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3 poems by Anthony B

Angels

Their eyes met, tying a caramel knot,
And they were lovers for the space of a heartbeat.
The urgent, fevered licks
Of blind Isaac's saxophone
Showered her in her sweat-slick abandon
Like a fall of warm, colored raindrops.
Within her mark, a blue wishbone snapped,
Spawning the intelligence of a fallen Utopia.
The music swelled and a dinner bell sounded
Solely for his ear, while Satan smiled
And flipped a coin.
Twenty lies later, they were alone in the dark.
And his every word
Was an inch lost in quicksand.
She could see the hourglass sliding empty,
The geyser awaiting eruption.
Lucky twenty-one swept him home with her
Where a slow dance smoldered,
And crescendoed,
And climbed beyond his concerns for the sacred.
And damned was he before the music stopped;
Her eighth of the evening,
Infected with the crawling contagion of her.
He would not live to see her again.
Somewhere out at sea,
The lighthouse changed its shape
And smiled at him
Before the net closed again.

Pump

Injection strained and passionate
As a misericord sliding home...
Chaos coursing proudly,
Planting flags inside, between, across
A landscape that twists and rolls
In clutching waves...
Elastic binds the diving staff,
Retrieving the gauntlet of its mounting fervor.
Agonizing tightness burns
Toward horizons that burst with stolen wine.
Never more dichotomous has been the flesh
Than during the final prelude
To a sunshower;
Hungering for the rushing flood,
Yet shrieking wet-lipped against its charge.
Rolled-back eyes
Relinquish a grudging exodus of tears,
Shamed by fingers like pleading hooks,
And ravenous rage drives a slick, salted plunge,
The pink flame of the questing tongue,
While epithets take flight.
Fear the delicious press
Of this slippery, heartfelt expedition.
Its syncopation inspires exquisite humidity
To lubricate, irrigate, turn the radio up
Until every breath is a shudder,
And the only way to be heard above the rhythm
Is to roar.

Dripping Pink Places
Sometimes Run Red

Her smile, like quicksilver, pushing him toward the moon,
Her stroke, her clutch twists upon his palate,
A sensual grind in a dark, cool room;
Serpentine lovers at work and play.

His blade comes down whistling,
A gleaming arc that has severed heads gladly,
Has eviscerated leather nuns, white-collared pimps,
Blind infants with wallets to fatten.
A sip of nectar divine, and his sigh feels weighted
With his desire to rip her skirt and leave her sore.

Baptized in brains and carmine,
He returns to exchange her prize for his.
He opens the skin of her shoulders,
Anoints her lips and inner thighs
With his devotion.
It runs down her legs, scalding as tears.

Her spike of a smile, pointed and cruel as a shard,
Steals diamonds from the sky, rewrites top to bottom,
Peels open his breast, unflinching,
To lick his bones.
She roars as she comes,
His still-beating heart in her fist,
So utterly, rhythmically hers.

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