Come on my heart, my amorous cat,
and keep away from me your claws.
Baudelaire
Now that I have touched
this adored body, I hear
the dead throbs of lip dementia.
Now that I have touched the cuts
that trim this adorned throat,
I feel melt in me, the senses
blend as one. Never will a kiss sting,
word hurt (under covers, over heards).
Caressing constructed flesh, the shears coil
around where our hearts would be
meeting our worst troubles. This is what gets me
every time: the thirst—the midnight drink of venom
shot through a tired thumb.
The Failures of a Non-Performer 