s-a-knight-1 - Hello Poetry

We spin black dimes down ****** halls where we went white with rage it splintered our spines we found them outside our backs and burnt fingers backward on busted hands and handled the dead meat it was us, fresh brown and cooked we slid to the floor saddled with our selves and sat unsilent in sleep sung tunes that took our tears tight and turned them into sweat I swear I thought He said that we were holy but we leave tracks and footprints just the same and snap with terrible teeth the taste of apples still bitter in our throats, howling and holy howling and holy

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Jul 5, 2011

Jul 5, 2011 at 11:12 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Extra Fancy Animals

We spin black dimes down ****** halls where we went white with rage it splintered our spines we found them outside our backs and burnt fingers backward on busted hands and handled the dead meat it was us, fresh brown and cooked we slid to the floor saddled with our selves and sat unsilent in sleep sung tunes that took our tears tight and turned them into sweat I swear I thought He said that we were holy but we leave tracks and footprints just the same and snap with terrible teeth the taste of apples still bitter in our throats, howling and holy howling and holy

22

If I painted an apple would you call it a worm and if my bed sneezed and blew a hole in the night would it be my fault for sleeping If I drank raw pride until I was sick with it would you just stand behind the red tape and point until the green pooled in my frozen feet and made a statue out of me for you to throw used tissues at and revisit as a bird If I was an alligator I think you’d want me to stay a baby or be a mouse instead so I stayed underwater like a thing that was dead until water became sand, then stone, now grass Ahoy! The ship has landed

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Jul 5, 2011

Jul 5, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

My Subtle Revenge

If I painted an apple would you call it a worm and if my bed sneezed and blew a hole in the night would it be my fault for sleeping If I drank raw pride until I was sick with it would you just stand behind the red tape and point until the green pooled in my frozen feet and made a statue out of me for you to throw used tissues at and revisit as a bird If I was an alligator I think you’d want me to stay a baby or be a mouse instead so I stayed underwater like a thing that was dead until water became sand, then stone, now grass Ahoy! The ship has landed

22

It started out as a drip and then it became a faucet and then it became a leak then finally, a sewer, then finally, a lake. I found your net it was right by mine where we left them wet I soaked my head in gasoline and set fire to the house I never looked back to see if you were surprised I felt the bark under my new hand and I felt the trees stop growing acres of wasteland denied Cleaning out the drains I had fingers under my skin that the world saw but I didn’t Hope is water on the floor a cup filled with glass a vessel in itself

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Jul 5, 2011

Jul 5, 2011 at 10:11 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

The Poetic Cycle

It started out as a drip and then it became a faucet and then it became a leak then finally, a sewer, then finally, a lake. I found your net it was right by mine where we left them wet I soaked my head in gasoline and set fire to the house I never looked back to see if you were surprised I felt the bark under my new hand and I felt the trees stop growing acres of wasteland denied Cleaning out the drains I had fingers under my skin that the world saw but I didn’t Hope is water on the floor a cup filled with glass a vessel in itself

21

Empty bottles in the rabid winter sun a dangerous cue; the sometimes somber melody of exacting light blisters my nonchalant parade everyday is Sunday sipping the oily fuel of bad things that come at night

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Jan 19, 2011

Jan 19, 2011 at 5:09 AM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Primer

Empty bottles in the rabid winter sun a dangerous cue; the sometimes somber melody of exacting light blisters my nonchalant parade everyday is Sunday sipping the oily fuel of bad things that come at night

10

I regret all the flowers I sent you in my thoughts and I regret every time I acted like a gentleman every beast with long hair lies I will be forever lost in the stairwell everything that thinks it’s gentle is actually cruel. avoidance is my measure I sing with razors in my pocket, blooms not for you not for you

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Oct 14, 2010

Oct 14, 2010 at 10:35 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Friendship

I regret all the flowers I sent you in my thoughts and I regret every time I acted like a gentleman every beast with long hair lies I will be forever lost in the stairwell everything that thinks it’s gentle is actually cruel. avoidance is my measure I sing with razors in my pocket, blooms not for you not for you

17

desperation is being in a constant state of prayer, stuck in thinking I lost the thought race and now I’m lodged on Pluto the burnt lullabies turned into spoons and continue to feed us rotten soup the daily dining, the sordid feast of bones flaying browning in the plains in graying child’s hair, I wander in gin soaked skin I wander in the fetid husks of dreams, I wander when she howls, I must lips and teeth become blood jewels on our skin but when skin behaves like paper then it’s time to move on and seek our thrills in the cove behind the grave we knew more when we had less to see

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Oct 14, 2010

Oct 14, 2010 at 10:34 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Madness of the Student

desperation is being in a constant state of prayer, stuck in thinking I lost the thought race and now I’m lodged on Pluto the burnt lullabies turned into spoons and continue to feed us rotten soup the daily dining, the sordid feast of bones flaying browning in the plains in graying child’s hair, I wander in gin soaked skin I wander in the fetid husks of dreams, I wander when she howls, I must lips and teeth become blood jewels on our skin but when skin behaves like paper then it’s time to move on and seek our thrills in the cove behind the grave we knew more when we had less to see

26

“Every act has meaning. Accident is a word born of confusion.” –Agnes Whistling Elk Some memories are like crude graffiti some gray in museums still others, vulnerable chalk on the pavement all fade dawn makes no promises it never has If you’re afraid of what the night will bring, or worse, you know what it’s like to be young and out of control leaving a scent trail of blood and flowers for the monsters of yesterday to follow just let them the fighting makes me so tired Rust in the sun until rubies form cry through the night until you have diamonds pressure makes us perfect because it made the cracks that make us imperfect fear is ancient, normal, mundane even but fear is the anticoagulant Meanwhile, I am very busy construction’s going on in Hell disrupted by random clouds of revolting, revolving gravity knocking girders loose violent vertigo claiming kingdoms work horses slide into black holes yellow tape flails as white flags cranes arch and spark swing into the dark silky black tar bubbles, pops, seals everything is untimely interrupted and later ungainly speech mocks the tombstones growing in the lake Pain is like a good book so hard to put down separation of critical moments crystallize until everything has a compartment and no one can touch each other Decades old daydreams stink stale like sour seeds in green fruit lilies could grow out of so much manure. Rot bleeds through involuntary walls The past is sweating, afraid of what I know

0

May 17, 2010

May 17, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Accident

“Every act has meaning. Accident is a word born of confusion.” –Agnes Whistling Elk Some memories are like crude graffiti some gray in museums still others, vulnerable chalk on the pavement all fade dawn makes no promises it never has If you’re afraid of what the night will bring, or worse, you know what it’s like to be young and out of control leaving a scent trail of blood and flowers for the monsters of yesterday to follow just let them the fighting makes me so tired Rust in the sun until rubies form cry through the night until you have diamonds pressure makes us perfect because it made the cracks that make us imperfect fear is ancient, normal, mundane even but fear is the anticoagulant Meanwhile, I am very busy construction’s going on in Hell disrupted by random clouds of revolting, revolving gravity knocking girders loose violent vertigo claiming kingdoms work horses slide into black holes yellow tape flails as white flags cranes arch and spark swing into the dark silky black tar bubbles, pops, seals everything is untimely interrupted and later ungainly speech mocks the tombstones growing in the lake Pain is like a good book so hard to put down separation of critical moments crystallize until everything has a compartment and no one can touch each other Decades old daydreams stink stale like sour seeds in green fruit lilies could grow out of so much manure. Rot bleeds through involuntary walls The past is sweating, afraid of what I know

56

If my eyes are loaded guns than I have to be very careful who I look at Destruction is a luxury I can afford I will live forever because I die everyday I want it like that Examining, yielding to breaking it means

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May 11, 2010

May 11, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Now

If my eyes are loaded guns than I have to be very careful who I look at Destruction is a luxury I can afford I will live forever because I die everyday I want it like that Examining, yielding to breaking it means

12

I. Aprilis You wished the summer for no one moments of white wilderness stars in the blood sepaled bees scatter drown each day as all lights unmade pollen blossoming among fistfuls of paper tasks busied thought scrolls with the Seen afternoon feathers multiply white honey of Aries II. Julius Months as paper pass flitting through the screens that separate outdoors from in where light pools on an ancient carpet and summer lay broken in pieces on the floor like so much shattered vinyl what happens to the trapped light then, as it ages, it thickens curdles in the stale drapes staunches awareness of time the moon is slowly drifting away from Earth III. Octus Apples fall on the rotten dusty ground we threw them, trapped in the speckled atmosphere of decades that never rinses clean you swore we could see Venus if the clouds would sit right Aphrodite in blue jeans a ladder in darkness is still a ladder IV. Januarius Color dissolves and hibernates underground grey winds stampede through the Roman Year like the ghosts of unchained thoroughbreds all the bees have drowned their honey spread thin across the blackened sky when everything is upside down stars become seeds

0

Mar 12, 2010

Mar 12, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Tempus Edax Rerum

I. Aprilis You wished the summer for no one moments of white wilderness stars in the blood sepaled bees scatter drown each day as all lights unmade pollen blossoming among fistfuls of paper tasks busied thought scrolls with the Seen afternoon feathers multiply white honey of Aries II. Julius Months as paper pass flitting through the screens that separate outdoors from in where light pools on an ancient carpet and summer lay broken in pieces on the floor like so much shattered vinyl what happens to the trapped light then, as it ages, it thickens curdles in the stale drapes staunches awareness of time the moon is slowly drifting away from Earth III. Octus Apples fall on the rotten dusty ground we threw them, trapped in the speckled atmosphere of decades that never rinses clean you swore we could see Venus if the clouds would sit right Aphrodite in blue jeans a ladder in darkness is still a ladder IV. Januarius Color dissolves and hibernates underground grey winds stampede through the Roman Year like the ghosts of unchained thoroughbreds all the bees have drowned their honey spread thin across the blackened sky when everything is upside down stars become seeds

45

holy graffito of a swan gorgeous, decapitated limp bricks sag behind it, hysterical hegira plummeting in sync with the self towards the elusive, dry glory of death or forgiveness this is the catechism of disbelief Agnostic by default sleeping on the side being wrong is not a problem it is an answer unto itself

0

Mar 11, 2010

Mar 11, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC

s-a-knight-1

Caterwaul

holy graffito of a swan gorgeous, decapitated limp bricks sag behind it, hysterical hegira plummeting in sync with the self towards the elusive, dry glory of death or forgiveness this is the catechism of disbelief Agnostic by default sleeping on the side being wrong is not a problem it is an answer unto itself

12