David-Matthew Barnes, conclusion. Molasses Could it possibly be that before you can love me you must first love the roots of trees, white chocolate chunks and catwalks? Sugar cones are better. Is it safe to say that my precious beating heart that you so lust after is brittle, is broken and prickly, thorned? You can go cut yourself. Let's discuss this proposition you've made me sick sick because you drank too much as usual and threw up on my sleeve. Cross your heart and hope to die. Copyright © David-Matthew Barnes 2003

Angel Inspired By Carolyn Forché Would you like a bowl of ice cream? Or we can talk about the way you look In that red and black trimmed Athletic suit That makes me Want to sit in your lap And tell you dark and dirty things. Perhaps you can tell me more About El Salvador And although you miss it, If you went back You would be killed And you never would have met An American boy like me—who wants to kiss you. I do all that you want me to, Out of lust and for leverage. I climb on top of your heart And tug at the strings That brings your chaos Sliding down around your knees and pleases Your fight for freedom. I capture the glow and the heave Of your breathless and remarkable Gift to fill my void with your insatiable Search for unconditional love in America. And although we have come close, There are more than frozen seconds Between us—there lies A country or two. Copyright © David-Matthew Barnes 2003

Give It To Me Your migraine headaches. Your chauvinistic charms. The way you chew with your mouth open, Gnaw on toothpicks like sludge. Crack your knuckles. Sing off-key. Laugh at the stupidest jokes And that mindless expression on your face When you swear you have rhythm. Your wax jobs, insistent blow jobs. Your callous hands, like grapefruit rinds. Unkind words to waitresses and all Those that were born to serve you. Keys locked in your foreign car. Cellphone, laptop, flip-box Marlboro's. Cuban cigars and all-American ignorance. Your twenty questions, your second-guessing. Your appointment book, entourage. Your critical disparaging over my weight and My Wicked, Wicked Ways. Your operas and oatmeal. Misogyny and madness. Ego and exclaim. That putrid smell on your breath when you cum too soon. And your wedding band, Caught on the sleeve of my sweater, Which you say is old and worn. The only thing that you can truly do For me, Is to go home And give it to her. Copyright © David-Matthew Barnes 2003

David-Matthew Barnes' fiction, poetry and stage plays have appeared in several literary journals and magazines including The Best Stage Scenes of 2000, The Comfusion Review, Slow Trains, California Quarterly, Poetic Voices and the upcoming issue of Dazzling Mica. He has recently completed his first novel, Ambrosia and a collection of poetry, Sins of The Flesh.

Contact the author at: davidmatthewbarnes@paris.com

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