Watch out for this one.

Stare into eyes that could shoot spines;
burn in the event horizon of each pupil.
Do you know his appetite for supple skin?
Taste yourself in his mouth – a salty revelation.
Dive in: swim in each iris like an oil spill;
fear not the icy depths of a solid glacial gaze.
Instead, listen to a voice with the power to save;
heed and feed his hunger with drops of morning dew.
But, though he craves meat, give him none:
leave him wanting flesh he cannot chew.

His excitement pours like summer rain
on sole-scorching pavement from August skies.
Sense hands as rough as those of slaves
caress your cheek, in a curious game.
You’ll find, as ripe as an autumn fig,
his heart pump-pumping in his chest;
trace veins entwined with lovers’ bliss and breath.
Acquaint yourself with two tender lips…
As a pair, they are twins which continually kiss.
Clear waterfalls are what he lacks;
he won’t take me as his ‘til my feathers turn black.

He believes in absolutes; he is sure that truth exists;
frown lines appear with sarcasm that’s thick,
but he smiles, always, at the warm touch of spirit.
He mulls over temples, and laughs over church bells;
he adapts like a chameleon escapee,
stopping, occasionally, to paint house that Jack built –
but one almost expects this unconventional graffiti.
He juggles, and jokes in mere Mother Gooseries.
As he travels, he moves from tomb to tomb.
He self-modifies (to maintain his disguise)
but does not keep the smoky smell of lies.
He dreams in forgotten colors,
and strikes only within them
as the unfortunate, lost author of an apocalyptic anthem.

If he shouts, it’s the Battle at Lexington Green;
but if he shouts my name, it’s in a dense crowd, at best.
If he loves in moderation; if he lives with reckless abandon;
if he creates chaos in candlelight and trips over syllables;
then he only falls one step back on the stair,
and the rest simply fall in line.
They love him, for he speaks in riddles and rocket ships,
whispers winter wind through tunnels
and channels it to their ears.
If he bends, it’s a contortionist’s nightmare -
he’ll note this in Freudian reflection,
after categorizing cravings (for a buzz and black coffee)
and their satisfaction as a hedonistic tendency.

His faults cause earthquakes as often as heartaches;
and if he, himself, needs, it is a white pickup truck.
If he weeps, it’s the tree that no one heard fall;
and though I can’t see him out of luck,
I imagine his tears are rarely small.
If he lights a match, he burns a city to soot.
If he tries, it’s a train wreck of the deadliest sort;
his fingerprints are faded reminders of the storm
which left a prism sky and capsized ship drifting to port.
He molds like clay to meet each end;
but when he chooses to trust, it’s mere graphite to diamond.

02.16.2010