BLOOD HONEY and others

Blood Honey

Pulled into breath,

lingering and damp

under nostrils’ slow 

b   u   r   n,

wet tips of tongues

melt,

dart,

and slide

into syrupy tangles,

furious 

with hot spit and

exhales, sweet as red pomegranate.

Your little gasps (my little deaths)

fire 

cutting teeth

and hungry lips,

drawing us 

in,

spitting us

out—

blood honey in a syringe—

into the heavenly hell 

of this hypodermic love—the sugar 

in my veins. 

Cough Syrup

Bad medicine 

going down,

doled out in loving spoonfuls,

still leaves burns

your sugar can’t temper.

What cruel apothecary –this chemical romance—

that blisters wanting lips

and scalds the tongue,

makes flush the palest cheek—

red hot—

with a heat, synthetic and caustic, 

leaving me hollow—this playground for echoes—

and smoke-choked.

What to do with this melted skin

that blurs the line between

you and me,

this addictive crash 

of candied pain 

that boils and bubbles 

like black tar heroin in a dirty spoon, 

leaving nothing 

but pitch in its witchery’s wake,

except wait…

…for that next opiate kiss.

3 A.M.

Here, 

at the Devil’s hour,

in the room made void by your indentation (my lamentation),

Sleep tantalizes, 

echoing infernal lullabies 

of leaky faucets and bathroom-mirror punchings—

my cradlesong. 

drip…drip…drip

My love—red and hot—

sprawled on white walls and the cracked basin, 

like graffiti in disappearing ink, 

cascades to the sobering tile, below—

like icicles during Spring thaw—

leaving specters and tragedies stitched in hands (and time),

rank with the smell of sweat and dirty pennies.

drip…drip…drip

Its 3:15—knee-deep in the Devil’s hour—

only a quilt of coppery ghosts and shadow to keep me warm.

Where’s your affection (my confection)

that silences the symphony of raining glass 

and pleas from my mind (and scars), crying for a new page? 

drip…drip…drip

Dopamine

Drops

                             Just enough

drops

                      too few

drops

                         too many

everywhere

                             in my brain

sliding notes

                                                       calling cards and pink slips

under doors

and

                                              slipped through fingers

here I am

                           without you

without my glasses

                                          wishing I could think

by David Estringel

David Estringel is a writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalopress, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Horror Sleaze Trash, Terror House Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Ethel, The Milk House, and The Blue Nib. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website david a. estringel (davidaestringel.com)