It’s once again, midnight
humming arrogantly with
a churning of the wheels.
It's a soft-spoken rapture
& brutal shedding of rust:
in the hour when ghosts in
their shadow-cloaks come out
to play,
all nice.
This is what with which
you are stricken :
Silence & alien gestures
you’ve rehearsed
Sometimes, your blood
won't evaporate as quickly as you'd wish
-when the swallowing gets laborious.
He looks so pretty and easy prey.
His words fell on you like bullets,
His hands fell onto you like oil to water.
Slaughter & Divide
All you've wanted to hear:
All he knows to say
Blame beta fathers , such farmers
with borders & no horizons-
they never went to the moon
And you are selling prime real estate
somewhere in the Milky Way
Here you easy come easy go
in the pseudo-celestial shallows,
Yet you are still nothing more,
nothing less than your shotgun grandfathers
and their drinking women
with ******* aflame.
Black hole reverie or Persephone
Make the call.
However, this is such a regular revelation ,
you are always saying the past has yet to come
as you set the record to repeat and
let the meridian of time rot.
Then he looks at your thighs
and listens to your speaking,
and you wilt in the glitter
because it's scripted, wilt so
Effortlessly
So needlessly.
Shutter, revoke, indulge, repulse.
Tonight in your belly, lies the gravestone of insanity,
unrooted by some ill intended resurrection of goodwill and humanity.
You are always missing the mark
but so quick to pull the trigger.
Full of so much of what's easier done than said -
You lie down in ethanol meadows making dust-angels amongst the metal beehives,
as he's looking at you
like some sort of promethean redemptress,
asking you meekly for just a touch
and then you swallow your refusal,
cramping up in a paralyzed and vampiric ecstasy.
Who first taught you the word ephemeral again ?
He reaches
You retire.
You say I have no sugar
For myself
Let alone for my brother
But then again, you let it flow
from your bubbling mouth.
Flagellating yourself with the same cane.
Then you pray for absolution on a bended knee
for the form alone, mockery of a jellyfish woman
Indeed, the skeletoned live on another plane entirely.
And you beg for mercy
Beg for forgiveness
Lest they love you not for
The alien cancer petrifying in your gut.
He beckons you over
You fold and bend down,
One should only ever be primitive
In this menagerie of sunsets and sunrises
He jumps your bones
But you're already nothing but dust
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 4:47 AM UTC
every morning,
with excruciating strokes of grace,
the light of the distant sun,
orchestrates entire symphonies
against your violent skin,
as if only for me :
the humble audience
for these divine harmonies
that transcend my sense(s).
your multitudes are to me
what flash thunderstorms
are to quiet, summer forests
and in your presence
I have crossed these shadows,
erased their weight,
for you revive
the colours of my dreams
& their vibrancy.
I know not from which place you have come,
nor how long you have traveled to reach me.
I know only that you feel like home
and now, that I have waited so long
(for you)
to arrive.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
On the last day,
in nervous & incoherent scribbles,
clinging to the lines of a
crumpled & stolen piece
of office memo pad paper,
I confessed:
I can no longer tell whether
people have distinct faces.
Focus escapes me.
How, despite looking,
seeing has become impossible.
Their eyes all melt in the dark,
into a blurry array of blue & violet,
(the way fresh oil paint smears under thumbs,
as if the painter himself felt betrayed
& then submitted the canvas to some frantic violence).
The same panic consumes me,
now that the others all begin to appear the same.
I was perhaps,
born with too thin of a shell.
Sometimes, I feel
like one of those dolls from the old country,
You know, the ones that sleep inside one another,
with their faces painted
(mechanically these days.
all the authenticity has been stripped away
just for the sake of appealing to the masses).
Maybe I too crack easily,
(I shatter at the slightest touch.)
I thought once that there was beauty in fragility
but I alone held such a belief.
Just as those figurines,
I too reduce continually in size,
Always shrinking by half,
In the hope that if I am just small enough,
No one will see my emptiness.
In the end, I think I hardly even exist:
I hardly even bother the dust settling around me
& if anything,
that internal void takes up more space
than I have ever wished.
I’m disenchanted by those idiot boxes
& their flavors of the month.
Whether it costs you a penny or a fortune,
I’ve somehow always felt Truth
had to be more than whatever they are selling,
Good God, something in this life must have value.
I need to know this.
So I’ve been out looking for it,
But we are at war,
The people are always at war,
because peace is for the birds,
(or so they say)
Yet I always step on land mines,
By now, they’ve blown off my hands
& also my feet.
So, I can no longer touch,
& I, sure as hell,
cannot run.
You know, my lungs just may burst.
Patience tastes like a barb-wire
in the back of my mouth.
No matter those sprawling views,
& the ever static landscapes,
I am starting to forget what
it feels like to have a home,
(as if before, I truly knew that,
I don’t think I did
but you know,
the mind has ways
of making things feel
softer in retrospect.)
In this way,
I miss what I’ve never had.
I am still so eager to taste
the fruit of a tree,
I’m coming to understand,
grows nowhere.
& so I’m going to rest my bones
Along with the other dead idealists:
somewhere between complacency &
blood that runs ice-cold.
(Do you think that dreams can rot ?
Or do they only ever petrify?)
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 6:59 AM UTC
Open your brain my love,
have just one more to sip,
I like how you close your
eyes & tremble those lips
She murmured: mind yourself,
what matters always rots,
what they insist I need
can never hit the spot
Leaning against cold stone,
and licking backs of glass,
I’m hungry for love as
she splinters my fleshy mass
These things that they’re selling,
on big billboards, in glances,
only ever half as full,
as these drunken romances
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
The women sit amongst one another,
speaking of hands and plans,
whilst I myself remain anchored to a chair,
using my own to tug on what remains of my thinning hair.
This is why I lick the back of my teeth
and this is why I cannot speak.
I am above wondering
what a life contains:
the moments of swallowed words,
lost dreams and particles of dust,
gutted & compacted
lightly calicified in my spine.
My mind, captive since that time
when my flesh was still peachlike
& ******
How it flies forth,
How I lie back.
The charade progresses,
I swallow.
Still hollow, with the hallows of being.
Those hands the women revere,
dizzy my head.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
I cannot help but remember
that things got awfully sad,
the day you began sleeping
around the clock.
I was never one for time
but then again, I found
myself sitting alone
in the yellow kitchen,
wondering if you would
find the courage to climb out of bed.
Once it was midnight,
I salivated and began
to dream of railroads
and the places they could take me
if only I could stop counting
and forget the way
you left
the stove, barren.
That was the first time
I knew hunger intimately
and then for years,
I would taste forgiveness,
chewing it over and over
until I finally could take
no more, throwing it up,
in the hope that I would
find answers in my emptiness.
But the clarity never came
in that way and I stopped
looking to others to make me whole.
I ran and ran so far
that I forgot about to think
about you and your weight
yet I know it slept in my spine:
the Pavlovian response
of procuring the void
I so desperately wished to comprehend.
My body took me
to the places I dreamt of
that night when I was a
ravenous girl,
You always told me I was beautiful
but I felt maybe
that I was too much.
I tried to shrink down so that
only my mind remained
but I’m two parts mad,
so at least I know I’m made
of something.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC
Did I speak too soon?
Because here I am,
back in the mud
of emptiness
Will I make mountains out
of mundane or I have
learnt better?
I now know the world
is nothing but kingdoms
of bad men
and their rules,
how they restrict
and constrict,
exorcising gasping breaths
like a python to power.
Famished,
I picked the fruit
of the dead men's orchard
in a dream-like landscape.
They told me to come back
down to earth
and finally, I could no longer
pay the toll of the cloudy road
so I obliged.
But then again,
here, I am low.
and how it comes & goes
the feeling of nothingness.
Jesus christ, can you even imagine
what I see I close my eyes
I wish you could know the ways
in which my mind splits,
how many atoms I dare to split.
I contain, contain it all.
in the rise and in the fall,
and I hate how you try
and make me feel small.
Leave me to my ascension
and quit weighing me down
by shoving reality
down my throat.
I swear to God,
one day I'll just quit breathing.
Your objectivity isn't real
that ********** you insist upon
reeks of nonsense
it's such flimsy gravity
I'm not afraid to say it.
Watch me explode, for
I am a supernova nebula
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
i spotted
black cascades,
on a concrete canvas
in that southern twist
that kinks me like desert trees.
i wanted to lick your eyes
when I first saw you
& then,
i don’t know where it came from
but i began to feel like a spider,
when i shouted
"you’re beautiful,
you must sleep in my bed”
when I grabbed your hand,
you followed
starry-eyed.
I knew I was going to taste
every single inch of your body,
so i applauded nonexistent gods
in my heavy laughter.
(did they frown upon my intentions?)
your lips,
they’re red like mine
but you don’t know what to do
with your mouth.
i do,
i’ve been there and done all of that
in the season of orange peels,
it was sticky and it’s only just now
that i’m no longer stuck.
you spoke to me in tongues
i’m not sure you knew
that you took me back
to places I haven’t seen
since the last time
i made a claim
at the Lost & Found
so i still haven’t added you to the List
i hate resistance,
you’re beautiful for not being
so beautiful
but i want to know just what it is
that you see when you’re
covered in smoke,
when you’re sinking in a bathtub
when you’re putting sugar
in your coffee
don’t speak,
just give in,
appease me
while i exercise
well-honed techniques
up and down
that thing you’re trapped in
(this isn’t fair, maybe
feelings will follow)
it felt like returning home,
for the first time
portal, portal: your open body
it could have been the last time
but
i’m coming back for more
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
We step away and then,
you close the door
(you always knew how to close)
The palm of your hand (I)
shut(s) my eyes
and I imagine you must be thinking
that my head is spinning
only, it’s not.
I’m tired this time around
and all that we’ve had,
in cups, in pantomimes,
in black bottles at the back
of your grandfather’s closet,
is beginning to weigh me down.
I am an anchor
lightly kissing
the bottom of an abyss
in a sea.
But you don’t swim
and I know you never will.
No, my head isn’t spinning,
but the world is.
Before, I thought it ceased
to halt when I found myself
alone with you
in that enclosure
I craved from the back
of my throat.
I was possessive of your presence
without good reason.
Never had any good reason
and here again, I’m without it
but I no longer allow myself
the delusion of believing
in the immortal exceptionalism
that I once painted
on your face.
The auto-intoxication has stopped.
We step away and you engage
my mouth once more.
It has never been the way
I’ve wanted.
I gave you permission
and you close the door.
(I am now closing my eyes).
I was blind
now I ignore
the way this body
has never been more
than a robust instrument.
I use it as such.
You dismiss my thoughts,
that is your mistake.
Your hand on the back of my neck,
pulling down to devour.
We always speak of ***
as in hunting terms.
A predator hunts his prey.
The prey traps her meal.
But I no longer resist
and I admit that violence
no longer shines.
It is nothing and makes
for one hell of a drowsy exchange.
You disrobe me,
these mechanics are boring.
The choreography of two
relative strangers (I hardly know
you in the end, we don’t talk)
moving their bodies in
a badly needed rhythm.
Pure imagination.
We dance for the other
without listening
and you step on my toes.
I crave the scratching halt of the song.
Your tongue is metallic.
This has been ugly since day one.
I shut my eyes, my head not spinning,
and its only now that I see.
I no longer wish to force
stimulation through the filter of my body.
You shut the door
and I shut out the world.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC