This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

On men desired.

Your voice across long distances, your radio wires trembling in your throat. The strings pulled taught over the banjo neck in your guts, the melody of every time I shied and meeked away from the wolf smile barracked in your lips. Here, I can perhaps play the huntress, with the blood at arm’s length.
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Your voice just at my side, leaning against my leg and looping through my days, but my fingers are brushing cracked screens when I look at you. Little bits of glass hitching in my skin when I reach out to slide myself across your mottled body. I will place my pussywet fingers behind my ears, I will speak only on this just barely side of proper, I will ache and ache and ache, for looping.
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Your voice held inside your mouth like a secret. Your face, in my dreams nearly every night, the way you hold your body like you know something, your poet’s hands and your fascist grace. If simply once you placed your hand on my neck: a falling, and a smell like cut grass and cold lake water, the scar burning on my arm.
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Your voice, echoing strong in the night world, glitter and flash, but quiet spoke against my shoulder. The nervous girlish in your boy’s demeanor, the spit wet lips on your young coyote jaw. I want to twist myself inside you like a slow construction.