Grind
Bright rising curves,
disco ball glistens on a setting sun.
The Shape is hidden under warm, wet fur.
We are only bodies in transit,
skin to skin.
Filthy, sweating:
involuntary rapture.
A brief sinless violence
Falling to exhaustion.
C.M. Crockford
Most common moods
Poems
Curtain
Your back arches
like a cat in the mid-day,
sprawled out, so confident.
Your torso is wonderfully imperfect.
A loose sigh, so designed that
I think of old films:
“How can you love me?”
Outside, something in the distance howls
if only for protection.
The first poems in full
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Chinatown Skyline
Windows burnt into hard surfaces, the territory of monoliths.
Empty rooms, dissipated presences, blank ceilings seeing all we were.
The shades conceal cries, a restless moan. The clocks tell our story, kill it softly.
All the while the smoke marks the sky like a kiss on parted flesh.
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