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A rose has never bloomed in my mouth without leaving its thorns in my throat OR that which is left in the drain protector when you’ve washed your dishes and your hair in the same sink

September 11, 2011


Everything is a draft, a work in progress. Including this body. This body that will ‘never be safe from harm’, not until I let it.

Only parts of this matter anymore:

Every Kiss That Matters

The first one, moaning against your mouth in Tompkins Square Park where I’m sure (I’m sure I’m sure I’m sure) my own father spent his time kissing his own chest, head slumping down, kissing the soles of his feet drifting away letting something kiss his veins and now 20 years later here I am rubbing myself raw against this bench against your face against your facial hair not knowing the inevitable the ineffable that this is what it should always feel like will never feel like ever again.

Kissing against wood, against metal, against brick with another language on his tongue dripping into onto me and mine spilling over and under and I’ve gotten used to the smell of him (he smells so good so good) and it’s all things at once him and the dead the dead and the sterile but I want it I want it and when it’s here I get it, a slap on the ass and a pat on the head.

Kissing in your car breathing smoke in and out and in and out of each other’s lungs getting high getting hired because late lovers left and who else and why not. Parking lot of the old drive through riding shotgun holding on to your door your dash because I’m afraid of being thrown. The kiss you give when you’re trying to be the man I want you to be but somehow still I don’t I won’t let you reaching over to grab me before I unbuckle the seat belt slide out of your car your life forever.


And a kiss that doesn’t count but is stacked and tagged and remembered with the rest:

Clinging to you in the train station hugging above the waist where it’s appropriate it’s wanted it’s warranted and you kissing my temple a touch a light touch the only one you’re able to give because there right there where my thoughts of you are centered is the only safe place for you to put your lips on my body.


And a bonus:


Kissing near books near bores near bars near nothing wandering through drizzle through Cavafy and I’m hoping what I feel rising between us pressing against my thigh is my doing not the whiskey because I think you’re sober (I think you’re somber) but maybe it’s not me you’re wanting to taste when you shove your tongue in my mouth but the remnants of Jameson coating my teeth shutting me up and getting drunk with one lazy drawn out breath.

2 Comments leave one →
  1. September 11, 2011 11:01 pm

    “The first one” through “kiss his veins” + “because there right there where my thoughts of you are centered is the only safe place for you to put your lips on my body” + “because I think you’re sober (I think you’re somber)” to the end, are my favorites. lovely.

  2. irina d permalink
    September 19, 2011 12:20 pm

    Something about this made me think of a short story in Ali smith’s ‘hotel world.’ It has sort of a multi-layered feel. Like, “This is all of these things at the same time.”

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