Melting Mirrors

The mirror
melted and oozed
its own vibrating reflection,
down the walls
of my hungry,
thirsty creation
of a haunted bedroom.
Breathing beast and fire,
morphing identities
into formula fragmented
fancy poses of surrendered apathy,
middle aged men snacking
on paper dolls,
for shame on your sadism,
syrup and sexed blood
staining my springtime dresses,
fights with fists,
cruel words
made me slump silent
though I craved to
yell out in witching twitching
wildness against
the torrent tactics
of steal and
the malicious fortune hunters
with their sickening winking
blurry eyes.

So I hurricaned myself
from my sullen undead slumber,
contorting curvaceous concoctions
of pleasure and breath,
groans loud enough
to wake the house,
along with the creaky
the grandfather clock
banged on in the hallway to its
very own syncopated sweltering rhythms
causing us to be late,
your mouth on my juicy hips,
tongue between my thighs and
erotic cries,
teeth on my neck as you
thrust deep and slow and the headboard
urges us on and moans out the chorus,
though teatime is passing swiftly
with the pastel parental figures
shaking their angry watches,
cautious steps I enter
through the kitchen window
and dabbing the corners
of my delicate red mouth
with the cranky crusty napkins
of the mainstream media.

The panic attacks
ever heaping their
festering sores and
religious rites down
heavy on my
pounding migraine head,
I ate through you
to the other side of
forgiving myself
for staying,
allowing you to speak
so harsh to me,
this way and that,
repeating vicious patterns
made into origami
bouquets of blue and pink,
fevered flowers
that I cant remember
the names of
in their screaming silence
so to keep me up all night,
in the alleyways,
mischief and mayhem,
my fierce stubborn resistance
for the brain beaten down
by chemicals and despair.

To the life lived out
in raspy
wicked passion,
we raise our feisty glasses
to drink in another
fucking hot and humid day.
Pant and dancing out
of coffin nightmares,
superstition sex,
mirrors and warped reflections,
we the weary waking
can change our sorrowful courses,
directions mazed
in requiem aside,
we create the future
with miracles and light.

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