Junkyards are cemeteries too
they're just the ones no one brings flowers to
or visits after they've said goodbye
and they are filled to the brim
with forgotten wheels and empty bodies
and I am sick of these wheelbarrow operations
and the way the mice eyes sparkle
as they wait by the mailboxes
that don't even belong to them
for love letters from the cats that will never come
because when she said "I love you"
it was a junkyard kind of goodbye that she meant

i want the feeling
the press and the weight and the grip and the fingernails;
the hair and the burn, the neck and the throat;
the gaze and the tears, the lips, the mouth, the spit
the tongue and the teeth (the fangs
and the bite);
the kiss and the lick, the grinding, the pushing and the
circles of the hips,
the fat of the thighs and the brush of the ankles;
i want the liquid and the hard, the sticky and the sore,
the pain and the sting and the ecstasy of the pleasure;
i want the eye rolls and the sighs and
the gasps and the moans and the screams and the whispers;
i want the banging of the bones and the rubbing of the skin,
the crashing of the waves, the rumble of the storm and the
hissing of the breeze.
i want to meld the two of us together until we become a thousand,
and to never cease sipping on this wine of heedless madness
that we blindly drown in.