"Fruit Snacks"

“Fruit Snacks”

Mistakenly got it twisted.

Was ready to catch the mist

and still somehow missed it

so again,

my lap is dripping.

I’ve missed this feeling.

Tiny kisses.

Pecks between sips of juice.

Limbs not loose enough yet.

Joints locked 

like my eyes 

on her thighs

and she drives me.

Wouldn’t bother even trying

to pry myself from this couch.

Mouth open for extra air.

Palms full of her hair 

with a scent reminiscent

of nutmeg and warm cinnamon.

Time went away.

Middle of the day, I suppose.

Close to her center.

Collected clothes around dinner.

Ceiling on a dimmer

like light hardly matters.

Casual switch in her hips.

More gradual now.

Faster.

Smooth and slick in my lap

like lather or batter overmixed.

Fixed on release,

she fits like a crease

Folded gently into pillows.

Moist air billows

like pollen in the wind.

Anticipation enlisted for ease

when she takes me in

and before we reach the end,

I find my lap wet again.

Woke up to her

chewing bubble gum.

Perfume in my lungs.

Bit my tongue

when I leaned in to kiss her.

Whispered demands

for my hands to follow accordingly.

Forward first then leaned back 

after losing my jeans,

or shorts,

or slacks.

It never really matters.

Had her worst ways displayed

as the best of my intentions.

Thought I’d eventually

commit some time to intervention

and make way to some ascension

from my place on this furniture

but her overtures

effective

with a few simple directives

and some incentive, of course

tends to smooth over this coarse

concept of merely being her favorite seat.

I fancy her my favorite treat.

not really one for meager portion

when I can clearly see it packaged.

Managed nice and tight in lace.

Soft and smooth to grace my face

so I would gladly sit in place

if only to enjoy a taste.

Trace of juice at the seam.

Warm like steam just escaped.

Skin slightly scrapes stubble.

Adjustments made for slip and stumble

and the gentle rumbling of thighs.

Eyes close and time froze

when it decided to return.

Moments burned into my mind:

Recurrently resurfacing

sound

like chimes in the wind.

Scent

wondered about when distant,

lusted after when in reach

and truly felt when up close.

Taste

a sweetly scattered burst of flavor

I imagine teeth would have to 

break through skin to savor.

Thought

a loop of similar reasons why I

never seem to labor enough

to rise from this couch

to include the way my neck would bend,

her wrappers strewn across my floor

and in the lazy haze of it all,

this moisture in my lap

Again.

I think I’ll lay here awhile.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"The Labor(Existence)"

"The Labor(Existence)" 

Put down by the pickup
on the things I say.
It doesn't matter anyways
until they just get in the way
and then they matter more
to who?
What patterns are you seeing?
Are things never balanced?
Just uneven?
Is that triggering?
One answer at a time
lest the mind take shelter
in fear.
Eyes that welter in tears
over years of discomfort
and each tier to overcome
for the simple sake of sanity...

Word with no depth is vanity:
an image moving in the mirror
with nothing meaningful
beneath the surface.
Word with thought implies purpose.
Intent.
Consent to one engaged in reality
instead of casually skirting by it.
Try it
and you're either repulsed
or rejuvenated.
You'll rebuke it outright
or accept renewal in a light
that shines that bright for a reason.
Like seasons,
the point between
wanting to and never again
will probably change with the wind
so it serves well to remain in the center. 

Threw your words at me
with a chill cold as winter
with the hope that I'd remember
and therefore be hindered daily.
You openly wished
to impart some frailty
or reveal it under some layer
of superficial armor I'm supposedly wearing.
I'm hearing
and it seems
through the shout and scream
that you appear to be tugging
at the very sky above
in hope that it falls on me. 

I viewed you and your tears
from your anger
to the fear:
Transformation amid clumsy sidesteps
and your missteps saw you stumble.
I watched it all crumble before me.
You should still be standing
before me.

I guess one had to survive
so that the other could tell the story...

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Courtesy"

"Courtesy" 

Don’t make me feel.

To feel means it 

either was

possibly is

or might soon

be real

and that means that

I’m left with layers

to peel back

until appeal and authenticity

appear to be one in the same

and that would require

my willingness to touch that fire

and try not to wince.

To embrace that heat

without growing tense.

To draw again

on what I’ve always sensed

but tried to believe

that I’ve forgotten since.

A brief glimpse

and I’m there again

where again 

is both the incentive

and the indictment.

Nights went by

and we laughed

and I cried

and we tried our worst

to hide it from the light;

caring less about the sight

and too much about sensation.

Actions that went against

every single inclination

that I've unsuccessfully tried to present

as something truly intrinsic to my being.

Don't bring into being

the state of flux

that I've worked so hard

somewhat

to keep tucked away.

Not interested in what one would say.

I shouldn't be, at least.

It makes sense to keep us at bay

to preserve my portion of peace

and I'm well aware

of how selfish that sounds

but with every piece

left on the ground,

it becomes easier to convince myself

that there's nothing I need to choke down

whenever you decide to come around

but,

even when fully clothed,

I feel naked in your presence.

No cover can conceal the hell

that penetrates every veil

I could ever hope to fashion

before you.

With reluctance,

I recount the ways

that I would set the table

by sweeping away labels

I thought would never apply

to you

or me.

Never realized even once

until too close to the end

that I was merely making room:

brushing away the dimmer days

so that the darker nights

would hopefully benefit

from sitting next to a light

barely acknowledged by sight.

Don't tell me it's alright

when I'm not

and you might be.

I don't dwell on likely.

It doesn't matter if you like me

now.

Don't dare appeal to my 

favorite

fractured

fragments

when the advent was more spectacle

than the time before the departure.

Don't be to me now

the very lesson

that I have prayed against

with what energy remained

in reflection

and depression

and stubbornness against futility.

Don't employ that tacit ability

to make light of my humility

so dry

as if it should be perceived

as some sort of consolation prize.

My eyes view you

with no true semblance of solace

but if I might be painfully honest,

I'm still very much in love with you.

That truth I still sit with.

In silence.

Don't deny me that reciprocity.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Less Rest"

"Less Rest" 

The fact that you're in my life
is proof that contradiction exists
formed to fit firmly
as one of my favorite occurrences.

Purpose belongs to those
looking to make sense of it all.
I'd honestly much rather fall
for the sake of the splash.
I'm attracted to the crash.
The blast
ringing loud in my ears.
Thirsty for the tears
that accompany my fears.
For years,
they've become sort of an...
.... accommodation.
Seldom perceived misread elation
for one deprived of sleep.

The sensation of the memory alone
is always felt when I'm alone
when what was left of you is gone
and I'm just left here on my own.
Old texts still in my phone
I'm prone to peruse
and ponder
and use
to some fleeting extent of satisfaction.
A distraction really
and a fact that silly
is an act that gives me
perhaps
a slim chance at a nap
briefly at least
before I'm once again creased
between my lack of sleep
and the piece of me
that still misses you.

See,
the issue with that piece
I'm sure
is that with each crease,
thoughts so impure
spread out thin over any perceived cure
and I find myself succumbing
to such a sickness as sweet as this.
Bad for
but good to.
Want more
but need to pull away.
Lost days licking fingertips
for a trace of your taste.
Wasted hours in the shower
as if I could ever hope to replace
that cool chill
or warm embrace.
Forgot that minutes have limits
that can't replenish first impression
and my favorite contradiction
without discretion
will always teach me a lesson
but I'd much rather count these seconds

because I won't let you
let me sleep.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Smudges"

"Smudges" 

He just sat there.
Smiling
Mind processing
while the sage burned.
Recalled events
of moments since
as if a page turned.
He was never one to discern
over the concern
that would predictably ensue
from what he would assume
they both wanted to do.
Nothing new
to them.
It was cool
to him:
She would tug at his hem;
pulling at threads worn thin
and begin ripping;
tearing away
at his clothes
as if to liberate his skin
before taking him in.
Temperature ignored
as handful
after handful
mingle with the floor.
Open pores contract
and gasp
and his hands clasp her breasts
before she is pressed against glass
and words dissolve into letters.
Playful smirk as he cleans the mirror.

One recalls
but the other
knows better.

Woeful sigh as she cleans the mirror.
Fear dissolved her words into letters
from being forcefully pressed against glass.
Feeling unclean.
Dirty from his hands
that would angrily clasp her breasts.
With painful gasps,
her stomach would contract
before its contents mingled with the floor.
She can still hear his demand for more
as he stripped handful
after handful
while her pleas were ignored.
Before pushing his way in
with a startling grin,
he would leave marks
and scratches
and bruises on her skin
that her clothes -
now worn thin
could no longer contend with.
Would try to push away from him with
the fleeing strength of the frightful.
To him:
It was delightful.
To her:
It was a spiteful occurrence.
Nothing new.
Just something she'd come to rue
every time that she assumed
that she wouldn't be consumed
by a thought so violently exhumed
that she can't help but be concerned with.
The depression of such discernment
that he convinced her she earned
with every attempt she makes
to turn the page.
Events that make her wince
while she burns the sage;
trying hard to chase away the hurt
and his rage
but that process alone is trying
enough throughout the fits of crying
so she just sat there.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Haberdashery"

"Haberdashery"

"Play on the passion toward
a perceived possession
of a peace seldom prolonged."

That might come off
somewhat pompous
or even pretentious for that matter
but I promise
that description is rather potent
for a piece this contentious.
This piece my ensemble
I happen to be dressed in
that is contemptuous at best when worn.

Take this fabric for instance:

Torn in patches.
Collected in batches
of past skin ripped thin
from lashes driven deep
across the backs of kin
considered less than men
back then.
These gashes
were fashioned from the tragic
but not for the dramatic
habits of the judgmental.

These threads I wear are fundamental
so don't mistake this for a rental.

This pair of slacks:

Real matter of fact.
Tailored to fit exact
yet they attract peculiar stares
so much to the point
where pretending to be unaware in turn
requires more care and concern
than I'd want to discern between.

The slacks
perceived dusty and unclean
aren't as rugged and obscene
as the jeans worn in replacement.
Your distaste with
My refusal of displacement
is outrage wasted on classic design.
This hem and weft sewn
firm perfect lines and cuffs strewn
together from a time when we were known
to be grown,
worn
then thrown around;
lying there on the ground
after consistent and profuse
rips and tears from abuse
have us appear to no longer be of use.

This tie:
A noose.

A ruesome recollection
from a systematic selection
of fruit too strange
to be given a brand name

and you know the man came correct.
No half stepping.

I wear this suit whole
just to bare my soul
and that of the many
what were paid the very pennies
that grace these loafers.
No snake skin.
I break skin
when I break in these shoes
and these old soles
with these poked holes
were once worn whole to pay dues.

It was never much of a hassle
to procure these shackles.
They still cuff hands to this day
but those cuffs have linked us
to history itself;
dangling as if high up on a shelf
because our very health depended on this.
The time that I've spent in these seams
is a price I could never afford to neglect.
Every stitch was bound to a dream
that I can say I have worn with respect

so with nerve,
I describe -
- or serve, as you may:

A play on the passion toward
a perceived possession
of a peace seldom prolonged.

Fashion of the forsaken
worn be we who have never forgotten.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz

"Never Better"

"Never Better"

I can't say that I miss you.
I mean,
I can
and have...
...tried...
to convince myself otherwise.
Searched for other eyes
to willfully lose myself in
to replace those restless nights
and days where afternoon crept in
to find me still in bed
getting those final texts in.
The hardest thing now
about days when I've slept in
is knowing that falling back on loneliness
is but one of many chances to reminisce...

...but...

I can't tell you that I miss you.
I'm saying...
...I do miss you staying over.
I miss playing with you
over
and over.
These shoulders much colder
without those thighs
draped across them.
Found some of your garments
and have yet to toss them.
Felt those biting,
burning urges
and can't say honestly
that I've fought them
with nearly the same energy
that I explicitly
implicitly
use to
pleasure myself
when I think about you...

...but you can't know about this...
...you can never know
how much I miss...

You can never learn
about the slow churn
that takes place
with every swipe
or scroll
that involves seeing your face.

You can't know about the chase.
The frantic pace that I employ
like that of a child
after a toy
left where someone else
might
mistake it for theirs.

You couldn't possibly be made aware
of how austere things have grown
and if I'm lucky,
you'll never have known
and wouldn't assume an inkling.

Yes,
far more fortunate and ideal
to leave you thinking
or not.
I'll say I couldn't remember
or that I simply forgot
and waste that wonder
all for naught
if not for more than the cheap wealth
of not having to confess to you
what I refuse to admit to myself.

Written By: Devin Joseph Metz