I have this idea of you.
Tattooed and beautiful.
Sarcastic and witty,
with a silver tongue
that tastes better than
the richest chocolate.

Mister Frost, you're not the only
one who has been acquainted
with Night.
Her soft shadows, and
enveloping, luscious curves.

Robert, you're not the only
one who walked through rain
and back in rain.
It's cold blanket, and
comforting, familiar taste.

Miss Palmer, you're not the only
one who has been acquainted
with the Darkness of the Day.
His harsh light, and
blinding, searing smiles.

Robert,
Amanda,
it is a terrifying sight, because
we are living the same way.

"There are fixed points through time where things must always stay the way they are." - The Doctor in "Cold Blood" (2010)

"You're my fixed point."
She claims, face hidden
by geography and hands
that cover tear-brimmed eyes
like a spacesuit.
All self-contained and protected.
All exoskeleton and isolation.

There's an airport in my heart
Where I stand in the terminal
waiting on your flight to come in
so I can kiss you just the way I did
when you boarded.

I'll grab a glass
and you can slip
into something a
little
more
comfortable.

Stealing kisses in the
backseat of the
taxi like a burglar
in the night.
Never knowing that
I know just
what your actress
looks like.

Headlights dim and
horns honk like
mice in the walls.
We step on the curb
and throw some cash
at the driver,
my hand placed on
your shoulder and you're
laughing. I smile a smile
that makes your skin crawl
but you're not exactly sure
why.

So, I'll grab a glass
and you can slip
into something a
little
more
comfortable.

So, I'll slip something
into your glass to
make you a
little
more
comfortable
and cold.

Stick the headphones
in your ears and close
your eyes. Listen to the
words and throw off your
disguise. It's the one place
you can go to, and be yourself
in your head, in your head.

Dot your eyes, and paint
your lips in crimson red
straighten your crinkled
shirt and laugh at the mirror,
it's time for a night on the town,
so throw back a shot and grab
your ******* keys.
It's time for a night on the town,
can't be yourself in this *******
town. Can't be yourself.

Dance the dance in front
of the crowd, give them
the performance of your
career, and take a bow in
front of the toilet, and accept
your laying ovation, in the motel
room with the boy who said
he'd take you home.

If you use me
as an anchor,
toss me off
the side of the ship
like little plastic rings
that ****** dolphins,
I'll sink into that cold,
that dark. Bubbles rising
to the surface, with each and every
pop you'll hear my last thoughts
as the pressure chokes the life from my lungs.

We're like burning bridges, baby.
Fast and for real.
Feeling a fire that is fueled by
arguments and reconciliations.

We're like the fall of an empire,
so subtle and so pure.
Collapsing into each others arms
like the Walls of Troy.

We're like Bonnie and Clyde,
rampaging through life without
a care for anyone or anything
but us.

Needing only us, to set us free.
Whispering words beneath the
shade of trees, hearing you ask me
if I shall love you always.
And I always answer, 'til the end
of the world, angel.

Needing only us, to set us free.

This is my letter to you,
rash and unproofread
like bouts of teenage
poetry and angst.
Unconcentrated disgust
and rage that bleeds through
the pages like ink from a
well and blood through a
bandage, that crimson
that you wrapped around
your body in the form of a
slinky little dress that matched
the carpet in my apartment
perfectly.

You tasted like wine and adventure
with a tint of regret and poise
that you tried to hide behind
slang and lipstick, but I'm sorry
Darling, you can't play the game
like I can, and you won't last,
so fold your ******* hand
and cash in your chips,
you won't need them where
you're going.

Your breath on my neck
and you're seeing stars,
but you can't play the game
like I can, and my foot is
already out the ******* door.

But, this is my letter to you
written on the embroidered
napkins on the nightstand
in the hotel room where you
sold your soul for cheap wine
and a good ******* time.
You can't play the game like
I can, and you're just
scribbled on a hotel napkin.

You trip over apologies
like I stumble into love,
accidental and bruised.
They dribble out the side
of your mouth and onto the
letter you're writing for the
benefit of you and you alone.
You'll tuck it beneath my
windshield wipers, whispering
the words that you always
fall back on, "I'm sorry."

Heather, will you come back home?
I'm tired of being alone like
a drunk on Christmas morning.
Mourning Ground Zero
where the bomb went off,
and the crater still stands,
a scar on the earth and in my
mind to remind me that the
past is permanent.
It's permanent.

Wrap your arms around me,
and notice me noticing you.
Smile at the cheesy things
that fumble out of my mouth,
pure and unintentional.

Measure me
against the ones
who came before,
like a child against
the wall, chalk
dusting my hair
like hesitation.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
For it no longer echoes in my ears, in my fingers,
in my tongue. These endless digits fallen instantaneously
numb like a local anesthetic or winter basement nights
alone in the dark.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
It's melodic tones and overtures, the way it wraps
around words like my hands around your curves.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
And how I fed on it like the word of God.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.

You messaged me yesterday.
Snide words about present company
and then wanted to see me. I agreed
because I no longer remembered the
sound of your voice. Those tones
and inflections that make the
ugliest insults sound like a church choir.
Spiritual. Soulful.
Your laugh rang through the car
like it has through the hollows
of my mind every night when
eyes are closed, beds are empty
and I try to remember the sound
of your voice.

You took me in like a matriarch
takes in a poor orphan
***** and hungry off the boulevard.
Well just know baby girl, every night
I pray for the crops to fail and your
stomach to swell.

You took me in like a mother
takes in a curious toddler
sticky and fragile strapped in the car
seat. Well just know baby girl, every night
I pray for your breaks to go out and your
seat belt to break.

"An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way." -Charles Bukowski in Notes from a ***** Old Man (1969)

It's always been like this.
The intellectual and the artist
ripping each other to shreds in my head
like wolves in winter, so desperate to eat.

The teeter-tottering back in forth
has left me as barren as my ambition.
Soulless homunculus. A perfect rendition
of a man, but still lacking.

Will I ever find a balance
between emotional and intellectualistic
murmurs? These unheard whispers
whistle in the dark while I weep alone.

And you always know just what
to say to keep me on the edge
of my seat, biting my nails
in anticipation and rage.

Passing the ball back and forth,
playing the game, we've
obviously grown out of.

And I'm miserable, merciless
and alone, you're miserable,
hopeful, and alone.

So make me scream
in disgust and delight
under your touch that
holds the weight of the
world just beneath the
pores and prints.

Make me cry
in sorrow and joy
with your lips
as they push against
mine like a car crash
or a freight train picking
up speed as it heads straight
for the station.

Make me laugh
in irony and sincerity
beneath your gaze
that haunts my
dreams and thoughts
like ghosts in the garden

And you can't honestly
expect me to bite
my ******* tongue
until the blood soaks my
shirt. I'm tired of being
the ******* pawn
in your ******* game
of chess. I'm tired of
being sacrificed and
thrown to the side.
I'm sick and *******
tired of your game

I've got a face for black eyes,
and I'm sick and tired of your *******
lies.
Sweetly slipping off the forked tongue
you hide so elegantly behind your
pearly
white
smile

Chasing passions through pulsations
beneath our skin. Sighing
sighs that make angels smile
and devils cry.

Skin warm beneath secret fingertips,
trading lines back and forth
like a hand-me-down Casanova
indulging in each other, and
each other alone.

Ripped apart at the seams
like a stuffed animal, stained
and worn through the years
of abusive love.

Pulling together again
through the actions of
an unwilling heart
doing anything possible
just to hear you whisper
"Blue."

"You smoke too many cigarettes"
she claims with the sun beating
on her face like her father
Drunk and heavy-handed.
"I'm worried about your health"
Her hand clutching my hand
like the Moon to the Earth,
altering tides and currents
thoughts and memories.
Occupying every conceivable
second of every single day.

Wasting away in a hospital bed
hair falling in clumps on the sheets
and veins protruding the skin like
copper ore.

Taking doses of therapy in trickles
down the plastic tube that burrows
in my arm like so many rabbits.
Pressing the button to relieve the
agony.

So when I leave this world
behind, remember
I'll be just fine, I've got my
words all picked out,
I know just what I'll say
to He who makes.

And if He laughs at me,
I'll know what I suspected
was always true. Just a lonely
child playing building blocks
with hearts and souls.

So when I leave this world
behind, remember
I'll be just fine, I've got my
words all picked out,
I know just what I'll say
about you and I.

You think you're clever
but I read you like
the prettiest little poem.
Red hair flickering the
edges of paper like
matchsticks.

CROSSROADS
by Beth Faulkner

When you know I'm dead, don't say my name
for I will never move on.
I would hear your voice and return.
I'd live in this eternal waiting room
Watching memories like home videos.
Pausing at the wonderful times,
fast forwarding through the hard,
rewinding and playing over and over
to hear you ask if I shall love you always
,and myself answer "till the end of days"
I need to leave,but I make every excuse not to
Watching the memories until our last moments
Then I hear you call my name and begin again..

******

I know you're dead, and I still whisper your name
for I will never move on.
I hear your voice and beg for you to return
to the eternal waiting room of my mind.
Watching my memories like home videos,
pausing at the time where you belonged to me
fast forwarding through my times without you
rewinding and playing over and over
knowing that I shall love you always
'Til the end of days.
I need to leave, move on.
But every memory is a reason not to.
Watching them until my last moment,
until I whisper your name, and begin again..

I conjure you in my dreams.
Grecian Goddess that you are
arms and legs lined with colors
that bleed out of your tattoos
like the prettiest pieces of heaven.

I can't keep my eyes off
your legs in that black
dress that you wear
with hidden elegance
that appears on the edges
of your smile. Faint. Shining.

As your lips tremble
underneath my touch
I know I've been
blind before this
moment.

How can
one so delicate
and pretty, oh
so pretty, destroy
herself with each
and every glance
in broken mirrors
and shattered
glass.

Dawn is breaking
and the symphony
is as silent
as our conversations.

The levee broke
just like our backs
when the world
came crashing
down around
our feet.

So move the pieces into play
and everything'll go according
to plan. A subtle smirk
and spark of confidence, pawn to D5.

Locking eyes, you're playing a game
and you don't even realize. Your skills
are amateur at best, and I'm a cold
calculating monster.
Queen to D4.

Before long, pieces lay in puddles
of glass on the outskirts of the
battlefield of perfect little black and
white squares. You've lost your little
soldiers and your little court with a
wink and a laugh.
Rook to D8, checkmate.

Your words taste
as sweet as candy
and I catch myself
cutting them off.
My lips pressed against yours
in anticipation. How could
anything be as sweet as your
smile, your voice, your eyes?

Sometimes I catch myself wondering
if you still want to be a doctor.
If you're still stuffing change into
that dollar store doctor's set,
the clatter of quarters on plastic
that used to make me smile like
a woman with child.
Sometimes, I catch myself wondering
Only sometimes though.

Lightning strikes and we're at it again.
fingers tracing faces like fire.
Breath short and sweet like so many
whispered words and unwatched movies.

Finger in the socket and we keep
laughing those laughs that only
we can remember.
Smiling those smiles that we hide
now from everyone and each other.

Toaster in the bathtub and we're lost.
Separated by a sea of improbability
and spine
less
ness.

Electrocution: n. killing by electric shock.

Lightning strikes and I'm alone again.
fingers tracing scalp like scars.
Breath short and sour like so many
worried words and kneejerk reactions.

Finger in the socket and I'm
laughing a laugh that only
I can hear.
Smiling a smile that I used to
only show to one other.

Toaster in the bathtub and
I'm cast aside, seperated by
mistakes I made and words
"I don't love
you
anymore"

And since you're not by my side
the pages remain as blank as my stare.

Everyday she smiles at the mirror
and kisses it soft and pure.
Then leaves a note signed with
XOXO
on the bedside table.

Sometimes you might find me,
in a back alley, throwing up my guts,
in explosions, of green and orange.

Sometimes you might find me,
in a rundown apartment, with a ceiling fan
that arcs crookedly, hitting the ceiling in
explosions of drywall and poverty

Sometimes you might find me,
in a sunny park, scribbling lines in a
worn, tattered notebook,
in explosions, of ink and passion

Sometimes you might find me,
outlined in chalk, battered, bruised, ******
in explosions of red and abuse.

Sometimes you might find me,
standing beside you, walking with
and guiding you in explosions of
anger
and
I told you so's.

I'm feline in my approach
slender-sleek and silent
footsteps like ghosts
on stairwells and whispers
in your ears.

I have nine lives
and I've wasted them
all stalking you
through concrete
jungles and labyrinthian
words and feelings.

"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"

I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.

Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.

Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.

Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.

I threw a little funeral for us.
Gathered our things.
Photographs and poems.
Your bra and tinfoil and straws.
All tucked tightly in a little oak box
lined with all my hopes and dreams.
And I buried them in the backyard.

It's like a smile at a funeral.
Soft and insecure,
cradling.
Unsure if you're fit to go on,
but too polite to suggest
such weakness.

You use your wit and your guile
like a mask at the dance.
Gliding in and out of the
crowd with a grace and imperfection
that is fitting to the inconsistency
of your character.

Someone's mirroring your
movement like a doppelganger
dark and fierce,
step by step,
arm to arm
heart to heart.

It's like a smile at a funeral.
Soft and insecure,
cradling.
Unsure if you're fit to go on,
but too polite to suggest
such weakness.

So flip a coin
take a chance.
Roll the die.
let me have this dance.

We've only got this night
So cash in your chips
and make a break
You've only got this one chance
to take this kiss.

So flip a coin
take a chance.
Grab by hand
and let's just
run, run, run.

or Redheads.
Crimson Irish curls
that cling to curves
like my lips cling to
your name.
Natural.

Army Men exploded into
green plastic pieces
on the dull, gray
comforter that made
up the battlefield.
Rubberbands flying
back and forth
through the air
like so many bombshells.

Days that I long
to fall back on,
where super heroes
had crooked teeth,
hunched backs,
and tattered t-shirts.

Half empty glasses
are on the table
in the living room.
Materialistic proof
that I never finish
what I start.

Tattered at the edges like
a library book
or a garage sale jigsaw puzzle.
Jagged and frayed, yellowed at the
edges.

With a hidden elegance,
like piles of ***** laundry,
or a composition book
with doodles and lyrics
scrawled in the margins like
so many hopes and
dreams.

And a soft anguish
like dusty guitar strings
or a coffee table
with scratches and stains
etched in the legs like
so many hopes and
dreams.

I'm clinging to hope
like I'm clinging
to hospital bed sheets.
Scared. frustrated. Tired.

Counting the naps,
beautiful demonstrations
of death.

Counting the kisses
pouring off your lips
like ballots on election day.

I find myself
scribbling little
words onto paper
trying to find a way
to explain my thoughts
and idiosyncrasies
to you. The way I look
at you, and the way
I take your hands into
mine as they clench
the gearshift, just to be close
to you.

Wish I knew
just what it felt
like to have
everything
figured out
just
the
way
you do.

But my ideas fragment
and my sentences crumble
like secrets whispered
in the basement dark.

I know you've got me
right where you want me
but the thing is,
I don't really mind
bending over backwards
just to make you smile.

So go ahead and use
me, just like you always
do. Go ahead and take
what you can get and
move the **** on like
so many parasites
that bite to break skin.
I'll take the pain
and use it just to make you
smile.

I miss you like the desert misses the rain
Dry and cracking underneath the sun
that we both share.

I miss you like an alcoholic misses a drink
cold and refreshing in that dive
where we first met.

I miss you like a cactus misses a hug
Prickly and worn with arms outstretched
waiting for you to come home