glittrghost - Hello Poetry

god is a woman and she is angry. her tongue is a serpent, medusas mouth, and her fists are vultures. seven eyes, seven horns, seven doors. the angels are women too because only a woman can weep so much. someone unfurl her wings, break the lock. she is a dove and this is her olive branch. in the catholic church only men can be priests. but this church, this gold and silver church, was built from the bones of sleek coated mares, of birthing cows, of cream skinned ladies in veils and jewels and wine stains. ask delilah of samson. ask jezebel of ahab. salome of john, mary of joseph and magdalene of jesus. ask the moon of the sun. ask god about her daughter, the one still nailed to the cross, still awaiting birth in bethlehem. the carpenters daughter with a wooden stake at her neck. ask god about her other daughter, the one in nazareth still breathing desert air. ask god about her sons, sweet lazarus and wild lucifer, stepping on hot coals like summer asphalt. ask god about the forget me nots pressed to gravestones in the heat of august. ask god about the magnolias wilted against gravestones in the bite of december. ask god about the lions, the goats, and the lambs. ask about yourself, if youd like. god is a woman and hell hath no fury like a goddess scorned.

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Mar 20, 2016

Mar 20, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC

The Gospel According to God's Daughter

god is a woman and she is angry. her tongue is a serpent, medusas mouth, and her fists are vultures. seven eyes, seven horns, seven doors. the angels are women too because only a woman can weep so much. someone unfurl her wings, break the lock. she is a dove and this is her olive branch. in the catholic church only men can be priests. but this church, this gold and silver church, was built from the bones of sleek coated mares, of birthing cows, of cream skinned ladies in veils and jewels and wine stains. ask delilah of samson. ask jezebel of ahab. salome of john, mary of joseph and magdalene of jesus. ask the moon of the sun. ask god about her daughter, the one still nailed to the cross, still awaiting birth in bethlehem. the carpenters daughter with a wooden stake at her neck. ask god about her other daughter, the one in nazareth still breathing desert air. ask god about her sons, sweet lazarus and wild lucifer, stepping on hot coals like summer asphalt. ask god about the forget me nots pressed to gravestones in the heat of august. ask god about the magnolias wilted against gravestones in the bite of december. ask god about the lions, the goats, and the lambs. ask about yourself, if youd like. god is a woman and hell hath no fury like a goddess scorned.

56

my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my mother never weeps. she is a woman of hard marble, veins flushing blue across the white of her hands; her hands which are not unlike tree branches, long and elegant. i wish i inherited her hands. my mother is good at bending the bow back, i am good at bending the beautiful / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my sister is immune to plot twist. she twists the truth out of the thing before it has a chance to deceive her. she does not have the luxury of ignorance. when i speak of fallacy and fable, she speaks of eyes wide open / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my fathers mouth has never known a cave in. all his teeth are where they should be, lodged into a fist, tearing at the skin scraping over knuckle bone and finger joint. my father can talk a lot. history, politics, the old man in the monitor room of a casino in a dead and dying ghost town. my father never stops / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams

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Mar 20, 2016

Mar 20, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC

Untitled

my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my mother never weeps. she is a woman of hard marble, veins flushing blue across the white of her hands; her hands which are not unlike tree branches, long and elegant. i wish i inherited her hands. my mother is good at bending the bow back, i am good at bending the beautiful / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my sister is immune to plot twist. she twists the truth out of the thing before it has a chance to deceive her. she does not have the luxury of ignorance. when i speak of fallacy and fable, she speaks of eyes wide open / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my fathers mouth has never known a cave in. all his teeth are where they should be, lodged into a fist, tearing at the skin scraping over knuckle bone and finger joint. my father can talk a lot. history, politics, the old man in the monitor room of a casino in a dead and dying ghost town. my father never stops / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams

1

i. To the angel of the church in Ephesus, Write this: The one who holds the seven stars In her right hand and Walks in the midst of the seven gold lampstands Says this: Wickedness drips from the fangs Of faeries. A mystical hurt wounds Its way around your spine. Revel in the snapping of vertabrae. Suffer for my name. Repent for me, my lover. ii. To the angel of the church in Smyrna, Write this: The first and the last, Who once died but came to life, Says this: You are rich in tribulation. Bathe in the slander Of those who came before you. For ten days we will be faithful. iii. To the angel of the church in Pergamum, Write this: The one with the sharp two-edged sword Says this: The throne is yours. Hold fast to my name. Let the gold consume. You martyred me amongst the rest. Eat the feast sacrificed to the idols And I will play the ****** We will wage war with The sword of my mouth. iv. To the angel of the church in Thyatira, Write this: The daughter of a goddess, Whose eyes are like a fiery flame And whose feet are like polished brass, Says this: I am Jezebel. Condemned for harlotry, The ***** and I will crawl on ****** knees, Broken by mens will, To the city on seven hills. It is fire we want v. To the angel of the church in Sardis, Write this: The one who has seven spirits Of god and Seven stars Says this: We will wear white. We will walk with our heads held high. We are worthy of the divine. vi. To the angel of the church in Philadelphia, Write this: The holy one, The true, Who holds the key of David, Who opens and no one shall close, Who closes and no one shall open, Says this: They will realize I love you With a bleeding heart. The altar will drip red and I will keep you safe During the trial. vii. To the angel of the church in Laodicea, Write this: The amen, The faithful and true witness, The source of creation, Says this: You are neither. Neither loved nor hated, But certainly not loved. Not loved with the inferno of my heart. I am rich in wretchedness And you do not realize You are naked and blind Like the lamb with seven horns, Seven eyes. Who ever has ears ought to hear. The victor will never Taste death from my lips.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC

Revelations

i. To the angel of the church in Ephesus, Write this: The one who holds the seven stars In her right hand and Walks in the midst of the seven gold lampstands Says this: Wickedness drips from the fangs Of faeries. A mystical hurt wounds Its way around your spine. Revel in the snapping of vertabrae. Suffer for my name. Repent for me, my lover. ii. To the angel of the church in Smyrna, Write this: The first and the last, Who once died but came to life, Says this: You are rich in tribulation. Bathe in the slander Of those who came before you. For ten days we will be faithful. iii. To the angel of the church in Pergamum, Write this: The one with the sharp two-edged sword Says this: The throne is yours. Hold fast to my name. Let the gold consume. You martyred me amongst the rest. Eat the feast sacrificed to the idols And I will play the ****** We will wage war with The sword of my mouth. iv. To the angel of the church in Thyatira, Write this: The daughter of a goddess, Whose eyes are like a fiery flame And whose feet are like polished brass, Says this: I am Jezebel. Condemned for harlotry, The ***** and I will crawl on ****** knees, Broken by mens will, To the city on seven hills. It is fire we want v. To the angel of the church in Sardis, Write this: The one who has seven spirits Of god and Seven stars Says this: We will wear white. We will walk with our heads held high. We are worthy of the divine. vi. To the angel of the church in Philadelphia, Write this: The holy one, The true, Who holds the key of David, Who opens and no one shall close, Who closes and no one shall open, Says this: They will realize I love you With a bleeding heart. The altar will drip red and I will keep you safe During the trial. vii. To the angel of the church in Laodicea, Write this: The amen, The faithful and true witness, The source of creation, Says this: You are neither. Neither loved nor hated, But certainly not loved. Not loved with the inferno of my heart. I am rich in wretchedness And you do not realize You are naked and blind Like the lamb with seven horns, Seven eyes. Who ever has ears ought to hear. The victor will never Taste death from my lips.

93

in my family, nineteen means a desert. stretch and sand and thirst. we claw at our skin, convinced the heat is something we can **** if we just scratch hard enough. in my family, nineteen means needle meets wrist. our bodies a wasps nest of shaking hands and too wide eyes. we lavish in stings and ****** and forearms of thorns. we lap up the blood. in my family, nineteen means hospital stays. bruised limbs. heavy legs and even heavier eye lids. in my family, nineteen means chapped lips and bleeding gums. sinks stained with blood. teeth swirling down the drain. throats rubbed raw with all the screams we’ve kept under lock and key. every agony that has wrung itself dry and broken our spines. in my family, nineteen means revolution. somehow on both sides of the bayonet. never shooting until i see the whites of my own eyes. in my family, nineteen means shrapnel and sunflowers. daggers and daises. life and death. in my family, nineteen means a black widow spinning its last web.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:22 PM UTC

Nineteenth Moon

in my family, nineteen means a desert. stretch and sand and thirst. we claw at our skin, convinced the heat is something we can **** if we just scratch hard enough. in my family, nineteen means needle meets wrist. our bodies a wasps nest of shaking hands and too wide eyes. we lavish in stings and ****** and forearms of thorns. we lap up the blood. in my family, nineteen means hospital stays. bruised limbs. heavy legs and even heavier eye lids. in my family, nineteen means chapped lips and bleeding gums. sinks stained with blood. teeth swirling down the drain. throats rubbed raw with all the screams we’ve kept under lock and key. every agony that has wrung itself dry and broken our spines. in my family, nineteen means revolution. somehow on both sides of the bayonet. never shooting until i see the whites of my own eyes. in my family, nineteen means shrapnel and sunflowers. daggers and daises. life and death. in my family, nineteen means a black widow spinning its last web.

45

poetry is dead which is to say god is dead which is to say mankind is alive which is to say hello which is to say goodbye. each atom splitting like meat cleaver to skull, teeth to wishbone. tongue wrapped around firework wrapped around bleeding bullet heart. i want him to tell me i taste like milk and honey. like rose petal wine, like those organic strawberries my father refuses to buy. i want him to tell me i feel like shrapnel. like serpent skin, like sand paper scrape. i want him to tell me loving me is hard which is to say i want him to tell me the truth. the truth is dead which is to say ‘i love you’ which is to say 'you taste like gunpowder’ which is to say 'i’d go to war for you’ which is to say 'wake up, poetry is dead.’

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:20 PM UTC

A Dream She Once Had

poetry is dead which is to say god is dead which is to say mankind is alive which is to say hello which is to say goodbye. each atom splitting like meat cleaver to skull, teeth to wishbone. tongue wrapped around firework wrapped around bleeding bullet heart. i want him to tell me i taste like milk and honey. like rose petal wine, like those organic strawberries my father refuses to buy. i want him to tell me i feel like shrapnel. like serpent skin, like sand paper scrape. i want him to tell me loving me is hard which is to say i want him to tell me the truth. the truth is dead which is to say ‘i love you’ which is to say 'you taste like gunpowder’ which is to say 'i’d go to war for you’ which is to say 'wake up, poetry is dead.’

36

i. did you know Thomas Jefferson rewrote the bible during his presidency? he gutted the passages, crucified the scripture. he cut out the mystic, the magic. turned Jesus into a man, a mortal, a shepard who knew how to herd his words into an ordered flock at the nape of a hill. ii. did you know every time i speak i feel atoms splitting in my chest? i hear the crack of a whip in the croak of my voice. i swallow sharp shards of broken conversations, they leave long scratches down my throat. sometimes i like to see how long i can go without speaking. everyday the soreness grows. iii. did you know during the black plague people killed black cats believing they were omens, harbingers of death? as if petulance is a spell spat from the yawning mouth of Hecate. believing this they killed with claws forged from rusted steel and hisses of spit flying from tongues like unholy sling shots, the townspeople’s gums black with sickness. the line between believing and being true is a lot thinner than one is lead to think. the skeptics say there is power in sight, the blind know the ebb and flow of ghosts. iv. did you know i used to eat meat? i used to **** red juice from fat steak, let it run down my chin in a steady stream, used to savor the crunch of wishbone and smash of teeth, the grinding of molars. i stopped when i turned seventeen and realized i was an animal too. v. did you know during human sacrifice the Mayans would hold a still beating heart up to the sun? let the red turn gold in the afternoon, decay to dust in the morning while mothers mourned. there is beauty in the macabre, there is truth. there is blood and salt and heavy breath. the human heart is only the size of the human fist. a thick, heavy handed fist pushed into my mouth and used as a gag. i would gladly offer the Mayans my heart, gladly splay myself on the alter, wait for the sun, only the Mayans died in 2012 with the rest of me.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC

Fun Facts from the Mouth of a God

i. did you know Thomas Jefferson rewrote the bible during his presidency? he gutted the passages, crucified the scripture. he cut out the mystic, the magic. turned Jesus into a man, a mortal, a shepard who knew how to herd his words into an ordered flock at the nape of a hill. ii. did you know every time i speak i feel atoms splitting in my chest? i hear the crack of a whip in the croak of my voice. i swallow sharp shards of broken conversations, they leave long scratches down my throat. sometimes i like to see how long i can go without speaking. everyday the soreness grows. iii. did you know during the black plague people killed black cats believing they were omens, harbingers of death? as if petulance is a spell spat from the yawning mouth of Hecate. believing this they killed with claws forged from rusted steel and hisses of spit flying from tongues like unholy sling shots, the townspeople’s gums black with sickness. the line between believing and being true is a lot thinner than one is lead to think. the skeptics say there is power in sight, the blind know the ebb and flow of ghosts. iv. did you know i used to eat meat? i used to **** red juice from fat steak, let it run down my chin in a steady stream, used to savor the crunch of wishbone and smash of teeth, the grinding of molars. i stopped when i turned seventeen and realized i was an animal too. v. did you know during human sacrifice the Mayans would hold a still beating heart up to the sun? let the red turn gold in the afternoon, decay to dust in the morning while mothers mourned. there is beauty in the macabre, there is truth. there is blood and salt and heavy breath. the human heart is only the size of the human fist. a thick, heavy handed fist pushed into my mouth and used as a gag. i would gladly offer the Mayans my heart, gladly splay myself on the alter, wait for the sun, only the Mayans died in 2012 with the rest of me.

10

i’ve never held love. by this i mean my body is a switchblade. a hornets nest. the barrel of a warm gun. i mean my heart is a still born. i mean my teeth know too much of bubblegum and cotton candy. i mean they think me sweet. i mean they think me bird feather. i mean they should think me dead bird’s guts splayed out like the crucifixion. i mean thats just who i am. i mean indifference is a reluctant symphony pounding in my chest. my heartbeat is a cacophony of orchestra and crashing symbols and the conductor just doesn’t care. i mean there is no glimmer about me. no glamour, no glitter. i mean i am just a collection of rust. i mean my hands are cracked, calloused. the truth is a fickle thing and i’ve never learned how to get away with ****** so i hide behind the other side of unrequited. i reference it in poems, pray no one will kick my feet out from beneath me. i mean i’ve gotten good at this game. this cat and mouse. this ******* it why don’t you care?’ this 'you’re a real handful.’ this 'you’re pretty but you’re a ***** i mean i’ve never held love and by this i mean i’ve always dropped it.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC

I've Never Held Love and By This I Mean

i’ve never held love. by this i mean my body is a switchblade. a hornets nest. the barrel of a warm gun. i mean my heart is a still born. i mean my teeth know too much of bubblegum and cotton candy. i mean they think me sweet. i mean they think me bird feather. i mean they should think me dead bird’s guts splayed out like the crucifixion. i mean thats just who i am. i mean indifference is a reluctant symphony pounding in my chest. my heartbeat is a cacophony of orchestra and crashing symbols and the conductor just doesn’t care. i mean there is no glimmer about me. no glamour, no glitter. i mean i am just a collection of rust. i mean my hands are cracked, calloused. the truth is a fickle thing and i’ve never learned how to get away with ****** so i hide behind the other side of unrequited. i reference it in poems, pray no one will kick my feet out from beneath me. i mean i’ve gotten good at this game. this cat and mouse. this ******* it why don’t you care?’ this 'you’re a real handful.’ this 'you’re pretty but you’re a ***** i mean i’ve never held love and by this i mean i’ve always dropped it.

51

it is july and the stars refuse to break the sky. the clouds are thick and heavy with rain and there is a pain in my chest. the kind you have to push through, the kind you have to shatter with a baseball bat. i am tired of taking baseball bats to my chest. tired of all this glass. the shards at my feet glitter like gold. these are the broken pieces of me i have shed like feathers from my angel wings. this poem is just another shard. another pin in the voodoo doll. another cry for help, if you can call this sniveling a cry. it has been five years and im still the same sapling i was when i was thirteen. when will i grow? theres a dead tree in my journal. it will never again take root. i remember plucking it from the garden like it was nothing more than a rose. can you plant a rose bush in a garden of glass? i want my body to be a green house. i want to grow. i want lilies in my fingertips, four o'clocks in my eyes. forget-me-nots and sunflowers, tulips, petunias. maybe a cactus or two. just because im beautiful doesnt mean i have to lose my bite. it is july and the fireflies are like stars dancing on the earth. theres a pain in my chest. a dull ache, a memory. i am tired of taking baseball bats to my chest. tired of writing this poem.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC

July

it is july and the stars refuse to break the sky. the clouds are thick and heavy with rain and there is a pain in my chest. the kind you have to push through, the kind you have to shatter with a baseball bat. i am tired of taking baseball bats to my chest. tired of all this glass. the shards at my feet glitter like gold. these are the broken pieces of me i have shed like feathers from my angel wings. this poem is just another shard. another pin in the voodoo doll. another cry for help, if you can call this sniveling a cry. it has been five years and im still the same sapling i was when i was thirteen. when will i grow? theres a dead tree in my journal. it will never again take root. i remember plucking it from the garden like it was nothing more than a rose. can you plant a rose bush in a garden of glass? i want my body to be a green house. i want to grow. i want lilies in my fingertips, four o'clocks in my eyes. forget-me-nots and sunflowers, tulips, petunias. maybe a cactus or two. just because im beautiful doesnt mean i have to lose my bite. it is july and the fireflies are like stars dancing on the earth. theres a pain in my chest. a dull ache, a memory. i am tired of taking baseball bats to my chest. tired of writing this poem.

46

Dear whoever, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the lies. For the fiction carved by lips, for the fables dripping from teeth. I’m sorry for the fists and the cheeks and the necks and the bruises and the broken bottles. For the violence exploding from the pit of my stomach. The locusts ripping from my throat. I’m sorry for the scripture. You see, these palms are prophecies. This tongue is a bible. I spit psalms and verses and watch as you burn. I’m sorry for being an Icarus. I'm sorry you cannot be a Daedalus. I’m sorry fro assuming you need an apology. I’m sorry for apologizing with blood. I’m sorry for gagging up words left over from previous apologies. I’m sorry you’re not good enough. I’m sorry for making you the villain. I’m sorry for being a wolf in girl’s clothing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. My god I am sorry. I’m sorry I say sorry too much. I’m sorry this is selfish. Dear whoever, I’m sorry.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC

An Open Letter

Dear whoever, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the lies. For the fiction carved by lips, for the fables dripping from teeth. I’m sorry for the fists and the cheeks and the necks and the bruises and the broken bottles. For the violence exploding from the pit of my stomach. The locusts ripping from my throat. I’m sorry for the scripture. You see, these palms are prophecies. This tongue is a bible. I spit psalms and verses and watch as you burn. I’m sorry for being an Icarus. I'm sorry you cannot be a Daedalus. I’m sorry fro assuming you need an apology. I’m sorry for apologizing with blood. I’m sorry for gagging up words left over from previous apologies. I’m sorry you’re not good enough. I’m sorry for making you the villain. I’m sorry for being a wolf in girl’s clothing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. My god I am sorry. I’m sorry I say sorry too much. I’m sorry this is selfish. Dear whoever, I’m sorry.

11

with hands made of shrapnel, i seal the door shut, hide under the bed. gunpowder perfume and gasoline showers, when i was 13 i forced my way out. i crawled back in, driven by the sound of cicadas dying. theyre last will and testament sounding too much like salome. am i john? summer is over, the hush of fall falls down like the last veil. i am salome, you are john. head sitting heavy on a silver platter. my body is jeweled, the veils, the color of violets, flow, swirl, part. i reveal myself to the king, gold melting down his face like saturated sacrilege.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 7:54 PM UTC

The Dance of Salome and John the Baptist

with hands made of shrapnel, i seal the door shut, hide under the bed. gunpowder perfume and gasoline showers, when i was 13 i forced my way out. i crawled back in, driven by the sound of cicadas dying. theyre last will and testament sounding too much like salome. am i john? summer is over, the hush of fall falls down like the last veil. i am salome, you are john. head sitting heavy on a silver platter. my body is jeweled, the veils, the color of violets, flow, swirl, part. i reveal myself to the king, gold melting down his face like saturated sacrilege.

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