y's and k's

If ice-rock fell at my toes
I'd hurl it at that damn phoenix,
so cocky in its resilience,
instead I kick at fire dust.

Which gets in my eye, scratched cornea,
like a DJ-backwards-so I can see
and almost, oh god jesus almost,
I feel her. I come so close to the warmth
of her breath flittering the whitest hairs
on my neck that these swollen memories
almost distract me from my swollen member.

Now it levitates again, foul fowl.
More dust-more lust-more reminisces
of dingy couches, whose 70's
floral patterns are high-tided by
quickly vanishing dresses and belts,
and its distinct "I've been alive
for 65+ years" smell is
temporarily covered by
the sounds of our minds leaving us
to mingle off into somewhere,
certainly not this basement
where our bodies-lips and noses
and who knows what else-are clanging
into each other like pots and pans.

and when the crimson rooster crows,
and my eyes fade from pitch black to
awoken, i expect to see
her, a visage of Helen, but
of course she is not to be found.
Which makes me want to launch my one
thousand microscopic white ships
all the more, but where is Troy?