Hands Feel Your Poetry Burning

For those who can notice such things,
these walls must roar
in echo of sentences never spoken,
and other ungodly expressions never exclaimed
into the stale air, this perpetual stench,
indecisives' sweat impregnated
in eiderdown, oak and leather.

Amateur Hour recorded rhetorics
whispers past failures back at us.
Not that I listen anyway,
my focus strained to your voice
and your voice alone.

I knew you would choose your blues
for this karaoke kick with too much care.
It is open night on spit, and the mike
that is my perception, erect, anticipating
your growl and grip, is primed for action.
Satisfaction is a deepthroat grunt
of passing thresholds unknown to science.

And I wait, I wait,
I god damn piously wait for you
to stop talking...

...and start speaking.

You own the words... you carry them
like nitro, locked in a Pandora's Box,
suppressed to oblivion and shame.
But as tangible as your name.

Words you could never commit
to runes linked - they would scorch paper,
and wreak havoc if digitally committed
to transport through a fatal pixel push.

But spoken,
cutting and fusing new neural paths,
they would static charge your spine
and taste like scotch and semen
on your tongue...

...a semantic Sangreal spell that would
let me tear that skimpy see-though
Freudian slip right off your burning blush,
and pin your self promotion banter
to the nearest wall.

Teeth would sink softly into succulent flesh,
and god almighty, if you scream
and sing the way you can - between whimper
and borderline laughs - my Kool-Aid plasm will
once and for all purify into the true red
that paints your cheeks
in the complexion of clandestine claims.

One breath would drown in the other's salt,
and there would be no safety fuse...

...not since you scoured your closet
for the perfect mask, a deck of trump excuses,
and found that beautiful veil.
The only reason we'd ever need
to unleash each other's beasts.

Only then, you see,
only then can we cast aside
the robes, Jante's fine tuned straight jackets,
and leave this room as true humans...

...who didn't cower and shrink
to misconceptions of disapproval dreads,
who have no chains and will carry,
with pride, halos of splinter identities
in a sand paper smoothed world.

Speak, I beg you, speak those words
and shatter something still unknown
inside of me into glass dust
that can burn my veins clean,
tear those optic synapses apart
and let your ethereal fire forge me
sapient once more.

If those words and this room,
whatever it is that so desperately needs
to resound in here, can't heal us,
right this moment,
nothing ever will.