Baronet
Words are steam
congealed open toothed your opium-mouth
hellhound craving the spice of a half inhaled cigar,

the semi-nude night
where Afghani blossoms grow in the broken window boxes
though really it was one strong fisted lie
after another

yes and in
behind the arabesque doorways you pull
away the Scandinavian bones, the taste
of salt and old Viking war ships

when you say my name
it is a full sound
you do not abbreviate

but oh god!
the name, on a tongue,
the word, the sound, hot
steam, a slow dance,
fingers flatter in gesture, feckless

pomp and misogynists who do not know
the meaning of their own definitions,
your limping softness in my hand

the lingering,

the martyr of evening, ruining
the bitter cold with tobacco and
feted indecision on your uneven teeth

or the blue dolls
someone linger,

still,

but oh the name!

the dream
taking place, in which you would not
tell me, but I argued, said words were meant
to be spoken,

dip your words heavy into my mouth;
let me swallow the heat

and fear,

your fingers dig into the wet earth
reaching for the other side.