Aiming to Please

My mouth is full.
Spitting speakeasys
followed by soul compression
inhibitions; I swear my eyes
are open, blinking baby butterfly
kisses but sending too high
and now she thinks I’m
only aiming to please.
In high demand my insights align,
sink back down, and meet the grind:
skeletons left on her path roadside.


Noteworthy new lows.

Put My Head Down and Go

Guilty pleasures, justified.
She finds comfort in my
shoulder shrug lullabies.
Wait for the drop.
Heads and beats fall
until they hang on knees,
three stories at least.
Her little pretty pleases
hesitate, almost to a flaw.
Finds common sense trifling
as she pries trepid jaw off
my devastated floor.
Words don’t dare trek
toward my morbid eligibility.