Sprung

Waiting to be loved by the New York night.

posts up on Flatbush, kiss his timid sole.

The skyline from Brooklyn, resembles

A hobo’s cum. The negro air, absent of calm.

The tops get ready to vogue, werk & kiki.

His Massachusetts pimp says, he got two

More months of Brooklyn poetic fuck.

The clotted traffic on Atlantic Ave

Is his cross. He’d give it all to be kissed

By BK on last time. The polluted help

That resides under his lip, bleeds the young

Night from his tongue. Only one thousand

Four hundred, sixty one hours left to find rent.

What Lips Can Do

was it the glimmer of light

your erotic seductive gaze at state

you, black lips

abandoned amygdala in love with brail

tender, my nakedness

blue waits

for a bird like me to forget

bequeathed a kiss

call me sex craved

and swallow Mary Jane’s abortion,

his eyes a soft philosophy

silent, his lips a drug

Paradise Liquor

Behind the walls

I weave your pain

Tipsy like a book title

Honey, intimate and brave