Throat Choke Romance

mine is a throat-choke romance
a hefty bag tightly closed and plastered to my nose and mouth
roses painted on my eyes, beneath the lids
squirming into the hidden corners of your heart
yearning to turn and tangle like a bored kitten
tearing through books and poems that cannot comprise this sweeping, swelling want
swearing that i'll never let go

mine is a finger sprained friendship
pinky sworn into obscurity and bandaged thick and sweaty
daisy chains around my wrists, pretty fragrant handcuffs
awakened to a dizzy dream of compliance
taken down a twisting, wonderwalled path
dared to wander through this darkened wood, wolf in hand, wailing
waiting for the shimmering reflection to finally clear

yours?

Miss You

Friend–I can feel your
electromagnetic pulse
all the way from here.

Mutterings of a Frying Pan on a Saturday Morning

It was the butter on my forehead
That I couldn’t quite get sorted.
Must I really be this oiled?
Must your sausage be so soiled?
You leer upon me, looking smug,
Sipping at your giant mug
Of coffee stirred with whipping cream–
Must I watch? This is obscene!
All bubbling eggs and dripping grease
Say, do you know the word ‘obese’?
Why don’t you fill me up with lard
And really show me your regard?
It seems unfair that I must sizzle
Underneath your bacon drizzle—
Sugared in molasses prior
To its journey to the fryer.
I have no choice, I cannot fly–
Unless you toss me towards the sky
Or throw me at that lout you date
Instead of a more break’ble plate.