You wake up a giant and keep growing
until you encompass the entire earth.
Your loved ones search for you in the folds of your skin.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
I like being underwater because it reminds me
of a different world.
Like the rim of the atmosphere, or the inside of a womb
where everything is slippery, even the past, and all
I can remember is the air in my lungs.
I like being underwater because it reminds me
of when you held me above the water as a child
that time we walked too far past the ******* and could no longer touch.
You hoisted me up on the hips that birthed me and
beatering your legs you struggled, your hairline trimming the surface
so I could breathe. And when we finally swam back onto the ridge you panted to the rhythm of the waves. Looked down at me and smiled,
“That was fun, wasn’t it?”
Fingers interlocked on the way home down the beach, where
bare feet walk on wet handlebars in the morning and footprints are flooded at night by the moon. The ability to erase but mostly
I like being underwater because I am made of water. And so are you.
And the ocean surrounds me with the salt of your last breath
felt stroking my cheek with weak, small hands waving goodbye.
You were so small and
the water is so big, yet when I’m under,
all I feel is you.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Stop.
Now feel the tongue inside your mouth.
Notice the words forming between your teeth,
their texture, their colour,
where they come from.
Now look towards me
No, not at me
but at the air between our faces
Do you see it?
It wades there, suspended,
kneading the space, folding into itself
and waiting for us.
It arches its back as it’s ****** into you,
as it’s ****** into me.
It wants to be inside of us.
But be careful how you treat the air;
it likes to be inhaled slowly, deeply,
swim through your body, wrap around
your bones and lick the edges of your soul.
Do you feel it?
Do not trap the air at the back of your throat,
where it cannot dance, where it cannot give.
And do not bend it it ways it will not bend.
Do not strangle it with your tongue and spit it out
tripping over itself. The air does not take kindly to
such abuse so when that sharp lick of breath reaches me,
my veins, it will toss and turn in your leftover angst.
Caress the air, the little piece of sky before us,
massage its shaking limbs with your own,
let it travel up from the meat of your toes carrying
with it the scent of your blood.
I promise you, it will dance between the grace of your lips.
Or better yet,
let the air between us hang loosely in space
Let it settle like silent water;
unscathed, transparent,
so we can see eachother clearly.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
Where are we, Barry?
I don’t remember this place.
And what’s that branchy thing in the corner? I know I’ve seen it before but I don’t know what it is!
Don’t you hate that Barry? Not knowing things?
Like you're just swimmin' in deja-vu?
Y’know
you remind me of a different place, Barry. A better place.
A time looong ago.
But nostalgia’s like smoke, you know? You can see it and you can smell it, but you can never hold it in your hand no matter how hard you try. And besides, if you get too close it’ll sting your eyes. Isn’t that right Barry?
Gosh you’re quiet.
Wait. Where are we? I’m afraid I don’t remember much.
But I remember you, Barry.
How could I forget!
Do you remember when we were together, Barry? Remember the sea?!
Oh man she was pretty. The colour of the sun. Or was she green? Or no,
no she was definitely blue.
Ahh, but we’re not there anymore, are we?
We’re someplace else.
There are walls here.
I don’t think I like it here, Barry. I don’t like that thing in the corner, that’s f’sure.
I don’t know why but I don’t like that thing oneee bit.
We should leave this place Barry.
We could go somewhere else! Forget about all of this!
Yeah, yeah, that would be good.
What do you think, Barry?
Huh, Barry?
Barry?
Wait,
Where are we?
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
My God, my Lord, my Puppeteer,
Our ten strings begin to fray.
I’ve crossed and crumbled many times, I fear,
Your voice sounding further and farther away
You leave me live on your foggy land,
but have forgotten that I exist.
Once I stopped grasping for your transparent hand,
Christ! I flew into an abyss:
If sin is death then how do martyrs fall?
By sharing the air with ***** lungs?
Peace and war, Apollonian brawl,
Virtues preach through lustful tongues.
An overheard conversation between Yin and Yang,
In my own mind, God’s voice gently sang.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
Looking down at the white blinding snow
the boy walks slowly across the school yard.
in silent disquiet he watches the other boys
in jackets of red, yellow and blue
as they enter in the school in a small pool,
laughing, like he does in his dreams.
excluding him, skin turns blue.
Sitting and listening, though half in a dream,
the minute hand falls like descending snow
anticipating the exodus of boys in a pool
of laughter into the snowy yard.
the children play, cross legged sits the boy.
Like clockwork, approach the bigger, older boys,
who haunt the boys wake and dreams.
Grinning and curling into fists their blue
gloves grasping handfuls of cold snow
and pushing him into the frozen yard.
His red hands melt the ice into yellow pools.
The words flow out in pools,
flowing through the veins of the small boy.
The hell that is this elementary school yard
where the children play, like he does in his dreams.
But his skin is numbed by the white blinding snow,
the pressing hands, blurs of yellow and blue.
His cut lip, blood dying the ground a deep blue
blood flows out in a gentle pool
staining his jacket, the snow
hurts the small, defenseless boy.
With the ring of the bell his nightmare ends and his dreams begin
as the children funnel out of the schoolyard.
He returns home to his own snowy yard
with marks on his arms of yellow and blue.
A small refuge awaits in his sleeping dreams,
but he knows it won't lasts; water builds up in pools
under his eyes. The bitter face of a young boy,
cold from the white blinding snow.
Awaiting him tomorrow is that yard, that pool
of laughter and the blue gloves of the bigger, older boys.
He wish this bad dream melt, like the springtime snow.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
Alkaline eyes
As if pierced by some awl,
As if hallowed by some blunt axe,
As if to juxtapose
Bee stung lips.
Cabaret music,
Dead souls,
Dancing corpses.
Ella Enchanted:
Swinging, Swirling, Swaying, Swabbing
Sick, Suffering, yet
Sauntering;
Sweaty Socage with
Scummy Suede-heads,
Stocking
Satan’s Sweet Sibling.
Swollen Skeleton,
Skin Shunned and Shivering,
Shadowed, her face;
Shock-less eye Sockets
Tired grow her limbs,
Unction bottled in her heart.
Unaware, her clientele,
Zeal in their eyes.
Nov 2, 2011
Nov 2, 2011 at 10:14 PM UTC