Books I’ve read this week:

Movies I’ve watched this week:

Books I’ve been reading this week:
Half-lives, Loveroot, and The Woman with Two Vaginas

Movies I’ve watched this week:

The best movie I’ve seen so far this year:

He blamed his impotence on medication,
Not me,
While he sucked on soiled substitutes.
He slumbered in my demanding bed
To console a grieving actress.

We pretended to sleep,
While he held my hand for hours.
In the beginning of morning,
Partially snoozing, unprotected movements,
I misplaced the gasps of his pinnacles.
Was he that hushed or that shamed?

He told me:
I dishonored his seclusion and trust,
I am a brilliant woman with no morals,
He likes me as a friend and a woman,
Not to push him away.

He disregarded my whimpers of worry
While I took four pregnancy tests.
Confession contractions reverberated.
I cannot birth without violating again.

The memory of his comforting hand
Creates a throbbing in my orifice.
I climax at the vision
Of lying in a cradle of moss
In a luminous meadow of wildflowers
While a nearby brook dribbles,
And the breeze breathes.

Nature blessed me lastly.

But even She betrays me.
My ectopic pregnancy cramps my tubes.
I cannot maintain this secret.

They must scrape away
Our daybreak passions
Before they slaughter me.

She dismissed the snake
Since he was small
Against the late fawn,
Who now rests awhile.
He held her through the crash
He held her daffy, sheer hair
Away from her skull.

She was fooled and shushed
As if she were naive,
And her eyes sank to nowhere.
She soaked in no comfort
Such as a lake or a noose or a cello.
His wooing venom resented
Only her delicate throat.

Jocks hit first and grovel last.
I soar and melt from a perverted boy.
His mouth travels from cold mirrors to hot old June,
Groping the lace like a rotting molester.

The shore blurs.
Leers and sneers overeat the lookout.
The cove’s torture is meat,
Low and rambling and sulking.
The true toil of the mule soars to pervert the soul;
His outlet races to enjoy all of the corset’s creatures.

I run to old elf caves.
Whatever happens, the boy’s got me all excited
To touch his potent mouth.
He finds me, cooks me, and eats my soul.
His prophesy for peace to my soul
Was a sensitive distraction from the gutter.
I end up, sucking mold,
After the evil has tore my soul
Without reason or rage.
The old jock peeled my moss
To create my rocky desert.

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