I am scared of my heart
Beating so hard
That the blood bursts
Through my veins
What would happen then
For everyone to see me
Covered in blood
It would never do
Morning so chilly it broke.
Fragile and rather dark.
Too nippy to want to move.
From my bed.
Early morning here.
Just fed my head.
To go to to work to give my love to those who matter.
The ones who feed me bread and butter.
On the first coffee of my exciting day.
I sit, I choke, I splutter!
This morning a morning of peeping up bottoms.
An afternoon of those with blood cancer.
My day as a patient romancer.
Going to be such a great day.
Like hell it is.
But good morning anyway.
I hope you all enjoy your day.
Or rest well depending on the time your way!
May 20th, 2013
Water falls down around me drenching everything. Spraying my back as it's turned up from the ground by the tires of my bike. They race across the pavement as fast as my legs pump. Sweat drips down my face. It's promptly washed away by the rain hailing in on me. Cars zip by. Passing by, leaving pockets of dryness in their wake. Heat curls off my skin, banished by the cool wind threatening to rip off my hat. Wind outmatched by the racing of my heart. The heaving of my lungs. The pumping of my blood. My legs spin faster as I push harder and harder. I have nowhere to go. I only focus on my exertion. My energy. I only focus on the going. The destination is lost in the drive. I push harder still. Then I get there. The world crashed up from behind me. Suddenly catching up. The rain drumming down. The dizziness in my head. My legs shake as I step off my bike. I'm home.
i killed a mosquito with legs like claws
i have stopped caring about the blood of bugs on my fingertips
slaughter them, my mind screams
slaughter slaughter gut their hunger
the evil inside of me is latent
evil, i admit it now
there is evil gnawing on my bones
crawling under my skin
it kills me
every night i scrub the fly larvae
out of each lung
my lips curling with the thought
of the stragglers i attract
sucking on my sadness
i am excrement, decayed vertebrate carcass
i am dinner, do not feed me
i will fatten, and they will find me
but they already know
what use is hiding?
they swarm around the holes i dig
they always find me
faulty jaw cracked
don't feed me it hurts
give me a heart attack
this can't get any worse
the fleshworms say i taste like home
they remind me i am
a walking infestation
a virus in people clothing
he will never love you
you are nothing more
than a dog with mange
a dying bitch
she is speaking so loudly
i can't hear my own soft voice
over the ache in my scalp
she pulls so hard on every hair
shaking me from side to side
winded, on the ground
i can't take another kick but
here it comes
i hold my breath and think about
what i used to be
before she found me
fine, eat me
drink my blood like wine
eat my skin like broken bread
and die from the infection
you spread to me
i will do anything to watch
you choke on my guts
i would love that
i imagine i hear you screaming
over the sound of the vacuum
when i wreak havoc on the corners of my room
i have never wanted to kill before
until you took my body from me
now i am blood thirsty and unforgiving
i will drown you in my last feeble vomit
taste my sickness bitch
taste your likeness
I remember when I was at the concert.
I could feel the tsunami of the crowd
As the headliner started.
Nothing to hear but screaming and music.
Electricity shot through the veins of all,
Some intoxicated, some not
we all feel the same musical passion.
The time of excitement was now.
Pit after pit of swarms engulf the crowd.
Sucking in the unexpected but willing.
But to protect a friend,
I was a fortress against the mob.
Listening to the music, the lights flashed.
and from nowhere known,
A natural weapon struck my face.
Turning around, feeling no pain,
But assured of the severity
by the river of blood I unwillingly donated.
Into the washroom, I stumbled.
Blood mixing with the nectar of life.
Outside to the medic I casually waltzed.
Swollen eyes, nose, and disappointment.
Hearing the music from outside the hall,
my heart dropped, I blew the plans of fun.
But never fear, new friends are made.
The blood stops its own current,
and memories are established.
Stories to tell in the future.
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it an slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by dad
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
Before the night fell
We witnessed the brilliance of man's folly,
Every note falling in deciduous perfection;
Even a prayer can be lost.
Then, when the stars came out,
The sun nowhere to be found,
The moon belched like a drunken pirate,
Bending the trees and sending their leaves
Skyward, off and away.
There was a whisper
Between the blades of grass
We sat upon.
There was a worry
In your eye
That told me there
Was to be more.
Candy cane fragrance
With a dash of cinnamon and salt.
Grinning through the darkness,
We touched hands like children,
Caught in that never ending dance.
Morning came like mist over a hill.
Our eyes wished not to open for the day.
She rose first and I rose second.
Never wanting for that feeling to go away.
Secondary rituals over coffee and pastries.
The sun came through that café window like a shot of a gun.
And when she paid and left,
She dropped a note that read "Until next time."
When you never see another again,
You always wonder what they came to be.
A periwinkle whore of 5 cents a pound,
Or a river lady loon that sang without a sound?
Under your bed -
Color shining in
Ox blood purple and red.
They told me your name
They scribbled your address
They want what you have
They're wondering why your'e so stressed
When she came by the place again,
I wasn't home, so she dropped me another note.
This one had only one word:
I can't lie.
I was quite
Two days past.
A knock on my door.
Moon light's middle finger
Stretching into my living room
My couch held her like an egg in a carton.
Toad colored hat latched around her head.
Hair covering her eyes, her mouth, her broken nose.
She wore orange flip flops, wiggling her toes.
She asked why I hadn't called.
I told her that I didn't have her number.
She talked about her soon to be dead father.
I sat down to listen, thinking of my forgotten brother.
When she began to cry, she came to me,
Like a bee to a flower or a fly to fresh shit.
I felt her hand on my chest and her breath in my left ear;
There's no guilt like the wicked
And there's no faith like the religious kind.
Hand in a hold.
Love is just another mold.
The priest protects the walls
Of his splintered sanctuary.
Is just another man's memory.
Oh my sins, my sins,
Where should I begin?
When you're born to lose,
There's no thought to win.
6 months past
And still, she was coming over.
Our love for one another
Was a knot I couldn't untie.
A year past
And the stars and the moon
Were a cure that
Blanketed us, our child, our family.
Living our days out,
Mixing poison and penalty,
Running from a life
That showed any shred of reality.
Buried side by side
Underneath a bent apple tree,
I died one day
And she died the other.
We use the leaves of Fall
And the blossoming buds of Spring
To reach for.
My eyes cried water
My heart cried pain
My wrists cried blood
And God cried rain
My soul cried sorrow
My heart cried pain
My lungs cried for air
My head cried to be sane
In all this sorrow
In all the rain
My head lost all it's sanity
My heart cried all it's pain
On the first day I noticed nothing but your hair.
How it caught the sunlight and reflected it tenfold.
How it swayed around your neck.
On the second day I noticed nothing but your lips.
How they individually felt between my teeth.
How they left marks upon my neck and thighs.
On the third day I noticed nothing but your mouth.
How the words flowed out, powerful as an ocean.
How your teeth would bite me ear, drawing blood.
On the fourth day I noticed nothing but your hands.
How they held mine, always eager to calm them.
How they pulled the needle out of your arm, quivering.
On the fifth day I noticed nothing but your legs.
How they powerfully allowed you to stride great lengths.
How they were ever in motion, even in your deepest parts of sleep.
On the day sixth I noticed nothing but collarbones.
How I wanted nothing more but to crawl in to them and rest.
How I could gently suck on them, causing your whole body to palpitate.
On the seventh day and for years since I have noticed nothing but each individual hair on your body.
They each have a name, Kassandra, Jared, Peter, Ryan, Falyn, Jacob, Hammed, Caroline, Audrey, Yo-Landi, Diane, Khajjitt, Daralyn, forever and ever and ever.
On the last day I noticed how I never noticed your eyes.
But you were gone,
and I could not tell you what color they are.
i felt the earth move
layers shifting, tectonic plates
over my head, cracks showing
throughout this global skull of mine
and my mind tried to break free
from the burning inner circle of my brain
but i remained buried
within the glowing layers
yes, today i felt like the earth
ready to explode
if so much as one sliver
of dark brown earth would slide
over another, pressure building
and i had volcanoes just ready to give way
more than a headache, this feeling
pushed up from my beating heart
through my spine
until the struggle, the oxygen
and the blood were convened
within the structure that remained
and i spent the day walking slowly
moving in straight lines
and the volcanoes were confined
and the blood moved back down
to my heart
and i went to my bed heavy
but not yet pulled apart