Why won't you let me **** you?

How much force does it take to squeeze the life out of you?
Why do you persist such agonies and endure your strife being beat down into the mud? A vortex of emotions running rampant, but in the blink of an eye, consumed and swallowed whole. Now there is an empty and sick acre. And though the leaves are green on the other side of the fence, i sit here bound to you.

Time has become a mind numbing drug that i hav egrown impervious to over the years. I no longer have the dirt left to bury you. The only  hope for me was to **** you but here you persist. Neither narcotics nor psychoanalysis got rid of you. I could not fit you in any container.

Unrelenting, savage, corrupted, mauling and swiping at me. Sleep was a temporary escape but you found a way into that world as well.

It seems i will forever carry you on my shoulders. My burden to bear, my medal of shame, a trophy of my failings, a banner proudly flying in the rainy nights.

So why can't i **** you?

Is it because you are a memory?

Staccato's of clasping chains.. feverishly flaying your wrists...

As a rabid dog chewing off its own limbs to crawl away.


You hide in my shadow.. The only place where they cannot get you...

While your children burn...

A sour scent of ***** floods richly within these forsaken walls...

A tranquilizing melody of ****** gargling


I will mutilate the memory...

I will stain the status you built...

I will pluck your fruit and devour it with voracious appetite

Gnawing your rotting tongue bit by bit...

i drink sepsis that drips from the shank of your thighs..

My hunger everlasting...

Ravenously, depraved, my claws rend and maim your angelic wings...


A carpet of feathers gusts at your final gasp....

A cold lick on your eyeballs...

We drag you into our grave...

Rats...

Swarms of rats...

And i wear a crown baptized and blessed of your blood....

Adorned with warm and beating entrails of the defeated and the devoured...

Bricked in walls....


I can still hear you clawing during the  most sleepless of sleeps...

And taste your rotting tongue...

rage simmers deep
in my stomach,
i swallow whole,
choking, tortured,
the words which
whisper violence
whisper courage
whisper shame

i'm floating through the halls,
my eyes glassed over, my heart
bleeding onto the floor
i don't have the energy
to mop up the red rage
resist repair
resist healing
resist righteousness

there is poison
sprouting from the ground
chemicals have turned
unhuman, unharmonious,
my fingers knives of solitude
breathing life
breathing death
breathing glass

'you're such a good girl'
beep beep beep

unfamiliar breathing, followed by
silence. my naked body is
alone on my bed sheets.
loneliness breaks my own hand and
morals for a way to get
off but i don't. i sit there and
conjure up sweet whisperings
of how i want you. *******,
deep and hard and cold.

if i'm such a good girl, then
tell me. why do i wish my flesh
will melt away like the leaves?
masochistic idiosyncrasies
wrap my vanilla heart up in
a pretty little bow. your fingers
beg to scratch off my humanity;
they have to wait their turn.

don't waste your breath
telling me to get better, talk ***** to me
don't hold your breath
hoping i try to help myself.
if you're going to hold my neck
hold it a lot tighter than that,
don't forget to push down
on my windpipe with your palm,
we're wrapped up in these bedsheets
because i want you to hurt me.
i want to see the rope burn on my wrists glisten
where it's begun to tear away at my flesh
and i like to feel real tangible knots
when i'm ******* in self loathing.
i struggle to find the line between
lovesick and depressed or
being a *******. what's the big difference.
either way i wake up with bruised
blue lips and oxygen deprivation,
and fresh linens wet with singeing liquids,
and a pain in my stomach or lungs that means
i'm still breathing slightly.
i wanted you to **** me.

The Hideous Heart of Scandinavia

Morning in Oslo, from my hotel room I see many roofs
most of them of the same design; tidy, I wondered if they
employed a roof sweeper.
Social democracy in action cold and efficient not given
to surface passion, even their homegrown terrorists is
boring but dangerous.
Streets in Oslo are clean too so spotless they look
somehow defenceless and slightly obscene.
The citizens are restraint, tolerantly wait for traffic light
to turn green so the can cross even if no cars are coming.
But there is another Oslo especially at weekends
when people drink an enormous about of beer fight breaks
out and knives shine in moonlit nights.
The lust for ****** hark backs to a shared cataleptic
memory; and you know there is a pent-up passion
In the hideous heart of Scandinavia

grief is fingernails in your palm
when you're standing in a public restroom
wondering why everything feels wrong.

grief is not having worn mascara for four months
because streaked ink-black cheeks isn't a look
you want to be known for.

grief is dancing on the verge of tears
in a math class, because your mind wanders
too often and death looms too large to avoid.