consonantberry

The Kiss

In Poetry on February 23, 2012 at 2:27 am

Your sweet-smelling sickness
runs down my throat
like a decadent mold, blossoming
into spores of smothering growth, sullying
every corner of my lungs.
To climax in a verdant rupture,
spending its fermented juice
within the hollows of my pores
in a soft gushing release
like so many grapes on a vine
bursting in the hot noon heat.

I could drown in that sickness, I know it
but I draw it in deeper, because
it’s just as sweet as it is sick
and I don’t care to live for ever,
or even one more breath, without
your ripe-rotten filth in my lungs
filling me, raw, with a moment
of nothing.

But then the carbon coals come begging
in a faint dioxide itch, a nervous trickle,
that sharpens into restless jolts,
then hardens -fast- into a switch of nettle.
It rakes the lining of my lungs
with surging convulsions
and I cave, always, finally, I cave
beneath the density of being
this living thing compelled to breath
in and out, again and again,
blindly, endlessly, repetitively.

And I wonder how my will wasn’t enough
to hold you in forever.
And I try to keep the feel
of not being lonely in my body.
But when that fades
into the turning turbulence,
into that noisy disaster of movement and worry,
I’m left with naught but the urge
to dissolve myself back,
-back into the sweet sick nothing
of your kiss.

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