My head sets on the horizon,
aflame with impending doom
scuttled like a sinking ****,
burnt and begging.

My hydrogenic mass defeats you,
surfaces spread thin like oil
on glass and there is only one way out -
immolation.

Sun-soaked dust clouds rain
their bitter truths on the
spires of steel antennae
violating my mind.

Scarabs dance impositions across your navel,
flattening themselves out in honour of your belly,
as I am watching your pulse spell out cryptograms
just below your pink
hairless
skin.

I lap the insects up like a patient kitten, lingering too long
(just long enough)
as the tips of my fingers press down on your
pulsing
hieroglyphics.

My dad is a leprous powdery-white cord of rot
that draws out of my throat lisping past tonsils
through the spaces in between the teeth.

All my life I wait for him to remove himself from me,
only to bite down as the last inches are about to pass
from my mouth.

He almost escapes - I swallow hard,
suppress the gag reflex:
he remains within me.

My top and bottom incisors do not meet
the wall of your big toe between them,
my enamel spades crushing against your nail bed so gently,
perforating your toes’ soft bottoms so exquisitely.

My tongue slowly dances with your toes,
the ridges above and the arch below the foot,
you flinch at the tickle.

My mouth dancing like an anemic acrobat,
it finds his way along the high-wire of your fishnet guarded legs,
their pale contrast to the red cloth exciting.

Suddenly, you shudder as the muscle in my mouth finds
your flesh exposed above the stocking line,
I am a conquistador and I have discovered a new land – I will subjugate it,
taking it’s precious jewels and spices,
consuming them and getting fat with the richness that is this New World before me.

I devour you so slowly – is my mouth even moving?
It is leaving a trail,
slightly damp like a dehydrated slug,
a leech ******* each piece
until the bleached skin becomes en-crimsoned by the bruises
my biting and ******* have made.
Will you try to hide them?
I move on to places where this disguising will not be a concern, and you begin to spasm.

I’ve hung myself on these gallows,
and so having to die because of it,
I will relish it;
an abandonment atrocity of aestheticism.

He stares at the wall like certainty,
placebos poisoning his ability to feel.
The little special places where she once crawled,
now burn marks of self harm.
His nails won't dig in far enough.
His life won't end quickly enough,
and so he sets his ritual, his belief,
his yearning for illumination onto the prayers he sends to her,
his goddess,
Death.

Let the darkness,
like oil, seep
from the soft fallow soil
of your past
and into
my open mouth
and past
my pearl-white teeth,  
and into
my stomach.

Let the darkness,
like never seen secrets,
flow up
and through
my weeping heart,
and into
my filter brain,
and out of
my eyes as brilliant light
dispelling your shadows.

I am empty
with nothing to fill me.
Empty me out
but nothing to pour into.
Just tip me over,
and out nothing comes.
Drowning and empty,
my scream from the lungs.

A basic formulation,
stereotype breaking sunshine
beams into our closed blinds,
early sun rise moments,
hidden from the world,
connected by
flesh, sweat, murmuring words
in the security of this moment,

I've driven away from it all,
look into my eyes,
we both can go blind.

There are times when I feel like I am dying,
and I never wish it were true more than when I realize it isn't.

My imagination runs wild like wind through wheat,
catching on the trailing edges of her summer dress as she runs by,
and away.

My fingers just cannot hold on.

I can see through her dress when the sun hits it right,
and I can feel the waves her hip bones made
those times when we came together in that field,

but she is a mystery now,
no more familiar than the feeling of the bottom of the sea.

I close my eyes, dream of her, and fade into the soil.

We had such a luminous trial
survived our sentence, self-imposed
on cluttered hearts.

We could have had everything...

But you started listening to other voices
The ones outside our heads,
fused at the soft-spots.
The ones that sang sweet ******,
the ones we left our suicide
to please

and those murmuring homicides
murdered what we were,
scalped our skulls apart,
and you let them.

I have been bleeding to death
from the top of my brain
ever since.

If I had known all of those moments
seen them coming so slowly
feathers raining from the sky
drop down onto me
embryos, suddenly cut from the umbilical cords,
they fall,
shatter brittle bones on the ground,
and you run back to the safety
of your maiden name.

Spread this out
through your cries
broken little pieces
spread out
like your legs
shaking and bent
the rope remakes you:
a glass sliver contortionist
thorn in your side
like a kitten
lapping milk
with razor tongue

Does she know the words hit
like a sudden explosion of colour,
blue, green, red.

I am curled in a mother's arms again,
feel like a child,
and my eyes well up.

No one has ever reached me
the way you did
with your such sweet
simple words.

Pink bodies glide by in an endless
sequence, one neck after another, opened
by the blade he grips. With a liquid-muted squeal,
and cacophonous struggle of the fore legs (the back two are bound
up), the swine pours its life out with just a little coaxing of the man's tool.

One, two, three...and more
drowning in the smell of ***** matter and gore.

White, brown, and black bodies
in an never-ending stream,
dangle by the hind legs, swinging
from the mass of them, roll by; the ankles
hold their weight. The man's knife is
never dull, it finds the sweet spot
where it slides between bone and tendon
and cartilage and into the vein,
thick and fleshy (a garden hose),
which pumps its contents onto the killing floor.

One, two, three...and more
near-boiling in the unrelenting heat of ******.

That knife, that blade, that tool
opening one faceless
animal after another.

Their names are blotted out in blood.
Their cries bubble out through red,
thick like mucous.

Knife in, knife out,
knife in, knife out

with dull repetition
and the precision
of a machine,
until they all look the same,
until he feels nothing for them,
until there is no difference between them and people,
until the sharp, stained instrument of steel
turns to the side
and into the man next to him.

Why couldn't real be obtainable?
Why don't these broken teeth release me already?
Why does everything hurt like glass?
Speeding into oblivion,
with you without you.

And I'm still trying to figure out how to say that without feeling like a liar
Making up a screenplay in my head: dead
lead from the real way I wish to express, again
Exiting into your u-turn I always ******* dread: descend
Melodies I learned to hum when young
To someone now no one, flashes of red

You hummed them to me; child-like: off to bed
Implanting this seed in me 
I don't recall a single syllable you said
But still memories are melting me like butter on burnt bread
Talking to a ghost
Pointless...end.

He always just assumed she was joking,
when he'd say he loved her more,
and she agreed.

The sting was in realizing that he could hardly love her at all,
and it would still be true.

You've got a little secret, don't you?

The women envious of that ***,
jealous of those eyes,
hating your hips and *******,

the men hungry for that ***,
hypnotized by those eyes,
mouths watering for those hips and *******,

but they know that
you are a good girl
you don't do those terrible things they think
you are innocent, pure, locked up
tight.

But you've got a ***** little secret, don't you?

You walk around with
your skin burning for a touch
your mouth begging for a ****
your ******* longing to be pinched and pulled
your *** eager for a *******
your throat hoping to be choked
**** cheeks burning for a beating
and a warm little wet spot on your *******
all day long.

You've got a secret,
a ***** little secret,
don't you?

If it were a million years from now,
you'd still be
in my mind
in my heart
on my skin

I thought.
I believed.
You were the one thing
I had faith in,
when I was a universal atheist.

I would have ridden into the dusty East
to fight Crusades in ****** tribute
to you.

All those years with you,
are like a crumbled castle
I walk through at times,
wanting
the walls rebuilt
the gates strong again
the flags no longer
dead on their poles,
tattered and charred.

But this place is a ghost now,
just like your presence,
in my chest.

Oh,
my smashing liquid crystal,
dilating pupils and drawing back the sheer curtains
to let the light in.

Oh,
my terror in the forest,
the light screams away in silence, echoing off the walls
of bark I shake in.

Oh,
my last breath,
bleeding in the tub, blood pours, black ink in water poured
from a shattering glass.

**** me *******,
shallow and cross,
angry and peaceful...
just take me away from the marks she has left here

...just ******* drive.

He’s staring into the grains, wondering how what she felt
for him could  have become even smaller than those little marks and flecks on the wood.

She’s staring at the screen, her face awash in the glow she now values more
than what he offers her.

And he’s pushing and squeezing on as hard as he knows…

But she sees him as the enemy, her Nemesis, the antithesis
of what she wants at this moment,
those moments,
moments to come,

Her happiness doesn’t come from him any longer.
His smiles, and words, and care, and love,
holding less real estate in her pretty little head
than dried sauce on a plate
or ***** socks
on the floor
by the door
he now stands behind staring at, wishing her face, aglow,
would be smiling on the other side.

I am the caustic clarity in a thought
I am the clearest day covered in storm

I am the brittle bit of bone
that Old Men toss onto the dirt floor
in deep emerald Congo

I am the Winter

I am the glass tube sliding in
the steel cold to the plastic.

I was once something that meant something,
but you see,
I am that lovers' kiss,
that first cross-room-glance,
that needing-you-like-the-desert-needs-the-rain,
that poetic ******* cliche'

And like them,
I,
too,
have become meaningless.

I didn't receive anything
I could hold in my hands
from you
But the best gift I received
this year on my birthday
was a chance.

I hold that
in my heart.

Of all that stood by,
he alone
ran into the water, fully-clothed
on that cold February day,
to pull her (flailing wet-noodle limbs) from the water.

He alone
recognized she was not waving,
but drowning.
Coincidence they had recently
discovered that poem?

He’d heard once that Bob Dylan said something like,
“When someone is close to suicide, they don’t ask for help,
by sending family a letter in the mail.”

He’d heard,
many times before,
How dangerous it was to attempt such a thing,
but love muted those mnemonic memories,
replaced them with muscle memories
(the heart is a muscle)
and he flew, wind-like,
into the ocean.

Neither ever felt the earth under
their feet
again.

Last night, I dreamt of you
and all the roads
(overgrown and tangled)
I lost you on.

He was a spider
perched on the ceiling
watching her where
she lay, crying
in the dark,
her drool slithering a murmur.

Like the cracks
between the sea.

The sight
of you,
bled out
in that bath
steam rising
like the soul
from a corpse
will haunt me
until the day I die;
I'm sure it will be soon.

Swings and playgrounds
Candy and sunbeams
On your face, loyalty
Can you feel my love?

Turnstile girls
Nullified conscience
On my mind, ghost
Can you feel my love?

Black eyed scars
Kisses and blood
In my words, deceit
Can you feel my love?

Vacuumed existence
Jargon and filth
On my breathe, death
Can you feel my love?

She lay in her victorious gesture,
a breath of longing,
stutters dislocating his jaw.
Her illumination, a scent memory,
she was the most acute,
vigorous testimony
of truth,
of history,
his feeble heart
could dream.

I'm speeding down the road
looking at my phone
and the only thing
that's catching my eyes
are the telephone poles
waiting to kiss
my face.

I don't know which direction is up
appalled at my own circumstances,
retreating back into my self and floating.

When trapped between the asphalt and the stars above is it better
to spread your arms and legs, waiting for the stars to take you up

to Heaven

or push your fists into the asphalt, melting from the heat of the stars above
and steel yourself

for Hell?

You found the truck
attractive enough to her
to keep her standing up after each time you ran her down
Each time she saw you coming
She smiled in hope
And ran to the street, stood mid-lane, waving until that moment when
Your metal smashed her smile
Your rubber broke her fingers
and you had won.

Knowledge: My meager roadside curio is more to her than the fastest automobile hatred can build

And now, you do not drive this way very often, and nothing much makes me happier

But we both know the saying, "If I can't have her..."

And you managed that:
braces she has to wear now
slipped disks
scars all over her body
and heart...

She is a different person, and in that,
you have won,
as you couldn't have her,
and now neither do I.

But there is something else:
You forgot that my love is nearly unconditional.
Unconditional love does not exist.
My love is honest, pure,
Not the hardly-unconditional love most advertises as unconditional.
Not the kind that is plastic, and
flashing on a sign on the side of your vehicle
The one I read through tears
Each time
Her hand slipped from mine
as she ran to meet you.

I love her,
no matter what damage you have caused
no matter how long it takes to heal
no matter if it never heals
and in that,
you will never win.

I'm only here,
waiting for you,
never coming through
my door again,
never looking in,
my eyes again,
never breathing near
my ear again,
never lips on
my flesh.

I'm only here,
waiting for you,
still.

A girl with soft teeth
grinding cavities

*******
in confession
with five weeks of absence

wrapped up
in confusion
with five hours of evidence

she's got a new kick
tomorrow, she says

tore up
in weeping
with five minutes of dissonance

There is sunshine in your voice
as your tight wet mouth
is on my neck
and the tongue
is in my ear.
You lick your palm,
there’s a bit of blood
on my copy of ******,
and I’m coming.

They slow down the journey,
rattle your bones,
and so I will always put the passenger-side tire
through the middle dip in the yellow concrete bar
when I drive.

If you'd only let me,
I would give you back every moment
of happiness you feel we lost together,
and all the lost potential,
tossed away by the harm
of our addictions.

I would.

Would you give me back
the one and only thing
I would ever say you took from me,
if you could?

You burn them all away, keep me safe.
I wear you, I use you,
the only thing that is keeping me

together.

Like a woven basket falling

apart,

you thread me like a needle
when there is no capable shopkeeper.

You are a safe place to land what's inside my head,
you understand the circuitry inside this machine
because yours is the same.

Sway, little leaf.
Fragile like the wind that wraps about your mind,
pushing places where you fear you will perish.

Float, little leaf,
searching through the illumination in the dark.

It will come, little one,
it will come.

You will find a place to rest,
set down your roots,
and grow strong,
branches without boundaries,
encircling our world.

The pain of loneliness weighs you down;
do not let it.
Spin high and free,
carried by the winds of your desires,

The eyes around you are not looking with disgust,
they are looking with envy,
which makes the forest green.

These sleepy little scars reaching from the back,
where numbness holds a noose, can your *** free this hangman?
I could leave palm prints on your skin,
like  ancient art proto-men left on a wall,
with just as much animal rage,
and just as much desire to create a lasting impression
on the world.

A light at the end of the tunnel,
bursting out from the dark,
into four days of
midnight playgrounds
rainbow bracelets
highway lanes and passenger seat,
full of music at four A.M.

A little bit of hurt,
never a milligram of harm,
brings this closer
than standing in front of your desk,
idly moving words between us,
ever could have.

When you wake,
the clouds of your foggy head shall part.

My semblance of what I could be,
my treasure of all,
the ghost in my shell.

In comfort,
feathers drop like dew to your skin,
mocha, gold, soft and hairless.

My flower blooms for you,
in this bed of weeds.

When my inspiration is gone,
there is still always you.

When your blonde hair turns black, through the lenses of dark ink
I cannot wash away,
I breathe your name, in syllables,
wrought like the iron fence
you built to keep me behind:

Mare-Eee-Uhn...

It's of no use.

You bore my ******* name,
and I cannot ******* bear it.

I choke you down, into my sleep,
down to your knees,
and I consume you,
a foaming ****** from the *****-
hole of my conscience.

I was thinking about
your phantom body pressed warmly cool against me,

and I thought of...

tasting your harmony breath,
tracing fingertips across your vapour soft belly skin,
tickling rings around the small of your horizon bending small-of-back, grasping your silk as *** ***,
swallowing your sweet sticky blooming sugar flower.

and then...

*******
              grabbing
                              choking
                                            spanking
                                                             scratching
                                                                            moaning
                                                             slapping
                                                   biting
                                   pinching
                screaming
*******

a cleansing storm

                       all
   over
             you.

Stagnant,
the waters polluted
by childhood nightmares
that crept about your head at night.

There are branches bending
in the marsh's breath,
weakening against
the fingers of the Sun.

I am not so arrogant as to think
I am the Sun in this metaphor,
princess.

No,
I stand in waters of my own,
dark like yours
where I wade through to you
where I pollinate your lotus,
lick your petals clean of dew,
and caress your fragile root.

Feathers burst forth
seared with sunlight.
The coast is clear,
baby girl,
the waves are breaking
turquiose shores,
and my heart
is aching to consume you.

I am not the one who will do that to you.
I am not the one who will twist the lines
around your body
until they form a noose around
your neck
until you
choke.

I am not like the others.

I hope you realize that
in
time.

You are not beautiful
because your hair is something love is made of.
You are not beautiful
because your eyes are brighter than ***** of hydrogen.
You are not beautiful
because you stand tall, stand strong (stronger than me).
You are not beautiful
because of the endless secret midnight reasons only I know.
You are not beautiful
because you survived assassination attempts.
You are not beautiful
because you bend, but have not broken.
You are not beautiful
because of the lust you inspire in every man that sees you.
You are not beautiful
because of the way our son shines in your light.

You are beautiful,
because you are brilliant...
because you give me life...
because you are creation's sigh...
because you are the taste upon my tongue...
because you are the whisper on my every word...
because you are the blood that caresses my every beat...

You are beautiful,
Holly,
because you are my Heroine.

So many wounds,
bled out over years
like ink on a test
failed over and over and over

turned into

So many scars,
raised up on the flesh
like the rounded sides
of speed bumps made too high.

will become

So many forgotten memories
faded like ink turning invisible in the sun
like cement smoothed by the erosion of time.