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The Other
by: Alex Nodopaka
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Through
Dark Doors
Your strut alters mood.
Gnashes teeth, shouts
promises of homicide
to the dull and soft. And
that hipswirl consumes light,
flicks the dream switch:
Mouth on nylon, up,
up past the dark edge,
lips brush to moisture
as cloth piles at our feet.
Eye-fuck me to your bed.
Spread and glisten on satin
and light the flame that burns
me down, destroys structure
and content. You
reshape and harden
and we are stiff tips,
full swell and ache,
hair-triggered to quiver.
In pink garments of surrender,
inlaid with shiver and tongue,
it is sustained mania.
Submerged in river,
filled with blood rock.
Backstreet Sacrament
I know you know what I am,
blue eyes and white heart
that go black at night
and ache in the rain.
You know I snap at tease,
nip till it spills. And
you know what I want.
To drink the leaking,
in communion.
One dip to mouthing,
river of new and everlasting.
I want you nailed
to my religion,
my thorn tip on the holy,
circling in a press.
The whipcrack of snapped neck
and hair toss, the whimper
as you shiver.
And I want the pure rub,
the humid pinks
and the sliding,
the shine of steel
that will raise and rebuild you
into a city of women.
I need you on the torch, sweat
reflecting the summer sun
in its glowing,
and your rattle, lid flutter
to a blur of hips.
Grind of mind
and melt of metal,
rivet snap.
The bending crash of skyscrapers.
The spotted soul.
Bella di Notte
You, on a wall.
Hung and flattened, pressed
against a promise.
He frames you in blaze, hemmed
by steam and peeling wallpaper.
You are seam-split and palmed,
slick at the pivot.
Or in the mud.
Wedged, you make a man
an army. And when he marches
it is lock and load, a trample
you remember as a dream
that is not a dream. Heat
of battle, all red and smoke,
pushing on tongues and lungs
until breath is not what matters
most. Until it is the gun,
the nail that suspends you,
rashed by sweat and hands,
burned and dripping,
that gives you life.
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