “Bleeding in Purity” – Erotica – 3/15/2021

Echo. Echo out, and then, remain sad.

We say to you, a little fog cannot blind those eyes. Hold your piercing scream to the wind, and then let us breathe of you. Allow ourselves. And then, we will dance to your tune. We will dream of what will sometimes never reach. Then, we will keep remembering. To hold upon what shouldn’t be dropped. Just skin. All of yours. Held in the puddles, massaged in the dirt, washed when no one looks.

Keep bleeding in this sadness, for such a sight is so pure. A virgin whoredom. A Christian banquet, with dust to every mile of your privileged beauty. Would Christ ever soak himself in your blood, in these tears of a watering sorrow?

And then, we leave you alone. And then, the shores show themselves up as empty. We go, for a minute. We depart, for a second. You suffer. You whine. And then, we return to your loneliness. And then, all the shells and stones wash up. A great defeat, all over your bones. We all begin to echo. We all take our turns to be sad, to dream of the birth of more deserts, more of the desertion of our dreams or our great stretches of the softest thing which is water.

To your tears, so pure, though it comes not always as the splash from the sea. It comes, at times, from above. We are then forced to look up. We are motioned, of our minds, to keep ourselves comprehending that you are gone. Though, the tears do not disperse. They simply add to the ocean.

Raindrops and teardrops, with sadness to soak and to bury. To conceal, for is that not where you once were, in this world?

A face of grime. The woman, a whore, one beauty with much to destroy in yourself. You left the world open, when your legs were parted to birth all of us. To your breasts, plump as they were, with nipples as the lighthouses to guide our ships, we landed at your flesh. We gave ourselves to grace. We breathed of your neck. We dined upon life, from your hips.

You were the endless surrounding. The ocean that tore us open, as well, to be like you. You let not a tear be missed, nor a droplet of milk to be left not drunken. We travelled throughout you, only to be left without you.

Should we not always be grateful?

Short Prose – 300 Words – “Believing in Tears” – Erotica – 3/15/2021

She sweeps. She keeps. Her music, unfolded of ivory pages in her heart. Sheets written with notes, both curled and straight. Love is of a porcelain structure. Though, she burns the pages in her conceit. She burns the paper for what she leaves. A heart, left behind, finding no need, no cure to her endless state of being blind.

Her cries, a case of pure rejection. To the stars, they echo. From the moon, they return. For more tears, to be inside of the places she burns herself when there is no sun, being those habitable parts to caress. Between legs, then along the curved nature to breasts, everything of her will always burn. Everything of her, though not always her own, ignites. Just as the pages that send small sparks upwards, same with the fireflies of the night, there is still no glimpse of something worth remembering. Though, she keeps. She keeps lighting the match to burn the forest between her legs. Just that great flame. And then, only ever the fade.

Only ever the retreat, behind a curtain for her pleasure. Twin moons for her seated self, with two pillars of frosted white to be spread, then of feet to hold her valid reach, then of hands to extend towards the waters. She lays, to reckon herself crossed. A detachment of unattachment, to a departure from something never there, leaves her cold and alone in the blaze.

Blue-blinding bliss, with her scent waving the night into extension, within the fertile mounds of her ivory skin. A sculpture so death-like, given life only when it regresses from its stillness well-outside of a kiln, to the wetness of being moldable and changeable in her own hands.

Flexible, bendable, though never manageable.

Sorrowful, sinful, while never grateful.

Quote – “A Man, and Sex” – 8/29/2020

“A man is gifting, when he forsakes what he feels, for the feelings of a woman. A man is vain, when he forsakes what a woman will feel, for the sake of what he can attain.

If, in bed, a man cannot gift to a woman her pleasure, in sole focus on her feelings, then he is not himself.

If pleasure should matter to the man, over the woman’s own, then he is not himself.”

– Modern Romanticism

Excerpt – Erotica – “To not Sink a Friend” – Romance Novel – 8/11/2020

She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look.

She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her sight, and sorrowful to her soul. As misery creates the greater, darkened clouds, it becomes a short-term relief when passion can overrule it. A touch between the legs has made her face aglow, while her eyes are glinted like the prettied, tempered steel. Like two fastened orbs of metal, encrusted into her skull, the irises show off the only color, being like we have said, a stark green.

As she leans closer, the soon sight of herself to the vanity she exposes from her skin, the life in her form, the energy in her slight quivers, harbors a great attention to detail.

Little droplets racing from beneath her arms, driving a scent to the unfurling winds bleeding in from an ajar window, would entice even the smallest pebble, were that to hold life. Her hair, a great wind for a flurry, heaving in all direction in its disordered nature. It, too, holds a fragrance, clinging in shampoo to the utmost of its alignment. She is, inarguably, tempestuous, just as she is radiant, both in the literal and figurative depiction. Her back, arched, as her bottom throws itself upward, revealing pink for pink, gleam for gleam, and scent for scent. A defeatist nature would make anyone mad, were they to not dabble in the admiration of her. She is now like a plucked lily from a bed of algae upon a pond.

Still, great weavings of thread somewhat cloak her, about the waist, and about her legs. Her bottom, plump. Her breasts, full. Her eyes, aglow. Her hair, graced by a silken texture within each strand, and being luscious by every highlight. Modesty only ever cloaks the startling form, enough to have the yearning to tear it away.

Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume Three – Chapter I – Romance Novel – 7/21/2020

Love walks. She walks. Or, she had walked, and now she lays. Upon a back with eyes to a ceiling. Her ceiling. Her mind with walls and the drawn-in above. A world of hers, this Lisa, who can smile without sincerity. Radiance makes its way over her skin, masking something more than this. A belief she holds, that she keeps in disbelief. A denial, a saturation of her mind by something so entitled. Something so wanting to believe she cannot be this neglected. By a man, no less, because a man’s cruelty comes as common as dirt. To a woman, a man’s cruelty in love is simply unexpected. Simple to be unexpected, for she heard his honesty without question.

A woman questions no man’s honesty. A woman hears what she wants to hear, to then accept it. For what makes her smarter than any man? It is that the stains of her heart, are gotten used to, while she understands that to be a woman means to be used.

Wrong love uses a woman, comprehends her body as a place for a sad man’s discovery. His fingers are her rot. His ideals are her reveals.

Though, upon her back, with her eyes closed, and a pair of fingers between pillars of ivory, there can be lost sensation entering upon the shoreline. There can be a lost moment returning to trail itself in the leaves, of whatever Autumn sought to felled them. There can be the scent of a loosened body, riding waters like the wax of bleeding candles. She leaves lakes beneath herself, as clear as the ocean without the sky. Wax melts off her fingers, while she sails. She wails with her mouth opened into a circle. Her tears come collapsing to her cheeks. Her grief, such a stain that has a deepened spot in a heart that beats at its fastest rhythm. Blood runs, though it is cold.

Novel Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume One/Chapter VI – Erotic Scene – 6/26/2020

He carries her. She is guided under his palms, meant for this. For the rushing blood, the skin to be agleam under the brightening moon in the midnight hour. He has startled her, in his wrapping arms about her feebly thin waist. He watches. Her notices the whistling tension from her mouth, and he washes her faint groans away with another kiss.

Like love never held passion, before. Like a form never was beaded by the perspiration of a certain tide, as the current let loose by the storm. Here, all the pieces of a broken heart become arranged. Here, all the disorder becomes ordered. Here all the confusion becomes fusion, becomes connection, becomes the colors that consist of the rainbow to never fade. Over her blushing face, his sun is brighter than the moon we’ve described to share a likeness to this heat.

Leave slender times to tender times, lovers of yore. Candles lit, and wax drips like tears that roll down porcelain cheeks. Slender like the tapers, wielding the smallest flame, like they were upon the ends of Lisa’s fingers. She caresses him, sends him this flame that signals sparks to the nighttime hues, for all of her transparent complexion.

Within his grasp, she has entertained multiple sighs. Out on the streets of Madrid, they rush. They find their music, as well, heard in the ears of fewest paupers to graze the sides of rustic buildings.

They are creating the smoke, realizing themselves the draft, remembering each other the folding passion, of limbs that twist for another limb, of faces that contort for its twin. He hears her. He spies her bliss, finding itself in her delicate gaze, curled upon the retracted eyelids the brown curls, descending from a halo-less scalp. For her passion bites, holds a song in her sigh, wields smoothness by her lip, easily sought for like her hips. He touches. He watches. He wields a crease in one hand, the blanketing dress of hers in the other.

In the dark, they are the simplest of lovers. Typical, in their eyes left to wander in the dark gazes of the other. Their pupils and irises make fields, as their vision is left to roam them.

He says upon her, “Is there anything more for us? Anything more to share?” as though hinting at a missing of something.

“We are the passion,” says she, Lisa, the woman who has bled her stars into him, Joel. She has attempted to fade, though again, he is always able to count the one among the numerous. She is, to him, the one unable to die, so long as there is something to hold, something to recount from the rest. From the rest of sweetness? From the rest of bitterness? However it be, Lisa remains to Joel the Asian broth that must contain the tangiest flavors, or otherwise not be considered a cuisine.

“Your Sweetest Flavor” – Poem

Like two petals, crossing over

The other.

Like one flavor, the sweetest in my mouth,

Better than the flavor of sugarcane,

For your eyes have the entire world within view.

Your eyes, and your cries,

Have my universe to behold.

Love takes form,

And will take form,

Upon what nectar, what sweetness

You drop from between pillars of white.


From a majesty above me.

Ambition is fallen away

From the shallow parts of me.

And I taste life,

Before life.

Poetry Series – 3/10 Poems – “Rolling Fog” – The Meaning of Love – 2/18/2020

Come what will,
As you, to me, the most potent pill.
What will be, for my mind
Truly kind?
It will be you, within the greatest streams of blood
As rolling fog.
No longer will tears move their waves across my cheeks,
Resulting from the sadness of absence,
But, in everything from you, that delicately speaks.

I see redness in everything beautiful
About you.
My eyes can glance at the color of your dress
Running with the wind’s guidance.
Love can ever only be a softness,
A truly wonderful gladness

In this mist, called fog.
I will become, as you are
In the red fog.

Love becomes a rope
Tied about our feet.
In the denseness of this fog,
This red fog,
We love, among the red mist still pouring from my glance
To you, for everything entranced
About me.
Love has sleeves, rolled up on a trail
Weaved, against arms that embrace you.

Play me this song
Of what you truly long for
In the coldness.
May I speak to you, beneath the loneliness
Of your eyes?
May I adore you, in the inferno we create?
In the many tussles we make?
Beneath sheets and the lakes?
Love is that flame to find its purpose upon the ice.

Keep holding me, distant.
And cling to me, fragrant
In the heat,
In the deep.