In our dusty hearts,
skinclad, in cleavage,
we hope to live forever,
flesh closed upon itself,
conceiving sorrow.
Our trees are pleasant to the sight
of gold and onyxstone
and every beast and fowl has its name
except for our nakedness.
In a garden of talking serpents,
cool days and lying Gods,
I betray you to the voice
and hide.
Return
My Putrid Lover
by Sam Vaknin
My lover dreams
of acrid smells
and putrid tangs
I lick
(dishevelled hair adorns)
her feet
I scale
the shrink-warped body.
I vomit semen
that her lips ingest.
And youth defies her.
When You Wake the Morning
by Sam Vaknin
When you wake the morning
red headed children shimmer in your eyes.
The veinous map
of sun drenched eyelids
flutters
throbbing topography.
Your muscles ripple.
Scared animals burrow
under your dewey skin.
Frozen light sculptures
where wrinkles dwell.
Embroidered shades,
in thick-maned tapestry.
Your lips depart in scarlet,
flesh to withering flesh,
and breath in curved tranquility
escapes the flaring nostrils.
Your warmth invades my sweat,
your lips leave skin regards
on my humidity.
Eyelashes clash.
Narcissism
by Sam Vaknin
The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
venomised.
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