She weeps not for the shore
As distance creates a shadow
She embraces the current
Becoming the wave
And gently pushes her sea home

She chases not the sun
As the day is put to rest
She is the moonlight
That cradles the stars
Tightly to her *******

She yearns not
Her pain-streaked tears
That fall below her feet
She is the soil beneath her toes
Her pain now colors the tree

She worries not
The flowers' bloom
Or the leaves that fall like rain
She is the wind
That will kiss the ground
And sweep it all away

Venice was a place for sudden ******
a stiletto plunged in velvet
vengeance tied in a knot of silk
piracy on any dark canal
robbery under quiet bridges.

Water laps the crumbling walls
salt hunger creeps up
seeps between stones
worms its way through cedar
settles in the sagging shelves
where old books bound in leather
edged in gold, embossed with crests
are best left well alone.

In these libraries of the lagoon
chapters and paragraphs
sentences and phrases fragment
nouns lay down with their verbs
creating images from metaphors
startling and sublime, but hidden
kept in these word-chambers
they slide away in time.

Each passing month, each day
restless and uneasy
festering in this state of decay
Venice is still
the place of death.


© M.L.Emmett

It feels like someone's continuously tapping a hammer on your heart and I know you've taped her together so many times and there's still so many fresh wounds covered in band aids. But you refuse to let her break. You refuse to hide her behind your ribs where it's safe and protected from all the coldness and cruelty of the world. And every night you wash her cuts clean with your salty tears and tuck her under your sleeve, careful not to touch the bruises. But you're the only one who's careful with her aren't you? You're the only one who night after night still believes in her and tells her she's still capable of love and someday you're going to give her to someone and they're not going to have guns for hands and bullets for words. They're not going to grab her and hold her against their chest and whisper that they'll be there for her no matter what, only to carelessly drop her, sometimes throw her aside, when realizing how close to falling apart she is. Don't they see how hard it is keeping her in one piece when all anyone tries to do is rip her to shreds? Don't they see that you're  trying to love and love and love in the hopes of getting some in return to fill these cracks? The worst is when you see other broken and battered hearts, and with the sole intention of helping them you only end up in worse pain than before. I can't stop crying I can't stop crying. Somethings got to wash her bleeding wounds. She might be ruined but she's still capable of love. She is. I am. I am. I am.

Your Instagram tinted daydream solo self-help projects
are naught compared to the many faces of my Ketamine addled
multi-faceted bed-ridden wasted ****** aesthetic
Bring me my poppers while I can smell them
or get off my ******* rocket ship
These are the bed sores of regret
tinged in tingly jingle-jangle garage rock twattish twee twaddle
Smoke my tea drink my plants, Kratom of the smack recovery
cat come cat-call **** all to be done
the ladders lead to the plateau that the Meat Puppets sang about
Some say I've been away, some that I've been dead
dada said daddy in the monotone voice, slippin' mickeys and mandys in the drinks of the boys and girls for spoils of war
and causalities of the political system
I hope the vote for your preferred pederast is enough to stop *******
or in fact let us turn to your queen so the monarchs can reward the patriarchs that beat the matriarchs and maybe we can sleep a little better tonight
Truth is these four walls are enough of a prison within the prison that I feel free in slavery
Words too imprison the soul, so I stopped using them
implicit in silence
explicit in message
call on your horses
kneel before the great *** of democracy
these are truly the end of days
and her natural milk shall flow through our veins
until the new dawn awakens from solemn slumber
and your faux-intellectual ******* returns to witch doctor ritual seance ******* matador squeaky clean record having gutter-troll reprobate sunshine easy listening solipsist elite country club golf retreat in the hills where you **** the carcass of the empire with your dysfunctioning penises and praise your zionist overlords that mock your ****** hospitality through gritted teeth as they push you over the edge onto the wailing crowds of peasants below where your alien bones crumble to dust and your stagnant coagulated blood oozes into the Earth where it burns like gallons of acidic chemicals and the world rejoices at the sight of fallen greed and toppled regime until the next time it happens again

If you want to watch, she'll dance again
Your drugs are expensive today
everything was cheaper before
and life is beginning to bore

If you want to **** again, she'll go another round
bring her down around town, smile and frown

So if Heaven is full, I know a place we can go
Let me know if this seedy city is too much
if her face is pretty much muck
I think you might be stuck

But she still dances, and you're still watching
from the balcony and the beacon

the lifeless girl drowned in the Mekong
where was she escaping to, or from?