You must've not liked the way I said your name
with such fervor and dependence,
I brought it down into the depths of Need,
I grabbed it like your tie and suffocated you as I pulled.
And I'm sorry,
No one's ever taught me how to handle a lover,
I thought I could say your name however I wanted to and true love would do its thing,
but I've seen more evidence of love's strategic nature than I've ever seen of
it's fabled purity.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
Nothing to distract you from
giggling points of light in the otherwise
daunting black of night,
taunting glow
Quivering blithely as if God himself is teasing you,
shaking these glimmering possibilities in front of your face.
You could believe that you're squinting at possible realities,
or you could cynically accept that they're all illusions
and the only reality is
this.
but midnight is so cold and monotonous
without a warm body to give it context,
and I think-
I think that I miss you now.
Or some two dimensional caricature of you,
The one that resides in my head because
you're no longer here to give it volume.
Memories are feelings and memories alone fade,
feelings just latch onto other things.
(Like tonight)
and we then romanticize trivial, inanimate things.
Ideas, places, not people no, too
dangerous.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
oh good, the frenzy has subsided
and you've evaporated from my arteries
(you haven't)
i think the platelets gathered too quickly and their collective volume
overwhelmed the highways
So Now I Can't Feel a Thing
but do you remember
the park on the hill and the
shimmering fluorescence of forbidden waters?
because it was 2am i think
(neither of us understood what was happening)
but we flew to each other on wings of a craving
beating against the jurisdiction of two
opposing currents
Some loves never die, i think --
they seek refuge in the dusty caverns where
external tempests cannot harden them.
Other loves are preserved in the amber of summertime,
because it is better to die beautiful and intact, i think,
than to disintegrate into unmarked soil.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
Sometimes I look both ways before saying "God"
like I'm trying to be politically correct, since I don't go to church or believe in sin.
But God is subjective, and it comes from within.
It's one more universal truth polluted and perverted
by deluded
social constructs
just like drugs, money, *** and gender
and proper moral conduct
(it doesn't exist)
Well, not they way they've taught us.
don't have too much fun, do drugs only if they're prescribed
(you'll know that it's a sin if it gets you high)
Don't breathe out of rhythm or you'll be deemed a *****
unless it's for procreation,
but still - pretend ******* are a chore.
Listen to your daddy and watch your mother silently nod,
question what he says, and his reply won't be "because I said so," but it'll be
"because God"
A WHITE MAN WHO HATES GAYS AND CONTROLS WOMEN
did you say God or Fraud?
Is that a stain on your white linen?
Your omnipotent holy deity,
I regret to inform you,
is a mere projection of human fallacies,
enlarged and stretched across the walls we build out of fear.
your God is a tool.
And I'm supposed to feel shame
when I so carelessly toss around His name
"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain"
but what does it matter when God itself is running through my veins?
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
since i decided that the chain was too short
and the anchor i had attached myself to
was pulling me under
it's been Three Months since I've sharply inhaled and
let go of the rope
and stood slack-jawed
and in awe
at the calm with which you watched it suddenly go limp in your relaxed palms,
and then shrugged,
and retreated.
Three Months since I've turned my head toward the horizon
and rubbed the tension of staring at a backward-moving object
from my weary neck.
Three Months of my infatuation worming its way back into more isolated parts of my mind,
and festering in my body,
becoming quiet--
like the absence of a laugh track
while the film keeps playing.
And I feel like I am still holding my breath.
It's different now because I finally see the pattern.
Breathe easily,
breathe excitedly,
gasp,
hold your breath,
feel it abruptly leave your body as you deflate
find your breath again,
have it stolen from you once more
The question is: what will lure my lungs back into blissful submission again? And how much time am I left with to enjoy my returned sanity?
And if you came back,
I think it would feel like a falling dream.
I think I am in the falling dream.
I am grasping and flailing and fearing the crash,
everything becoming a quickening blur of
irrational analysis and false epiphanies,
an asymptote approaching demise...
until
i wake up
(and realize that I never really was falling).
Only to have the ground snatched from under my feet once again
but instead of down, I will go up.
(and then down again)
I wish I wasn't familiar with this pattern.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
your departing silhouette was ringed with gold
and even the light suddenly thought your face was too good to be touched
who are you?
i heard your name today and it sounded like someone said "God"
my synapses screaming Why are they saying that Don't they know that's taboo Why does it sound so sharp
this internal frenzy shows itself on the outside as a mere nervous chuckle and a pool of crimson under my skin
You are A Deity now
Something I pray to sometimes as if it is omniscient
something that echoes my thoughts like a carbon copy
My God is Shaped like You
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
you'll live in
her hippocampus, for now,
but when it's done with you, you'll be exiled into
dark, slower, parts of her brain (where the angler fish live),
you'll learn to keep silent just so you can survive,
don't try to swim to the surface, you'll just be pushed back down
The Light Doesn't Want You.
You may feel a disturbance in the waters, a rogue ray of sun, perhaps,
maybe an oil spill
But This Isn't An Invitation.
The Light Doesn't Want You.
You live here now because the pre-frontal cortex didn't want you,
you were too expensive to keep around.
Do You Know How Much It Costs To Set Off the Sprinklers?
we don't need to wash away your messes anymore.
So you'll live Here,
your movements will stir the plasma only slightly, and yes it'll affect the Ether but /shrugs,
it'll do.
Don't make a sound.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
i am yours
and my thighs are yours to separate and
i want you to make a home between them,
breaking in the walls where you deem it necessary
and insulating cold rooms with your own self,
and i want to warm you, too but i don't know how and i fear failure,
I know I speak like a psychologist and that my glare draws crevices in your self-assurance,
but right now this isn't the Me you know
This is the truth that I will not state explicitly, but will imply through shaky exhales and involuntary lapses in vocal function, with my fingers limp yet imperceptibly begging for you, and my lack of defense when your authoritative hands do what they do.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
it's no wonder that the first hint of autumn manifests as tidal waves of conjured memories, as if I've forgotten that the shallow shores of my conscious existence are directly connected to the skull-crushing volumes of water farther out.
The changing of the atmosphere is spinning clockwise, whipping the depths and displacing everything that hasn't seen the light of my attention in about a year.
In the tempest is you
with flailing arms and water in your lungs, because you're dying.
Not you, (i don't even know what your life is now) but your memory at least.
And I'm watching you spin down the drain and not really caring where it leads,
as long as it's not deep into my episodic memory again.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
I kept oscillating;
in and out of love,
in and out of emotions,
between the familiar realm of raunchy young adult literature and
the new, slightly uncomfortable realm of raunchy young adult life.
I oscillated between dispositions;
between pensive and restless,
***** and
not remembering what kissing feels like,
between the doldrums of despair and the
weightlessness of bliss.
My center of gravity oscillated, too-
from my head to my heart to
my thighs
to the cavernous void in my amygdala that was once abuzz with stupid chemicals brought out by the hysterics of infatuation
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC