Nothing compares to chai tea and a cigarette
or a cup of coffee and three pack of cigarettes.
Still I'd rather be surrounded by smoke, passion and white walls
than nothing at all.
And your taste still
lingers in my mouth from time to time even though you're
I've been dispirited since the last steps on your porch.
And I haven't slept soundly since.
My father told me that everyone lives by their own codes of living
that's when i decided to sail through unstable emotions
to find out that love is just another feeling
Andrew was a regular guy, then he decided to become a magician
that's when he realized, there are some things that can't be fixed
life's lies can be worst than a politician
The days are short and the years come crawling
what am i gonna do with the half of my soul?
the poets told me: "share it with someone"
i'd rather exchange it for a small amount of gold
In the winter, alone in the fireplace, you may cry for help
but what must be remembered is that your mood changes with the moon
and sadly, people are not vulnerable to spells
If i keep chasing my own tail
i won't find you, you won't change me
warm me up with a sweet cup of coffee
we were taught to laugh about our own misery
You're like a cold cup of coffee
Or a bouquet of wilted flower
Perhaps a rusted bike
Someone once cared about you-
Until you were forgotten
Until your milk was separated
Your petals had drooped
Your wheels no longer turned
The absence of love is evident in your entire being.
I'm afraid of losing you
I'm afraid that I already have
I'm afraid that if I never had you
I'd fade away from day to day
In a consistent stream of apathy
I'm afraid of the dryness in my throat
every morning at five am
I'm afraid of the cigarette between my fingers
an hour later
I'm afraid of the quivering in my hands
When I run out of coffee
I'm afraid of my closet
I'm afraid of the sizes in my clothes
I'm afraid of the way my friends think
I'm afraid that they don't think at all
I'm afraid of the drugs in their cabinets
I'm afraid of the drugs in their veins
I'm afraid of the silent pain that is too often
conveyed in a stranger's eye
I'm afraid of the people I work for
I'm afraid that they don't know how to love
I'm afraid of love
I'm afraid of my bedroom
I'm afraid of every man who's slept in it
I'm afraid of the people who
don't have the things they need
Equally afraid of the ones that have everything
I'm afraid that nothing out here is right
I'm afraid that I made it that way
And I'm afraid that this fear
Just isn't enough to make me change my ways
I could drown myself in cups of coffee, in nicotine, old books, and whiskey.
But that won't make me crave you any less.
I could immerse myself in the deepest of enthralling literature, poems, a sea of colloquy,
Waves, strangling the current of my mind.
But you'd still be the resonant word.
I could listen to the sweetest of voices on repeat, golden like honey, sticky,
But my ears would only ever truly answer to yours.
Serpents tend to bite their own tails, a mythological and alchemic symbol of the cyclic nature of the universe: creation out of destruction.
But I'm not breaking my heart, loving you.
Swollen, yearning, daydreamed astray, gathered fast by night.
Curiosity deniable no more, innocence lost, hands wandered exploratory below.
Clambering desperate over themselves, those hands fell over folds of warmed flesh, over forgotten nooks and unfound crevasses, over trembling thighs and aching calves.
Astounded by the vast array of fresh delicacies, of unencountered sensations and deepest pleasures, she stood by loyal as those hands swiftly accustomed themselves to pursuing true ecstasy.
What divine rapture. What soaring heights of pleasure to ascend to. And what a delicious revelation to encounter such unimaginable ecstasy.
That twelfth year become a fourteenth, a fifteenth, a sixteenth.
And with the passing of each came a series of ever more adventurous trysts, the sorts of which Cousteau, Armstrong, and even Columbus could all be truly proud of.
Depths sounded, crevasses plundered, self’s nectars tasted and devoured, the pleasures of the flesh went unearthed.
Elaborate constructions lovingly shaped, waxed and honed, years of heady experimentation, trial and errors, fantasy and dreaming, all in the pursuit of even harder, better, faster, stronger orgasms. Perhaps it was that, or was it more a case of welcomed companionship? Ambidextrous frustration? A carnal appetite, most terrifying in its magnitude?
Isn’t it time then, you tried a little tenderness?
Be good to you.
9:30 am dates in the coffee shop
your day starts with a coffee, two creams.
I get a coffee too,
just to keep my hands busy,
but my day starts when I look at you.
you are not apricot, i think,
nor pearl, though perhaps i’d like
to envelope you; my ribs can be
our porch, my lungs the attic
and half the roof.
we’ll build castles in the living room,
couch cushions for the porticoes
a coffee table for the gambrel.
it should be enough, when our monsters
are green and have buck teeth
and will play checkers with us after dinner.
i’ve a shell that’s made of bottle caps,
scotch tape, and paper-mache.
it’s not much, but if it ever rains
i’ll at least keep your socks dry.
We used to laugh at nothing.
Nothing seemed funny
When the hysterics would
Rock back and forth
Like a mad woman
Nothing was the best
Thing to talk about.
A Conversation over coffee
Became babble till three
And tired heads on pillows
Did not sleep.
Nothing had to leave.
Each morning a bag packed,
Hair done and something else’s
Mask painted prettily on.
Memory seemed to melt
To nothing but
Nothing would come
Back again and again
Like the moon who’s
Silver stare looks as though
It was stolen from you;
The ghost in my room that
Nothing will scare off.
Though it is cold and empty
And its body is miles away,
Laughing somewhere else
Louder than anything
scrawled on a page
Because the words are nothing.
Everything seems clear today
Now that nothing is gone
And I can change
So that we can
Continue to laugh at nothing
In that same absent way.
I do not want to hear the word ‘love’ ever again
but I do wish to see you at noon
thirty blocks away from reality
with the sun printed like warm coffee stains across your face
the light cutting through that little cafe window
tinny radio music and cloth napkins
and a wind to slap the hanging sign
to make us curl up on the bench,
imagining the cold.
It's funny, those mirror images. Small bracelets of macaroni-turned jewels,
Costly and pointless. Plastic race cars that mom and dad bought me
Zooming around and breaking vases that once
Held cigarette ash. Flowers wrote an essay on lung cancer,
A peer who, on a high night, was put into the vase.
Flora lungs are surreal.
Imagine a flower the shape of me: my blue hair and eyes the petals and bud,
My body a stem and lungs are the leaves,
Ripped out of my sternum and strewn into the antigravity that surrounds me.
A mirror image in another world,
But somehow not the same. Like nuns and whores both
Screaming to God as their tits are groped and abused.
Collisions with the coffee table tip the coughing flower and let sailors tug on the ropes,
Sailing on the sea of liquid ash and sing "yo-no yo-ho" all the way to the white carpet.
A memorial. To the woman who was saved hereby flashing lights and muffled sirens,
The drugs were too heavy.
And then we sit playing scrabble and watching the news. Oh that poor girl.
It doesn't matter though. It is far enough away to only think of palindromes to click in the
Plastic squares, a perfect fit for a triple word score.
But the score doesn't matter. It is what the word represents.
Reviver: one who brings back.
A necromancer? The zombified critters under the stairs because you felt bad about killing them.
They ate your food, but you conducted a mass murder with that sweet poison that crystallizes
Their blood. Their parallel selves are still alive aren't they? The realms are separated by a thread,
Nothing more, so why must they be dead?
Why must they be characters in a movie? Everything is a lie, even the
Letters laid on the game board.
The words we speak is a made up language, the god most believe in
Is a figment of imagination. And so is mine. They are just creatures
Written in a book by drunken sailors, man himself,
Or warped versions of a goddess created by hags, high of of the leaves
Vining in their flowerbeds. Clouds came down because of the warm brandy and
Smoke from their pipes, polluted and dirty.
Fog does not belong here, this Christmas, but at least it will mask the brick wall that
Everyone seems to crash into.
It is a theory of course; people with glass skulls and hollow brains won't live through it,
But it is worth a shot. No one knows whether you will be crushed, or the wall.
On the other side, the other half of the world, the mirrored side,
Exactly the same as the one behind. Nothing new, but everything to see. You haven't looked until
You've seen the opposite of yourself.