The old woman with the lined, wise face
Feels her eyes go heavy; her chest swells and falls
Like ripples on a shallow pond.
But this night she is seeking the deep waters;
Memories of a few men who touched her
In her most guarded places.
While they slept next to her young, throbbing
Body she honed them like a slim axe.
She always let her lover fall asleep
Before she opened herself to the Dream Lord.
She would dream of swords and feathers,
Of swimming downward into black depths
Where the ruins of a lost city
Caught her in its pull, toward its stillness,
Its eldritch glow, so unreal and
marvelled at even
As it caught her in its nets.
She always in thrall to her
At dawn the new sun comes peering
Through and whispers kisses onto
Her world now is peopled with broken
Faces she knows can become in a minute
Strange and unkind.
She tries so hard to use the broken images
To assemble a mosaic, but there are always
Pieces missing: she is always incomplete.
There is a name on one of those pieces
Which is on the tip of her tongue.
It was a transient love, like an island
Sharp as its coral, of teeth and claws, and once
She felt alive to look at the scars; the scrapes
And puncture wounds a terrible secret that
Her body has locked away in the netherworld
She time travels through the Universe of her
What is left for her but flashes of skin and
Still a name; a name that slowly turns jade upon
A name she must remember so she can go and
Beside the Fountain.
To unpack that long black bag of torments
And fears cleansed so she can rest
Descend into the Water Kingdom;
To listen to the song of the bird that comes
To beckon her home.
Hey hi alright so,
let's slow down the thunder that emerges from your hair in boxcars,
cut off the dirty melanoma on my left cheek all bloodied from the stars,
And who wants to die together? (hint: Stars are a great band.)
who wants the pleasantness?
who wants King Kong Williams and windy spinach yellows?
who wants to grow old like the brine of my eyes?
Immaculate for the pleasantness again,
takin hostage $50,000 runnin off to somewhere called nevermore
tying it down on
breezeblocks in blonde buns,
delirious off all fashion and heightened colour in the forever of my woebegone ashtray!
And flying to skydragon or otherwise frank Liuna
flashfive James St, the dejection of my scatteredness,
the meth lab in your bedroom, (hint: your kisses count for a billion.)
the rising of how we put relish on the nights help buttons and eff words,
over the day lonely drug addict stoner with autumns
firebongs, (hint: cute&tiny lungs help i'm fearing cardiac arrest HELP)
choosing all them different voices all
them funny ginsberg America readings
Climb up and drink all that red wine and pass cuddle Tarantino warmth at 3am snapping reality tits (are we calling them that?) or red censorship lines playing
thru my imposed overratedness,
thru invisible tiny xmas drumkits,
Vericose gas station lessons and perpetual squishy memories in a flowin alphabet organization mourning the freezer,
deepening the memoirs and
lookin at those silly acid pictures with
Wilfred screaming from the broomcloset.
The morning is something.
The morning is really something.
(hint: so is the night.)
You had me by the hands and you pulled me closer
So I could feel you crying.
Lost for words I pulled away
And I kept on driving.
"There's nothing wrong", I said. For a couple days.
You suspected something.
We laid there beneath the sheets on the same bed
but I kept my distance.
We both had been through the same mess
But you came out lonelier
Than I did cause there's no room
For despondence in my calendar.
You stocked up on splinters when I pulled mine out.
I'll take advantage of my chances before they run out.
We're not like trees. We can't wait till spring
To grow some brand new leaves.
This town hold so many secrets id rather not share.
With it's busy downtown streets & crowded casino nights.
The place I once called home doesn't have enough shelter to keep me safe at night.
Like the alley ways you walk at night everything gets hidden in the shadows.
This town has so many memories is rather not share.
With it's hidden agendas and drunken nights.
The place I once called home holds only regrets and broke hearts.
Like the back of my brain these memories get hidden in the shadows.
This town has me feeling rotten to the core.
With the false hope of survival.
Like a black hole I'll implode if I stay here.
The place I once called home is the place I'm trying to escape.
The mere idea of your person
is a tonic, potent enough to intoxicate.
And intoxicated I will be
as long as your words
roll of your lips
and ring in my ears.
It's hard to say
but it's easy to feel:
all I want is you
and all I need is a chance.
A connection made is a chance for it to fail,
and some thing never loving is better
than taking the chance of losing love.
I could not disagree with these people more.
Perhaps they have never met someone like you
and perhaps they will never.
Perhaps they have never been drunk
or perhaps they refuse to alter their
state of consciousness enough
to allow lust to manifest itself
into a physical ache.
More than mental yearning,
I can feel it in my gut;
pulsing and pounding,
feeling its way to every corner of my body.
Perhaps the brandy is actually what's intoxicating me;
for every glass I drink
the pulsing becomes quicker,
the pounding becomes harder
and the feeling reaches parts of my body
I didn't know could feel.
Like the cold hand that touches me in the Winter
I cringe in Sadness every time
Too afraid to face the Cold
That hit me
With the force
Of a terrified band of horses
Running loose in the night
And when they reach me
I know it will hurt
A Memory of you
Passes through my mind
Each one a hard blow to my Heart
Bottle in my mouth
Whisky slides down
Sweet taste of shut up
My heart is aching
Hold in your pain
Push away your tears
Look in the mirror
All you see
Eating you alive
Cut your arms
Screams echoing across the street
Flash backs of where you went wrong
All those regrets
Pain seeping from your mind
The man who raped you
Who beat you
Who robbed you of your innocence
Fuck you, you scream
The color red
Flowing like a river
Guess who is your first visitor
Heroin there's nothing I could ever sing to you.
Your like that ghostly lost line in a song
that slowly fades to blue.
And you who hides your face so well.
A phantom in the night.
A killer with a lovers touch.
That makes it feel alright.
"Dear Diary" I wrote at the top of the page. I've turned to these wretched pages because I have no one else to turn to.
I have been wanting to runaway for sometime now. I have an estranged sense of nostalgia towards places I haven't even been to.
Did you know that you shattered my heart? That a shard of organ lacerated my ribcage? & so I've concluded...
That perhaps one day, when I'm 22, I will cut my hair short and runaway to new york and try to find a big sweet apple they've always talked about
I will disregard my birth name and I will end up tell everyone I meet that my name is Aphrodite, but I am not greek nor am I a lover. I'll write poetry. The good and the bad poetry. I'll write poetry the way you left me, blank eyed and confusing. And if I fall in love again, let him be just like you.
Laugh as sentimental as 100yr old harpist.
Smile as transfixing as a dim star, on a moonless night
Eye's as beautiful as the sun..
But just as the sun, I never could stare to long.
Writing and Wallowing
Breathing and Swallowing