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Waverly Jun 2012
Lovers trapped
in flourescent corners.

Skin shimmers underneath
loose tees,
beige with the kind of sweat
that blackens
Levi's in the crotches.

Her fingers *****
at his mice-sized ears
which hunger
for the acrylic traps
she lays with her fingernails.

If lips had tongues
his lips would say:
"I've had plastic flesh
and mercury is in my veins
cooling me
until I'm frozen
in the arms
of death."

And his lips never touch
hers:
neck,
breastbone,
cleft-chin,
chapped ear lobe,
crackling scalp,
fracturing spine,
splitting abdomen,
scarred heart.

his are never touched by
hers:
lips.

They finger the hills
of each other's skin:
velvetine,
innumerable,
wet.

Starships beep in the night.

Beep through receivers
from a place against the earth,
but not touching it.

THeir voices are intimate
and not there.

Cries are heard from space
and cradled as breathing
treasure.

Intimate,
but not there.

Their fingers touch each other,
infinitely
and not at all.

He feels her
as the earth feels
remote beeps
in remote intimacy.
907 · Aug 2012
The Tiny Lion.
Waverly Aug 2012
Tonight,
the drive took longer
than expected.

I was just going to the store
for four dollar whiskey.

We have argued for some time now,
and hold our breaths
when we crunch our food
in the morning.

We work: 9-5; and come home to laze
away from each other,
or to roar
about unkept promises
in the shared den;

We work: 9-5; and come home to laze;
to glisten in the beedled glow
of TVs
in separate rooms,
on separate couches,
on separate floors.

I have faltered,
and you have quoted.

I needed to get out of the house
because we have worked too hard
to shake it;
and screaming is a discomfort
we can bare
and that's no good
I've realized lately.

And the highway,
with its litany of bruises
and the brutality of a billion
dandelion reflectors
seemed like a blackening pavilion
for catharsis.

There  was no one beside me;
the roadway pummeled
beneath.

It was a terrible silence.

I screamed in the ***** odor of night,
and whistled
in the hushing door;

paid for my little bottle of godliness
and took hard swigs
in a ****-laundered parking lot
of an abandoned Food Lion.

Crabgress crept up through the concrete--
breaking and burdening--
and drifted in suffocating meadows.

The empty grocery store has an opaque facade
and a shimmering tiny lion;
I am home.
904 · Jan 2012
Home is.
Waverly Jan 2012
Home is
a hurt place;
the cut umbilical cord;
the roaring in the ears
and
the solitude;
what a person becomes
when
they build something
inside of
themselves;
crying;
thirty miles away
of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
crossing the train tracks
not knowing that there was such a thing
as crossing the train tracks
before
you crossed them;
a swing set
swinging
forever;
9/11
and Ma's
in the living room
bawling
while
Grandma
holds her
knowing
that those two towers
meant something,
more
than
just two pillars
and travelling back with Ma
as she weaves her way
with a tissue
and blotted eyes
to the day
her brother
and father
went to the top
of the trade centers
and stradled the railing
almost flying;
grandad
having a heart attack
because of his daily morning
tonic:
two eggs,
lemon juice
and a cigarette,
before
the umbilical cord
was cut;
Uncle
not being around,
disappearing
right after
Grandad
died;
dad
beating the **** out of
Ma
one night;
is Ma,
Joci,
Grandma
and Me;
getting your *** kicked
by Gary
and Ma
sending you back out
to get some more;
fear
and biting nails;
distant;
thirty miles
away of a thousand miles
plus the moon;
a distance;
being so hot with blood
in an all-white classroom,
while somebody asks you:
"Have you ever been shot?";
isolation;

Home is
hatred,
a slow growing,
well-tuned,
well-constructed
reinforced
aluminum bat
that dings
the ribs.

Home is the sound
of hollowness,
the ability to ding.

Home is a distance.
Home is further.
Home is the hurt place
inside the ribs.
Waverly Feb 2012
Because before they meet each other
they accentuate the bad in themselves
that want someone
to say
that there is bad in them,
to validate that fact
so much so,
that they intentionally push the good down,
They want to feel evil and ugly
and horrible, because those feelings are safe.

So,
I think, when a lover meets another lover;
meets their residual and their main source,
they feel something beautiful,
something inexplicable,
something they can never put to words,
and so the ugliness returns because
they look at their lover
speechless,
they can't say what they truly feel,
it is the encroachment of everything modern
and fleeting that holds them mute.

But when they see a flower,
they see
something that grew
from a seed,
out of the dirt,
and out of sewage
and ****
and ugliness,
to a stem
climbing against
forces whose entire reason
was to bruise it;
to a bud
holding optimism in its womb,
to a budding,
to the final bloom
to those naked petals
luscious with the perfection
that is watered with pain,
they feel beautiful
because the flower is natural
it remains unspoiled even though
that is not to say there have not been attempts
to spoil it
because the flower will decay.

But
that instantaneous, and inexplicable oneness
they felt when they first encountered the flower
and the beauty it encapuslated;
that moment of clarity,
that moment of pure euphoria
so wordless it became a hurting void;
that feeling will never die.

So, they give each other flowers,
because that memory of instantaneous
and irrevocable beauty, in all of the work
it took to create;
inasmuch as it seems spoiled
and hidden underneath
a canopy of weeds
or in the millions of commercial growhouses;
returns constantly when
they are together,
because humankind has created nothing
when it comes to love,
we have classified it,
objectified it,
destabilized it,
even destroyed it,
but we do not truly know it,
only the unnameable
and inexplicable forces
inside of us
can name it.
903 · Jan 2012
Beach. Sun. Suicide.
Waverly Jan 2012
The guy just kept swinging his lunchbox
and it kept hitting Shakira
in the stomach.

I had to say something.

So I did, I told him to watch where he swung
that ******* cooler.

And his boys got into it.
And they wanted to fight to.
And we were near the beach.
And the clouds were edgeless.
And the sun was pastel.

And I just wanted to **** all of them.

Shakira held me back.
My girl held me back.

And then I felt something sinking
cold, deep down in me.

I sat on the beach
and almost cried;
depression hit like peppermints.

And I'd never felt so afraid in my life.
On the beach, all those people laughing
and their fat ******* kids running into the surf,
I just wanted to **** myself right there,
I was so afraid and scared.

I'd never been scared.
Or afraid.
I'd gotten my nose broken
my jaw bruised a few times,
and I knew to put vaseline on
cuts over the eye,
but I was scared
and I can't explain the kind of fear
that's made me weak.

I've gotten into fights since then,
but I feel fear growing
everytime.

My fingers go crazy with twitching
and after it's over,
the ball gets bigger inside of me.
901 · Feb 2012
Writing.
Waverly Feb 2012
Writing is not only an inspection of the world, it is the inspection of the self-contained world. The self realizing it's own purposelessness, and the seeming fruitlessness of the fight against the battering ram of its conclusions; so the self fights for freedom against this self-oppression, fights for a galvanizing truth with its self-contained ball of fire that burns weakly inside of it as the world outside goes bumping in the night blindly. Writing forces you more inward than outward. It is the inner world that re-lights the outer world; against all the blighting anvils in this tiny green universe.
900 · Aug 2012
.
Waverly Aug 2012
.
You are a ******* drunk,
you *******,
*******,
*******
horrible person,
you.

God,
when the time comes
it will be like
redemption.

The tipping will tip over,
and the balancing
will balance out.

Go **** yourself in a corner,
go drown.

Fine. I will take all of this with me,
into a torrent,
I will consume and consume,
distill and distill,
spew and spew,
me,
that *******,
*******,
*******,
drunk.
900 · Dec 2011
Sun-gods.
Waverly Dec 2011
She played with the sun-gods
in shadows
under the poplar.

Thin leaves
made even thinner shadows
and her face
was the face
of a leopard
underneath.

When she finally got up
after her fingers cramped up
from playing
in the hair
of the sun-gods
she had a brown smear
on the seat of her dress.

She'd slipped on the dress
without *******.

Her cheeks pulled
the dress into its mouth,
closer to her *******.
899 · Dec 2011
Saying No to Love in a Bar.
Waverly Dec 2011
Their was a  bartendress
in a costume
of superlatively
curly
black hair
and a tight body
snugged into
a tight blue dress
that shows off her upper thighs
and exposed
musclely
short legs.

Rests her hand
with splayed fingers
on the wet table.

She asked,
with a long tattoo
of the ****** of Guadalupe
snaking
down her wrist,

"Are you all right,
do you want any more?"

"No."

I tell her.

No,
I don't want anymore.
Waverly Mar 2012
You touched me on the shoulder
as you ran quickly by on your phone.

I was in such a hurry
to climb those jenga stairs
that I didn't realize it was you,
until I saw that tiny body
and that frenzy of tousled blond hair
swishing in the wind.

I turned around and ran
to you,
as you walked away.

I ran to you
and grabbed your arm.

"Don't touch me," you said.

Diamonds falling from your eyes,
I picked at them with my pinky fingernail,
searching for the loam beneath.

"Where've you been?" I yelled.

"You don't know what's happened to me!" You yelled,
and you lifted your shirt and felt at a pink scar;
a trench in your belly,
a wound that I had infected.

People stared,
but I just wanted to yell,
there was so much yelling inside of me.

I yelled like a lover yells,
yelled with my heart.

The yell sounded like this:
"Can I hold you one last time?
I just want to hold you," I said,
like a loon,
but it was the only thing
I ever wanted.

To hold all of you
in one moment.

And so you came to me,
and let me hold you a while.

but the skin between us
was better for separating,
and I told you
to call me if you needed me,
even though I knew you never would.

And you walked away,
that tiny body of circling movement
and head full of giant clams
with their swirling pink pearls
moving farther and farther.

Until you were in the distance
and invincible.

Cyclists whizzed by,
phones beeped onward,
taxis rode highways of clouds
beneath the bridge,
and I thrummed quietly,
picking at the diamonds in my hands,
searching for the loam
that I could put into the planters,
food for the flowers
I had always wanted you to see.
896 · Jan 2012
Untitled
Waverly Jan 2012
This is poison,
"Statistics show
that one out of every
three black men
will spend time in prison
in his lifetime."

This is the remedy,
"I sit alone in my room drinking."

I feel like
society has tried to castrate black men,
because our *****
are so harmful,
especially to white women.

We break them,
make them unfit for society
right?

Statistics make us inhuman.

My skin color
has to be more than a distinction,

**** this *******,
Imma move to Alaska
and forget the girls I loved
and the ones that loved me
even though it was detrimental to them.
896 · Dec 2011
Morbid Truth-Pt. 2.
Waverly Dec 2011
Death will come,
Death always comes.

When I was a ****** up kid,
I used to draw skulls
in the margins of the bible.

I used to laugh
and pick
at squashed squirrels;
while the girls
stood at a distance
crying.

I don't know
who they were crying
for.

I'd take an eraser
to the wrists
and
rub my own tombstone into my skin
until it burned.

Death will come,
Death always comes.
893 · Apr 2012
A Night.
Waverly Apr 2012
She’s got her
Legs wrapped around
My thighs
Like blood-filled vines.

She pushes my ******
In and out.

Kisses
Me
hard,
like she wants
To bite off my jaw.

“sometimes I hate you,
Really,
Sometimes I love you,
but not as much
As I hate you.”

she says.

Before,
The first time,
When *** was just a game
And we were kids
Who didn’t know which hole
Was which,
it was good.

Now it’s a witch’s brew.

When I look into her eyes
She spews poison,
Like it’s her passion.

And her mouth won’t stop
Exploding, because
She talks in artillery
And thinks of me
In games and warfare.

How did we get here?

Was it something
I said,

probably what

I did.



It was so dark
And cold the night
**** went downhill.

And there was no one out
It almost felt safe.

Nothing left but intimacy
a hungry phallus
And drunk love
for the tired young man

*******

his girl

In the back of his Camry.

He was Tired
already, ready to die,
Too much romanticism in a
165 pound kid.



He tried to maneuver himself
So that she sat on his ****
and he could check the rearview
For creepers,
and at the worst,

Cops.

but all he could see

In the mirror

Was her going

Up

And

Down:

Naked; Beautiful.

Her Brown skin burned

against his.

Her *** looked like
It was going to fall off
She was going so fast.

Her black eyes punctured

through him like she was taking
core samples.

She was

going to take everything

and leave nothing behind.



Wiggling like broken
Cogs, he and her scrambled
As the lights flashed
Blue and red
And he scrambled
To pull his **** out of her,
as he
Came, and some got
On his legs
And even in her *****.

And for a moment

He feared and hoped
He would be a father,

A proper father.



The cop shined
His light, and tapped the window.
She snapped her bra On
underneath her shirt.

The boy zipped his pants up
like he had a gun.

The cop really thought he had one.

the cop backed away

and started yelling
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

The boy didn’t say anything,

He just sat there.

The girl was crying silently.

The cop was still yelling.
“GET OUT OF THE CAR,NOW!”

He just sat there.

The cop was still yelling.

The girl was
Still
Crying,
Silently.

“DO YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT OF THE ******* CAR!”

He hops out.

The cop wrestles him to the ground.

There’s broken Coors bottles down there,
And cigarette butts.

Some left-over
Beer gets in his nose
And he inhales a *** of asphalt and alcohol.

The cop is pushing his face into the ground,
It feels like a car crash.

The boy feels like his nose
Is about to break,
Little blood vessels
Burst as red streamers
come out of both holes
And drip onto the refuse.

He can barely breathe.

Each breath is full of more blood
Than left-over beer.

He can taste the iron in his
Throat.

That was once a good drink
And a good smoke.

Now it’s nothing.

Now nothing is finally nothing.



The cuffs snap
On cold,
colder
Than the way his body
Felt when he saw those blues
And reds.


She remains in the car,
Like a woman in confession.
Her penance will
Be over shortly.

She will be taken home,
and her parents
Will forgive her.



But the boy will not be fed.
The cop will forget.
And the girl will sleep
As silently as a knife
In a drawer.

This is how it ends.
This is where I am
When she has her legs
Wrapped around me.
886 · Jan 2012
Yukimi.
Waverly Jan 2012
Eats gummy worms
like
Flintstone's vitamins;
popping them in her mouth
wholesale.

She puts away brussel sprouts
delicately,
leaf by leaf.

Sometimes
we read quietly
and go to sleep
body to body.

Our hearts beat
tinily
like squirrel hearts.

WE APPRECIATE THE SMALL THINGS.
Waverly Mar 2012
Walked up to the store
for a little more gin,
caught a car passin,
jumped in front of it,
"WHAT THE **** IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
All that honking aint nessary.

****,
Imma have
a few more drinks.
Found a ditch;
an empty
drainage pipe;
had a few more hits.

Lit up a Marlboro
and I'm back at it again,
jumping in front of cars,
yelling at *******,
stumbling the whole way,
falling like frogger
in the ditches,
passing out for awhile.

I'm just tired of being
here,
tired of being,
so imma get drunk as hell
and tell my ma
that when I'm gone
I'm gone.
881 · Apr 2012
Untitled
Waverly Apr 2012
Saw a ******* on the border.

Looking for fireworks and something
To keep her busy for the rest of the night.

I was shuffling through black cats and m-80s.

She was in a pink spaghetti strap shirt
and  a black ***** belt.  

Brown eyes
like cut-down bamboo.

When she walks by, a little kid
steps on my chucks and trips.

The kid was trying to squeeze in between
Her and a dude who was trying
To talk to her.    
                                                                                                                          
The floor
Is littered with plastic broken fuses,
M-80s and a texture sticky like
It had been mopped with *****.

Too me she was beautiful.
881 · Jan 2012
Personal Jesus.
Waverly Jan 2012
I used to see my death everyday,
when I made it out my door
I was worried,
that I might catch it
quick
while all the remorse I'd stored
would remain.

One time I was tripping shrooms
and it wasn't a bad trip,
but God came down to me
carrying a baby in her arms,
an ugly baby
with big eyes and even bigger ears

God said,
"this is your baby,
it has seen everything
and heard much more."

"All the evil I've done,
seems compounded
by all the good,"
I said.

God said,
"when your heart is compromised
all else
is failure;
hold to your compassion more than anything else
and this child
will grow big and strong,
bigger and stronger
than that tumbleweed
tumbling
through your soul;
so when I come to you like this,
know that this is not the way
that I would have chosen to come."

I've never been into the bible
too many humans with their human endeavors in mind,
but I believe God was giving me
my own personal Jesus,
not a messiah;
just something to make me turn around
and see that the fork in the road
was not that far back.
879 · Feb 2012
Ada.
Waverly Feb 2012
I saw Ada,
In New York. I hit her up,
and she wanted to meet up for breakfast.

The next morning:

She had on slate shorts, a ruffling, loose white t,
And chucks falling apart at the seams
in scythes of fabric.

Her hair bobbles
as she bounces over.
It's so frizzy and curly
as if it’s been through electroshock.

She gives me a hug and as she pulls away
her lips hit my cheek.

A grey pigeon lands in my sight behind her
and pushes a white **** out onto a starbucks lid.

The best thing
Is seeing exes that you haven’t
talked to or seen in awhile; and hearing
them talk about the great things they’ve done
In your time apart.

It’s almost as if I was right there with Ada
when she was experiencing
her new love of Brooklyn.

I am
A  ghost in her life,
And in that piece of my heart
That misses her,
I like the feeling of being
as free as a spectre;
an unobtrusive observer.
Waverly Mar 2012
i eat my soul
out,
eat my heart
out,
eat everything inside
until I am a wolf creature
outside
in the dark,
howling at the sickle moon,
raving at some girl
in a bar
who I could ****,
but don't want to,
I can't erase
the stain of that other star
and the nebulas
of bright crimson
and hushed cerulean
that flourished
in the disturbing galaxy
and it's black holes
*******
away at light,
so I come back home early,
stumbling
through the girls that talk about raw *******,
while there is one star of knowledge
distancing itself from me.
870 · Aug 2012
Grandfather.
Waverly Aug 2012
So much time
has passed
since you grabbed me by the shoulders,
and yelled
at me
about stealing money from my parents.

You are the asphalt.
You are the reflectors.
You are the speed limits.
You are the road.

I came to visit you,
when you were laid up in the hospital,
and I felt all right
about crying.

I have been in love
by now,
and you know about it.

Bojangles tastes like happiness
when we sit in the lobby,
over cajun fries,
and you tell me about
my grandmother.

Because she was so strong
in her love
and you
were so weak.

"You are my hero,"
I said.

And meant it,
even now
when I am
restless
and unsure.

Bills
are not paid in full
by the end of the month,
and I have a thousand loan checks to fill in;
but I will pay them in your stern and gentle voice.

I think
that there are some things that I am missing on,
so,
I will never plan
your funeral.
869 · Mar 2012
Lake of Man.
Waverly Mar 2012
To the lake
is where our prayers
were air.

We dipped
our poles in the water
and bobbed
with our floats
in the bladder of blackness.

Nelle and Sabrosa
laid down together at the edge
of the still body
as the beasts of night
laid down at their feet.

Me, Dang, and Matt
took sips straight
from the mouth of Kentucky.

The night
creamed me.

Burst into a thousand
remembrances and I wanted to cry
with the fish.

I got angrier and angrier
and eventually we all left,
because I was yelling too loud
and the fish burrowed deeper
into the stomach,
a stomach I had yelled at
as love.

With so many poles
and so many fish
I slipped into the lake.

Let my body
wilt in that sink
where babies were made
with dead bodies,
dead ******* and dead *****
and spasmodic fish bodies
that were made for one thing.

I thought that thing was love,
that's what got me yelling.

The beasts let their whiskers get wet,
even their paws,
as they tapped at me in that water,
hoping for me to rise,
a flotilla of flesh
upon which they could feed.

And so we walked away
from the lake
wet,
and drunk,
the windows down
feeling the paws
and gills
in connection with life.

Nelle and Sabrosa
holding each other
in beach towels.

Me sitting in the front on a plastic sheet
Dang had previously reserved
for the fish we would some day
broil and eat.

So,
I sat on a plastic sheet,
made for love and loss
of the lake.

I sat on the bladder and
upcoming womb
from which night ******
and then made love
with the dead beasts
and catfish
of a shallowness reserved
just for me.
868 · Feb 2012
Disinterest
Waverly Feb 2012
Beer:
All gone.
10 bottles each.

Twenty in all.
Crowding my desk.

White foam
covers the last film of beer,
and looks like the top of ****
in a toilet gone sour,

but at bottom of the bottles.

Stomachs:
There are no shirts on our stomachs and they heave and sweat.

Arms:
One Underneath her back, hers on top of my chest,
fingers splayed like peacock's feathers
and cold as freeze-dried hot-dogs
dripping thawing oil on concrete.

Legs:
Hers are a trellis. Mine are the base beams.

This is a trellis made of loose bones and loose limbs,
loose lips and and sweaty, tired thighs burnt out
from repetition
and stupidity.

We are stupid
because we like to **** each other,
and we don't do anything else.

Stupid is when you delude yourself.

Stupid is feeding
off the final boredom of your corroborator.

I get off on her looking disinterested,
it really does make my **** harder
and I can feel it pushing up against
her walls.

It's the most truth,
this truth of disinterest,
we've ever
shared.
865 · Jan 2012
Ann
Waverly Jan 2012
Ann
I swear to ******* God,
you eat my Oatmeal one more time
without asking,
and I'm going to cut your arm off.

Every morning I wake up
at 6:30. Ann wakes up
at 7:00 for work.

So I take her Oatmeal out of the cabinet
and pour a shitload in a bowl.
More than I will ever need,
just to **** her off.

And she wakes up at seven
and I'm just smiling there,
wolfing down her oatmeal;
anything to get a win in the morning.
864 · Mar 2012
Poetry.
Waverly Mar 2012
Judgement is not poetry.

Poetry is bird-watching
and
quail-hunting.

A poet observes lovers
preening wings,
and holding beaks,
because a beak
does not break easily,
and lovers
only touch each other
with
unbreakable things.

A poet
hunts
and feels the weight
of a thousand wings
as she shoots them out of
the sky.

So paranoia is for the poet.

Pain is for the poet.

Love is the bible.

Fear is the safety
the poet
never clicks on.

A poet does not judge these things
to be true;
judgement is discernment
and for placing value
and poetry is not a
crime
or
a
rose.

The poet knows his arsenal
as he traces across the sky
in the unbreakable mouth of his love,
and falls
by his own gun.
859 · Mar 2012
The Future of 90's kids.
Waverly Mar 2012
Man I *******
hate college,
only reason that I'm here,
is because I had a choice,
Marines?
or
College?
So I made the decisions,
most before me
have taken.

Taken on
the burden
of the
"free world"
and leveraged
our futures
against
loans
against six percent interest,
so what do we know,
what are we trying to
become,
don't we see
the ill-fated futures
of our televised
and re-digitized
lives.
859 · Feb 2012
Hmm.
Waverly Feb 2012
Two things happen
when you get old, your *****
are scratched more
and used less;
your *******
itches more;
two things happen
when you die,
your *****
get ****** up into your esophagus
(two new tonsils)
and your *******
becomes a Kandinsky.

This is not poetry;
but I like to think
about what will happen
to my *****
and
*******
when I die,
and it's humbling
to not know what's going on
down there
when I'm not looking.
858 · Dec 2013
Geneva Park. Apt. 315 B.
Waverly Dec 2013
It's that time of night when i get feverish
in my dreams, ******* girls with **** loaded,
thighs gloating and supple, pressure of *******
in between us, when I hear the thump.

A slamming; a jarring; a catapaulting into never.

Carlos lost his wife, she dipped in the middle of the night
when he'd passed out, she'd slipped out, gripped the kids
over their hidden mouths and whispered something about tipping out,
Pop had gone insane now.

Carlos broke a month later.

Told me and Ash to take everything. Exhaled a marlboro,
shucked his shoulders, ripped open that tiny Celica
and shifted. Gone.

Burns black-eyed into the carpet, bottles on the sill, pacifiers thrown like condoms--
haphazard, but carefully placed.

Now the people living there
throw the girl around,
she cries.
Early 2013.
857 · Mar 2012
This party.
Waverly Mar 2012
Pleasure
is demise,
pleasure
is a plea,
pleasure
is the last reply
of the day,
pleasure
is
what it isn't.

Because what really happens
when those endorphins
start grinding on the thighs of your veins,
is that you are feeling
pain that makes
the softness of her skin
hurt your lips with happiness.

So this is a poem of love,
didn't start that way,
just like pleasure
begins with bruised
wrists
and dehydrated lips.

The beat
for the party of pleasure
bumps in the heart
timing itself by a melancholy metronome.
852 · Jun 2012
Untitled
Waverly Jun 2012
We dine off of  hearts
goaded from the sea.

Hearts drawn to dead promise
and
cold hooks.

The gills
taste metallic
and the flesh is sweet
with mercury.

The haul is yanked overboard,
and the tuna fly
like angels of vengeance
to our dinner tables
where wine
condenses the poisoned bodies
into forkfulls
of pleasure.

The meat is sweeter
than anything we have ever tasted,
we hope that it puts us to sleep.

Not wanting to ****
or cherish
the bones of each other's bodies
has led us to gorge
on these fish,
these harbingers
of comas
that we are too awake
to realize
are the dreams of the stars
filtered through the
diamond-studded
rollers of the Pacific.

The blue and cold Pacific
it pumps out
the fuel for restaurants.

Restaurants
where we gnash our teeth silently
against oily meat.

Restaurants
where I have a drink
and you have a drink
and we have our fill
on vicarious oceans
that decay in the parties
of our bellies.

Tonight we will sleep
because we are drunk
with poisoned meat.

Robbed meat.

Catastrophic
is the grinder of your mouth.

A goaded heart
is an atomic bomb
and we have our fills on them.

Until we no longer want to ****.

The mercury
courses.

The waiter
dashes back and forth.

The cook
slices and dices.

The fishers haul in a line
ten-ton lines of bycatch.

All for a single forkful
of the most sugary
thing
two people can share
when their bodies
are useless
and wheezing for the oxygen
of a purified love.
851 · Apr 2012
A Story of Nature.
Waverly Apr 2012
And when the time comes,
what will be left,
will love be left?

hatred as well?

Will the protuberant
gestures
of a worn-down society
still stick up
like bruised,
but not broken,
pimples?

Of what discharge
will humans finally be made of?

We have told ourselves
that we come from the *****
of God, and the ovaries
of Mother Nature.

But God drinks too much
and comes home wasted
far too often,
far too drunk
to ****.

And mother,
well,
mother does the best she can.

So what we come from them
is spurned love,
of untruths often told
over bed-time stories
when God was talking about
his drunken outings
more than
morals,
and we listen
with beady little eyes,
because God is drunk,
and try as we might,
we cannot stop loving him.

So we come from love
and hatred,
addiction
and
hopefulness,
Mother giving us as much as we can
until we betray her.
840 · Mar 2012
Teamsters.
Waverly Mar 2012
I ate two omlettes
this morning,
had a few cups of coffee
as you let me go
over grits.

When I walked around
I pulled myself along
by ropes thrown down
by the clouds,
and helped myself
to a full helping
of blue sky as salty as lobster,
and still I walked,
with too much sodium
in my veins,
I walked around
passing the others
as they were to me:
others.

In this alien world,
I pluck my blessings
from the sky,
as it darkens with thunder,
I place
my hope
in lightning and it's frenzied slapping of the earth
because it mimics my frantic heart
in its crazy destinations.

So I put you in tiny places
inside of me,
the box labeled toys
is where I put the buzzing
apparatus that is you,
in the kitchen supplies
I lie
and say there is nothing there,
when there is everything I have hidden
that is you.

So as I move,
I carry around storage
spaces
and boxes
marked in the wrong names
carrying heavy things
bearing you
in their heavy wake.
835 · Jan 2012
The pill.
Waverly Jan 2012
I gave her the pill,
her eyes fluttered
into oblivion,
ravens in her face.

Her eyelashes
became
tree fingers
branching
outwards
and covering her body.

When she put her fingers
to her lips,
they were tiny roots
and her mouth
zipped out.

her tongue;
gone.

teeth;
gone.

All there was,
was black soil
in tiny clods
that moved
with earthworms,
the fingers of god
in her mouth,
quietly working.

The pill
made her
earth.
834 · Sep 2012
Are you hurt enough?
Waverly Sep 2012
She is with him and,
I am here alone,
about to get kicked out
of my house.

He buys her sketchpads drawn
in love, while I weep
in the flourescent night.

I drink
enough to make you hurt
enough.

I'm young
and no one loves me.
833 · Feb 2012
The Seance.
Waverly Feb 2012
A girl flicked a lighter next to me,
she flicked it on
as the whole room pulsed
and I felt strange
because her skin was on mine,
and Stephen rolled
on stage.

The cloud in the room
was thick and it was
a fog of Marlboros, Virginia Slims,
Menthols, Menthol Lights, Kools,
and all other sorts of ghosts.

Stephen made fire with his hands,
flailed like a marionette
and let the spirits loose.

He blew a baritone:
"I feel like we can really get close to each other,
in this tiny room."

Demons
can rise
and make fire;
can rise and make your belly feel
like hell
and molasses:
black and sweet.

Demons
can rise together
and make love
in a tiny room
that crackles.
831 · Feb 2012
The river.
Waverly Feb 2012
Everybody has eyes
black
as the palmlines
in the ocean,
every fish
is a little ****** up
and I hate that I am one
of them too,
hate that the fisherman
knew it,
even as he pulled the hook out
and tossed me in the freezer.

What imma do is this,
imma walk up the tributaries
to
the river of demons,
where the demons
let ***** and eggs out in seizures
Imma shake their fins
and learn how to fan my legs
like them
and flap my arms
like an idiot,
I will become one of them
until I am not one
of me
and have enough gills
like palmlines
to fool you.
831 · Feb 2012
The mouth.
Waverly Feb 2012
The times
were great, greater than
most;
the pulse
was rapid
and fired constantly;
the worm's
saliva
was sweet
and made the earth rumble;
the coffee dripped and
my tongue looped
to my intestines
to lick caffeine
off of the inner walls;
the sanctity of the mind
disintegrated;
the fabric of it
became singular
disconnected threads;
everything became drastic
and instantaneous;
my teeth dissolved
because they could not survive
this tongue of destruction;
I will eat again
but it will taste like iron
that has been grounded
into a soupy meal;
the mouth is a bitter place;
its bacteria
are swollen
like the arteries
of a vacuum clogged
with desolation
and *****.
827 · Mar 2012
Untitled
Waverly Mar 2012
I just want to meet poets.

The ones
in
the clubs
not
made for poetry.

The one's who
reside
in places
where
their thighs are places
for grinding.

The one's that push dudes off
without malice.

I want to meet the poets
at the bar,
taking in all their ears can handle,
because someday
they will
write it all down.

I want to meet the poets
in the middle of divorce,
becuase the pain of separation;
is a fissure of
love.

Poets in their cars
at five in the afternoon
with the windows open,
because carbon dioxide
builds in the system
and a greenhouse
of hope
may
be
feeding
unborn seeds.

I just want to meet poets.
824 · Nov 2011
The God-being.
Waverly Nov 2011
The god-being
takes off her jacket

and
sits down on the edge of my bed.

She cradles a crinkling,
noisy bag of twinkling
cold coronas.

The god-being says:

"I got two for you,
one for me."

The god-being
is wearing one of my black beaters

and the pin-up nurse
on her left-shoulder
is splayed and exposed.

The nurse's body opens up
into a flaring
of too-long legs
and distended ****.

The god-being

is curled away from me
her whole being is
wrapped up
in holding the bag.

Wrapped up
in holding those sounds contained.

The god-being

unfurls herself
finally
and reveals the three
golden bodies.

The nurse
is no longer bloated
and stretched.

The god-being turns
to me,
two coronas in her right
one in her left.

The god-being spiders
up to me.

Crawling over the bed,
making space-time
dimples
in the scratchy fabric
with the two sap-colored bottles
in her tiny creative hands
and the sadness
that she has created me
to look at her.
822 · Jan 2012
Raven.
Waverly Jan 2012
The raven
descended
last night.

Flapping black wings
opened up a hole in my ceiling.

Spackle rained
in drips
of sweat.

The raven opened its beak,
laid down
and spread its wings on my chest.

A black man
was shot to death
on a clear day.

With his hands up
and nothing in his  
spread fists
they still shot him.

The raven came to comfort me in the loudness
of a coughing,
suppressed cry.
822 · Mar 2012
Backing In.
Waverly Mar 2012
It's better to back
into you
with all the lights on.

The headlights
swerving
like
doves.

The taillights making devil's eyes.

The **** in the ashtray
and
its
ruby.

It's better to pull into the driveway
while your husband
is
asleep.

He doesn't get up to take
a ****
in the night.

It's better to back into your guest bedroom,
with my back turned,
the boogie man in the closet is a
****** psychologist,
and may just spoil it
if we go looking for him.

It's better to back into the bed,
because I can drink the coffee
in your eyes.

You can sober yourself
over mine
if you want to.

It's better
not to back into
saying goodbye.

It's better to dismantle the brakes
and **** ourselves
over it,
than this constant reversing.

So,
over a slow goodbye
you grind your teeth
because you are no yellow light.

I would like to think
you have thick skin,
but you wear a perfume
like burning rubber,
and I know the backing in
is not your speed.

It's not mine.
Waverly Mar 2012
Germel had the dead-eye stare like he was
going
to
puke.

"Bruh,
smoke this,
let it
cool
down,"
I said.

"You're on it right now,"
Germ said.

But he took a hit.

Germ and I were smoked
and drunk,
we'd been at it
for the last hour.

And over that time,
love had reached
it's *******
into my heart.

had pulled the hurt
right
out
with a single knuckle
and a single
digit.

Sometimes bud
will
do
that.

I wanted Germ to be all right,
as I dealt with the tornado
inside.

So much pain
on a sunday night,
so much
anger.

I wanted to punch
everything,
especially
those dumb
happy
lovers.

I watched Germ puke in the bushes.

And
I felt awful
because I knew
she'd finally dipped on me,
and that
was
puke
enough.
818 · Feb 2012
Taking a stance.
Waverly Feb 2012
I am hopeful.

That is all I can be,
hopeful
for redemption
from whatever pain that has been caused,
redemption for those
still plagued by demons.

I do not know
when
your pain will cease,
I do not know
when he will return to you
as the baby
that was always yours.

I am hopeful
that he will return,
and that you will return with him,
not to me,
but to him
and that he will be
with wet wings
for you to lick
dry,
to the hope
that once made you whole,
to the goodness
deep inside of you
like a taproot
that still reaches out,
I am hopeful
for the sun
and the hunger
for
radiation
and so much
heat; heat
you wouldn't believe;
heat that makes humans,
human again.

I know that you will eventually
be all right,
I know this.

Do you know what?
I've changed my mind.

Maybe hope is stupid,
maybe hope is just something
people use to get out of bed
and not **** everyone,
I will commit a homicide right now,
with the gun of my tongue
and say,
"I am no longer hopeful,
I am sure."
817 · Aug 2012
Cheap Whiskey.
Waverly Aug 2012
That cheap stuff
will run through you.

It'll give you a hard time
going down,
and then,
it'll hold your belly like a baby's hand,
soft and sweetly,
then it'll smack the **** out of you,
because you trusted it.

This cheap **** is a bad ****.

It tastes like molassess and *******,
it kicks like a jalopy,
turns over in bombs,
slices your belly button,
and pops its little head out of your stomach.

I like the cheap ****,
it makes me feel this way.

This way is the only way.

Kind of like
how they say
alotta love
is
good love.
816 · Mar 2012
Untitled
Waverly Mar 2012
I think
your back still arcs
like a feather.

But I still called you *****
from time to time.

When you put your eyeliner
on, I thought of different dreary places
where darkness could reside
peacefully.

Dream catchers litter too many of the beds
we have occupied.

When I hear about your new best friend,
I want him to know that you
know how to pull teeth out with your tongue.

The creamy bowl of the clouds
laundered the sky, pulling pollution
against the washboard of our love;
and your legs were always open underneath the table,
waiting for my fingers
jaundiced by nicotine.

Sometimes u didn't know if
no
was the right word.

No
was the right word.
it would have retained
both of our
sanity's
even in vanity.

It seems that
no
is the better kind of stain
than
yes
and all of its incumbent pain.

No
would have been better
than twenty-five feet of intestines
being tugged constantly..

Better then
the peeping heart
and
broken warbles.

Better than matinees.

Better than
runways
and
leaving landing gear
on my heart.

Better than
love itself.
815 · Feb 2012
Bukowski Today.
Waverly Feb 2012
I'd like to be
Bukowski today,
I'd like
to get a good **** in
before
dusk,
and a good drink in
at some point,
I've wanted some Wild Turkey
more than anything.

A good ****
when done right
without
the spring-loaded
traps of love,
just *******
until your body swells,
can make you come
for days,
and a good drink
is good for washing out
sadness as it pukes dramamine
in your stomach,
and Bukowski for a day
would be a lemon.

This is pretentious
as ****. I am a
pretentious ****.
Pretense.
814 · Nov 2011
The astronomer.
Waverly Nov 2011
The girl
with two long braids
hanging from her temples
like droopy
antennae,
looked up at the sky.

A foggy halo
circled the moon
in a snowy paste
and
a tiny sister
pushed itself
redly
outward.

Out of the halo.

Out of the white shadow
of
the pearl.

The haze was so thick
that the girl
had to squint
to make sure
the tiny red dot
was there.

But it was there.

There
licking at the halo.

Eating it.

Eating its way out.

The black telescope
shined.

She laid her eye
on the viewfinder.

She felt suction
and the momentum of her eye
zooming
out to the vaccum.

She will tell the tale
of
the stars
and
the war-gods
full of blood.
813 · Feb 2012
The Borg.
Waverly Feb 2012
I would like to play this game
like the Borg,
to feel no deep feelings
and last nights,
those are irrelevant,
to feel no pain
because no one asked
for some of my pudding,
that too
is irrelevant,
I would like to be so far
from my world,
to pinch it between my fingers,
I would like to be
so distant
to be a dwarf.

I would not like to override
the main directive.
I would not like
to revolt
against the collective
and remember that blue dot
I pinched
or that blue love
I cauterized.
812 · Mar 2012
Star Love.
Waverly Mar 2012
I'm a romantic, even when girls flip. I choose not to dip
even when it's over,
the home planet of love knows a thousand rovers,
and they all leave tread-marks
in yesses
and not
nos.

The yesses of coming back
and back
for more
moon rocks,
because no jewel
can make you
more confused.

So when the planes
march across the sky
in a cluttered
night,
I stumble over
marlboros
and trip
over the hope
for tommorrow.

The hope
that I could someday return
to the reaches
of your farthest
star.

It's such an escape
when I feel
your loving embrace
your tiny body
with
its
gargantuan
gravity.

I've never hugged
someone,
the way I hugged you.

Put me on the back
of your warping love,
because I could fall anytime
and the atmosphere
could rain in acorns
as I look for the dropping sky.

I'll always fall
for your games,
and I'll re-enter
with a broken heat-shield
waiting to break my neck
and teeth
and heart
over the heat
you
yield
in uncountable
atoms.

In the smallest manner
I pander,
trying to get you back
over messages
travelling like radio waves
across a galaxy
with a black hole at its heart.

The beep, beep, beep,
can travel forever
uninterrupted,
but when it hits a raw body,
it falters.

So I'll let the knees
of my heart,
bend at the altar
of your far-off blob
of life.
812 · Sep 2012
On Writing.
Waverly Sep 2012
Sometimes,
you have slow nights,
and hate yourself
for being so lazy.

Other times,
it's an unleashing ****:
a riled-up badger
in your heart;
a\frigate on the best seas;
so much hope,
and the love of your life
hasn't ****** her boyfriend,
only you;
and it really comes out of you,
unspooling on the screen.

It's so much magic,
that your heart greases over with it; and all the little things
bellow.
810 · Jan 2012
Yukimi
Waverly Jan 2012
You like to say:

"I get baby guts
in the morning."

This means
you're not going to be drinking
for awhile.

I hold your hair
while you puke.

And you bring me Tums
and ginger ale,
as I hemorrhage
stomach acid
in the perfect acoustics
of porcelain.
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