Poetry is just another word for plague

This
will
not
suffice -

a sinking fist, soon hidden by the serf; the
chink of ovals, and then the click of your
tongue against my stomach when you silence me.

I am cross-legged
on the floor, my poems
spread out on all sides of me; you
might as well call them limbs, they
are merely extensions of the beginning,
otherworldly echoes of the end.

Sullen things, whispering:
suddenly, or usually this
eventually destroys everything,

and words eat at me until
my body screams quietly, a roar
only evident in my slow inhale; just waiting
for your hand on my back, the way the fingers
pool, pull me close. Hold me there like an eloquent phrase.

And you know that I'm a sycophantic day dreamer;
an opulent car crash shining deep inside you

yet,
neither
one
of
us
seems
to
give up,

though I try to keep it still. I try to keep it quiet, keep
my body ready for you, but it falls across me sometimes
like a veil, and even though your kiss is hungry,
my mind is ravenous for the right word to describe -

your face, crooked
my face, bent,
and then we're spent on one another,
palms pulling circles through the
lamplight, unmovable.

We say nothing, though my mind
is busy, buzzing like a fizzing drainpipe;

I long to spill
myself across the world.

This
will
not
suffice,

You say it one way:
I always write it in another way.