symptoms of anhedonia.
a triumvirate, perceived
Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
noir
from **** knows where.
their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
reach into my prozac pillboxes
&crunch my anxiety (meds)
into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
their yellowing teeth.
I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks
For He Sits At midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch , ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For *they will not
leave me
untilthe
cloyingly sweet
perfume of Death
is scrubbed clean fromthe
pulse
point
of
my
wrists*
There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.
Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.
here is the untruth:
i am here,
Penelope at her loom,
waiting for a lost lover whom I know
will take ten years to come back to
my awaiting arms.
here is the untruth:
in three years time,
I’ll still be dead.
here is the truth:
nothing exists six feet under except:
hell
chalk dust
powdered calcium.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
the laddering of my ribs creak
like water-stained cherrywood stairs;
tread lightly, lest you
stir the dust and the ghosts
that dwell underfoot,
‘neath the cracked floorboards
of my skin.
i have but a simple request:
rid yourself of your lungs
and fill up the empty spaces
with used coffee filters,
crinkled wrapping paper, and
forlorn hope. do
cast aside
the shroud of indecision?, for
that winding sheet will only
hold you down between
your shoulderblades, like
framed butterflies pinned on paper
with needles of stone and salt.
stay with me tonight.
we will be taxidermy birds
on marionette strings
with crumbled concrete
between our talons,
the afterimages
of neon diner signs
stamped into our inner eyelids
oscillating, phantasmic.
we'll sing elegies in spring
rock sugar on our tongues—
there are staves of music
written in the lining of your mouth
and in the webbing of your hands
––as Sappho might say:
girls, sweetvoiced.
oh! but to think
that the starfire in your eyes
could be extinguished
by the tears you shed;
i’ll return my heart to the constellations
for you
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 8:58 AM UTC
the silver goddess presses
gentle kisses to your brow,
a silent benediction;
i alone bear witness
to this private sacrament
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
when she walks in,
home is no longer
a home, nothing but
nicotine-stained walls,
a collision of
sc a t t ere d
s (ca n 't)
m e m or ie s
she's––
( your go-to fuckbuddy.)
––stretched by your side,
laid out bare against
mussed up sheets and
tracing the lines of your ribs
with the pads of her fingers:
your cruel mistress,
and you're
a ******* mess
of blue lips and
trembling hands
even cigarettes and candy
can't seem to quell
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC
your lips are cherries, stained with wine––
how'd they taste pressed against mine?
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
here is something that
mother told me
about god complexes:
“everyone believes themselves
to be gods among men:
even that hideous monster from your
half-remembered Hellenistic dreams
will retreat back to
his craggy hideaway and continue
with his hedonistic ways.
the poor creature:
he will don a halo,
iconize himself in caricatures
pretending that if for a moment
his veins flow ichorous that
Icarus may have envied when his wings
beat in tandem with the footfalls of
the sun chariots’ horses.
“the sun shines upon
hallowed ground, though Polyphemus
will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze.
he herds sheep––his only acolytes––
an unabashed king in his realm,
like a god plays war, or as a child
would play house,
humming hallelujah,
veins running gold-blooded.
when moon rises,
he will hang his weary
shadow at his door and retreat
to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be
the closest he will be to the gods,
basking in the heat of Hestia’s
humble hearth.
“in the end,” mother said,
“Nobody will end up deified.
Icarus may have rained down wax and
feathers in godlike fury
before tilting his head to Helios once more;
Polyphemus waded into the sea,
eyes clouded in godlike fury
before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
he sits, patient and waiting
under a copse of diseased trees
but when the first bands of light
pierces through the trees' protective canopy
he will fade away
with the stars and their waning light
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
we are all just infinitesimal souls
stagnant; utterly still
in a plane of
nothingness and everythingness
and like Newton's First Law of Motion states
we will only continue
unmoving
yet
all we need is an unbalanced force
strong and relentless as gravity
that'll send us careening
back into our own bodies
we're all waiting for
someone, something
to bring us back home
this imbalance
is the very force that keeps the blood
thrumming in our veins
and roaring in our ears,
allows for jolts of electricity
to run down our spine and spark
at the pads of our fingers; we are
the brilliance of dying stars,
contained and bound to a mortal vessel
our hearts are pulsing, pulsing
erratically
to the rhythm of the songs that stars sing
and i hear the music resonating,
bone-vibrating and teeth-chattering,
and when we can all hum the melody
that the universe plays,
sear it and engrave it into our minds,
seven billion hearts
will (finally) beat as one
we are
caged beasts
we are
supernovas in the making
(wherein we can only burn bright and then brighter
until one day
we will return to the stars)
but at the very least, now,
we are
alive
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC