A love poem, revised

Is this story real?

The story where Cassandra is taken against her will
Where all choice is punished
Is this Apollo controlling the tides of poem?
What beasts move like wrestlers?
And take words like lassos
to bind around necks
And drag pulsing bodies
across a dirt road,
And they safely propped on their horse,
that toils that body already stretched on a table
While breasts and hands and a mouth
swallow dirt and grind against rocks

Will to Perfection is all I need to know of horror
For who seeks to augment a body first
Uses words like imprints
A map, a blue print to the kill
Who turns my only friends,
my words, into my fears

What kind of man, she says
And I agree
What man says Bitch, and Baby, and Whore

What man says all screams of “fuck” are a call to God?
What prophet?
Dear preacher, I can’t be that lounge singer
What man is aggressive first
And asks if you meant yes after?
Tell me now what those boundaries are
Tell me, baby
Baby, baby, baby
I have a feeling you like being tortured

Is this story real?
The one where necks are split open
By knife, by rope
Or some rehearsed play
To make me feel, and accept a hand on my throat
Until boredom strikes again

You smell familiar
Different body, same soul
A meal that left me hungry and poisoned

I enter that fire every time
Cause baby, baby, baby
Maybe I am a little broken
Because I was primed by the first
And I’ve known the second
And now the third
And I want to be born, born, born
Every time again

Is this story real?
They always tell me too much.
But do they know
How a swallowed line sinks
And returns with out-pour
A clogged drain spilling back stories of
brands on skin
that in the end tried to own me
mark me
Do they know
that they run sooner than later
Because I know what lives
beneath that slither
behind those pretty forms that drone out of their mouths
like canopies formed of cobwebs
Do they know
That a sorry heart is worth cash money baby

Is this story real?
The one where the enemy is the double
It is old, I know
We both like that edge, he said
We both like to see how far we can go
The story where he takes you to your first home
Only now, he is there too

As if to say: If I am the past then I am the future too

Is this story real?
The one where I don’t know better
Every lesson thrown?
Three is a rightful narrative sealed
So here’s hoping


Ask me how many times

Ask me how many times
I looked up
how to make a poem

I have an old recipe book
that smells of soiled cloth
and dairy
An apron that has holes
for my tits

Recipe: it tells me to make frosting
out of torn up clothes
and clumpy mascara goo

Each time I gather
enough glass from the shelves
Cup them to your skin,
the book says, a greedy smile.

I always get half way
The part where I have to singe
my hand on the stove

I dip one finger in at a time
into boiling water
You have to test it,
every good cook knows

I tried a line the other day
I’m love sick I said,
I’ll see you all in a week

There is no vacation time
for it
I had to ask my podiatrist
Little do you know,

He says

Twisting my little toe
until I’m teetering on the edge of the
plastic wrap
His for the taking

So I went home
Feet blue
Crawling  with elbows
A fun game
like we used to do
On strangers’ carpets
in the middle of a heat wave
Back when poems
were silly