Andronicus

His lack of color is framed by Hemingway's Beach.
Gatsby's outsider ink dots each iris,
Combing the sand for her footsteps.
Though his paper doll shadow
Wraps an armored heart and this
Only addresses his solitude,
He will want her in secret
Not the sweet one, the one who hears
about how his skin fits, or the accident
that shook his marble eyes into tapioca
and his bones into Turban shells.

Not her, but he will want the one
Who married him to his past, lynched his
Naked skull up to the movie screen
Looping Procne and Philomela's story
Tongue cut, swallow and wagging out like a Silver fish
Crying to the sunless air
Flopping Morse code to pavement.

There is always someone more filling
To return to your loins, seasoned
With self-torture
Perfumed with Narcissus
asking "where, where?"
A raised eyebrow or a hand
You hope will
Take it all away.

Philomela

Thrusting her tongue back to choke
the cries, the porous walls take in
the lovers sweat and sucking sounds
bacteria vibrates like dust settling
over their fist sized love.

Night shares its brilliance with the
backyard cat's call, gold flecks fall
and swill, sew themselves to
her lips until she is soldered shut
content to be the patron saint
of pleasure without question.