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You asked if I loved you since we met last.
I said I still do but love never trumps trust.
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Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 8:18 AM UTC
Is it not strange,
how every time,
I utter your name,
I forget mine?
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
I think of us beside each other,
our hands weaved carelessly,
or how you hug my arm near,
and bury your face and inhale heavily.
The crowded paths through the mall
gave our feet room to be sprightly,
or the small frame you adorn
lugging my weight through the alleys.
Our hectic workdays pressure high,
but topple by our grit for the weekends.
For in those few hours that slip by,
we recall again our source of strength.
I remember how your lips purse,
how your arms reach past my face -
how your nose seeks and finds mine,
and how your voice holds my gaze.
And how our arms latch like vines,
as we stretch on sheets with minds undressed,
while we bask in each and every line,
and take to realms our words suggest.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC
You asked,
"What if my Sunday has passed?
That the week was all I had,
and I messed it up so bad."
And in cognition,
I ungripped my neck.
I saw a counterpart — I was not the only one.
I knew how it was, to dangle by the jagged pier.
And you knew how it was to choke by disregard,
that floating was impossible with a punctured heart.
When each door meant nothing —
used and crossed out in your likeness.
Where I waited for the Sun,
but my windows stay boarded up.
You scraped bottom until my first word fell.
I said,
"I am a prisoner. And I am the prison."
You said,
"I am a cage, with nothing breathing inside."
I was alone. And you were alone.
And then we were alone together.
You unpicked my fearful lips,
for my throated echoes.
And I reminded you that you
are the reason that beauty exists.
Of the endless books we read,
Auster, Hesse, McCullers, Graves,
we still found ourselves
written on the same page.
Our tattoos were marked like scars —
another hopeless attempt
to speak with ink.
Why not mar the skin,
if we lose only grace?
I used to believe perfection was false,
for I had never seen your face.
You pointed out
my large feminine hands.
Then with your modest fingers,
you screened the chuckles.
And all I pictured from that endearing sight —
my effeminate hands, sheltering yours that frigid night.
No longer living in a future that was all talk.
No longer imperfect — for our scars sat perfect with.
We found Sunday.
I am not alone. And you are not alone.
And we are never alone together.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
Cower and kiss the bent knees.
Hug them close, find reprieve —
the closest inkling of warmth
by the cold sulfur springs.
Clench the keys to guard the soul
as the skin hardens with stone.
The wafts of fumes asphyxiate;
and sobbing turned to coal.
The temples throb in rhythm,
pictures a mere stiff necktie.
I lull and sigh in compliance,
as I bleed out and dry.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
An indication.
Cotton mouth and a binding knot to the temple.
Warm exhales give reason to suspect
my tenure over this body fetal.
A reminder.
Halation and smothering darkness in the enclosure.
Crusted squints summon the gall to beg
my limbs to remember their master.
A disturbance.
Musky stench and fingers webbed to slime and yarn.
An arduous tug suggests a young female
gone for hours by the heat of her tongue.
The appeasement.
Correlation and tracing mind maps to its chorus.
A restful sigh confirms my furtive habit
of decapitating the women I love.
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
Littered with gravel —
a path diminished.
A draft depriving
my nature as such.
Barked giants shadowing,
luring out doubt.
No difference distinct since
I never look up.
But lo, a lark,
staring back at me.
Any bid to steal glances
were met by peeps.
We amused and laughed,
flattered in bursts.
If this is truly a trick, then
God deserves my curse.
Her hair sweeps the gravel.
Her voice shoos the shadows.
Her light dries my eyes
along with the puddle
in which she resides.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
When I pen, what really is the intent.
To answer a question or delve in sophistry;
to express the self or churn a story?
Most likely,
a surgical act to extract the knives lodged in the chest.
A walk to meet a lover, when the legs do not answer.
A savage, deafening scream that only I can hear.
An arduously extracted knife, pushed back through the chest.
The pen is my voice hoarse, a pitch I cannot reach.
It is total silence, less the pummelling waves.
It is my eyes closed, where logic makes sense.
But it is no map, but a maze, where I lose my hands.
*It is across my back, a different dimension.
Where the right is sullied with nothing available.
It is wrought and taut in every direction.
A lost heart, a lost soul, a lost art, a lost woe.
This M is a **** treat it with needle and thread.
This K is a sigh, cage its noise and beware.
This C is a life, what burdens will he bear?
This I is a lie, why should anyone care.
I give and I write. One and the same.
A grave and thimble to protect my faith.
A loathing and swelling to numb the brain.
A mangled lie, as always, I go away.*
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
She exists,
rooted in beauty.
The leading role —
her rightful seat.
A grey fragility
with red honours.
The leading role,
if not for kindness deep.
Her fingers —
gaunt and frail.
By will she guides,
by charming coax;
persuades the Sun
for those beneath.
By will she guides
the giants to lead.
The stage grips
with its demands.
She gifts herself
in gracious yield.
Reds all shared
with those who'll take.
She gifts herself
until nothing's left.
A lowly shrub
for towers to have.
An oblivious actor,
afraid to dream.
Bruised grey bark
but tall within.
An oblivious actor,
in hand — a single script.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:19 AM UTC
Has it arrived?
Why, why hasn't it?
The hands that run this place
***** and test my spirit.
Oh but I am patient,
but stand not to suffer.
These bullies,
they will hear from darling Mother.
Mother will not be charmed
by this, this
hair on my chin.
How will she hope to recognize
her little Monkey kin?
Where is the razor promised?
She will be here quite soon.
I scraped and clawed barbarously, but
my nails aren't meant to prune.
Equanimity.
Little Monkey, breathe.
Allay the palpitations
and the grinding of your teeth.
Count. 1, 2, 9, 4.
In.
Or was it 1, 2, 4, 9?
Out.
Oh, Mother says it's not vital.
I'm sure she wouldn't mind.
Wipe your chin off of blood.
Good.
And bite your nails off too.
You are, no, I - am patient -
until the debt is due.
-
Like that kid, what was he called?
John? Jim? An arrant name I'm sure.
He hissed and said he'd tell on me,
for eating green manure.
He ran -
that poor little Penguin.
What Mother bestowed to Monkey,
his did not bequeath to him.
A splintered piece of fence in hand
- why is the razor not here yet -
A fall, a squeal, he could not defend.
Cowgirl, concede, plead, then stab.
Prying open a chicken's beak
was cleaner than plucking out his tongue.
This Jack? Joe? This brown-eyed snitch,
thought he'd won because he's young.
I ejected into his open mouth - no loss,
to assure my secret stayed unleashed -
and I never quite liked brown manure,
unlike Mother's eyes - a jade-green finish.
The Penguin family - an unexpected crowd.
All of them - mother, father, and two other browns.
They all screamed and the father lunged, but -
penguins can never beat Monkey on ground.
Each one felled by fence's tip.
1, 2... well the father was elephant-big.
And the others combined would make one more.
So two Elephants by Monkey's score.
-
My fingers with nails freshly removed,
evoke an image of that wooden stake.
Dripping and wafting - suspicious acerbity...
...I think she's here! 1, 2, 9, 8...
Blood-grimed hands no longer throbbing,
for it's all right now, dear Mother's coming.
She will kiss you and speak with her peridot eyes,
sing lullabies and... Where is my Mother!?
You bullies promised me Mother was coming.
Liars! Are you hiding her from me? Mommy!!
Monkey was good and waited meekly for you.
You thieves and brown-eyes, what did you do?!
And where are you taking me, if not to see her?
No I don't want to sleep, I want a moment with her!
Count your debts
- all of you -
for I have a patient nature.
You will all pay - when I get my promised razor.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC