Intimacy of Water

The intimacy of water...
Experienced on the surface of flesh.
Always running; flowing, down and away...
but seeping into, unnoticed!

Down across your chest,
tumbling toward. Your sex.
The warm liquid drops;
like honey,from excited bees.

Language expressed not as dance,
through the mingling of lips.
Hand pressing hard flesh, Slowing time!

Look deep into dilation.
And feel...
The unnoticeable!

Water falls between fingers.
That are trying to stop a moment...

Watercolour

I don't want to dress as a woman.
I don't want to dress as a man.
I have no interest in textiles.

I want to stand in front of a mirror,
and stare, and stare, and stare.
Until I dissolve...

Like watercolor,
an autumn leaf revolving in a puddle.

Stand beside me dearest friend.
Can you see all this?
The carousel slowing,
the paint peeling.

You playfully whisper, love you.
Kiss my cheek.
And another day begins.

Diagnosis

I met a thing today, he never raised his head.
A picture of him smiling by a plane,
was my first eye contact.

Looking up. Not at me, but over my head to a clock.
He had stains on his tie and bad skin.

You have lots of letters after your name.

Your life surrounds me like a wound, unhealing.
I should be on my knees cleaning up the stale blood.
One more festering sore, to pay your mortgage,
get fat upon, and make sure your children gleam.

You can't look at me can you.
I disgust you don't I.
Your nausea is palpable.
You know my injury already.

I am a familiar bad smell,
who wants to look at garbage.
Assessed, filed, despised and forgotten.
You cover a yawn.

I am the same as A and G and C and T.
You learnt that didn't you in your heavy books.
You know so much.

But I will tell you a secret,
before I leave.

You are the sick one.

The Butcher Shop

I want to go to an adult cinema, dressed as a woman.
NO!
Not as a woman, as a charactature.
An object of expected male desire.

All the things men want AND expect,
the holes,
the openings,
the lipstick and torn flesh.

I want each one of them to HATE me!
To loath the fact I am here.
Mutual disease,
expunging psychosis upon skin.

I NEED to see their desire masked in hate.
Feel the frenzy of being fed upon.
Painful.
Uncomfortable,
Unsafe,
Worn,
Abused,
Destroyed.

And ultimately cleansed in a way I cannot understand.