NeuroRomancer

-- From Sleeping with Nefarious Intent As your nocturnal neighbor, I slide next to you in Winter, whispering across your breath, the South Wind's wildest words. When dawn warms the window glass, and marmalade flame transverse the ceiling, I carefully caress your lips with thinly sliced strawberry, and mango until you smell the fresh roast brewing in the kitchen and are ready to brace against the cold tile floor and shower steam. As you are now, stretched in graceful recline, I see illusion, projected on the silk of your skin by my mind; a rendering in my image. I stare to burn my eyes, to go blind, so I can see your-self, not my after-image. My what-you-ought-to-be's are tangled in your hair, my wishes constrict your hips bruising what is you. It is difficult to see with eyes unclouded by wish and ought-to's . Hard to recognize illusion; to realize that while I smell your perfume, and feel the heart beat of your thigh What I feel, is

There is a hollow carved in me, an area created by hepatic knurling. A space which serves as a hospice for my Care, and Hope. A place where these two are given warm towels light but tasty food, and 236 channels of cable TV for entertainment while they wait and bleed. I can hear the rasp of their labored breath; the choking hemoptysis; the lesion wails they cry into their pillows when they believe no one else is around. My heart is heavy from the ichnite filling the spaces they have fallen from; I drift in hemal circles. -- from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent

from Sleeping with Nefarious Intent With the eddy motion of autumnal fog -- hushed as last breath around the shanks of men -- the Moon strolls to her apex; planets are  her path stones. Her lunette breasts sheathed in the fabric of lithium clouds, keened sheer by the West wind, distract even far flown storm. Her youth is vibrant; Kev blue eyes, promethium skin. Her passage silent; latria songs marquertied in the mercerized gown across her thighs. The radiant goddess of the manes, and mercurial denizens; who shift through islands of amber light and shadows bloated with night; the hiemal ecosystem of the streets below. Those whose lives are ruled by tides, respect her budding aspect, aware that these maturing eyes remember the snarled hours of her crone, and the ensanguine gown sometimes worn on nights she is in bloom; hungry. Even in her darkest age -- her petals flint, her brilliance burned -- she entices latent swells to rise and churn. Men and women