Alternating currents

I like my poets gentle and violent, in alternating currents. Passionate throughout, nearly always lonely. Kind of like my men. I like the way the words slam home, slice deep, hold my chin so I can’t look away from their word wounds. I like the way they whisper so close and slide the tips of their dark craft monologues along the most tender parts. Bone raw and sophisticated, doubtlessly authentic.

I like them the same, poets and men. All loved up with no where to go but my place, my eyes like saucers, hands like cups, all the better to drink them with.

Come into my room, sit by me while I cocoon. Gentleness and violence.

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