there is a tourniquet on his tongue.

he is a risqué bloke
with alkaloid fingers,
they are wearing
yellow asylum jackets
yet he calls me
mad-


emoiselle, his, in between the lines
he cuts with razorblades and mirrors.
i find myself in between legs
of a stanza (not standing),
pale femurs and inner thighs
french-kissing into
surpine ampersands
where the first word
is a proclaimed ugly disease    -- perhaps 'love.'
and the other, its escapade   -- perhaps 'tuberculosis.'
but i must be the period:
oxidised bones.  


within the eyes
of a stanza (still not standing)
abides no fancy lines
no avarice for contemplative meanings
there is but space and void
and i've filled his femur marrows
with metaphors
to the verge of the patella.
he writes poetry for me
with a needle
and an eight-ball.



there is a tourniquet on his tongue
and his spine fits my stocking


seamlessly.

you taught me that a gun


                           without a bullet


weighs much more than


the one


               that has something to hold.

i tried to eat my whole heart raw once.


but i could not stomach it. could not stomach the noxious ventricles down my throat, could not swallow the bollus of unfleshly pink carnage.
so i broke it into pieces and i blamed you instead, because it seemed easier to say you broke me than to say that i ever loved you.


i.

this is how you broke me :

whenever i thought of you ******* her i would think of dying inside.


dying is a blessing.

dying is the movie that i am too young to watch but too old to resist. dying is divinity, it is paradisical death in slow motion, an entity mushrooming in between the eyes of a decaying rabbit. it is tears being ****** back into the eyes of a small girl, legs apart, ***** ripped, the fruitlessness of futility bleeding out like saliva from a mouth. dying is being idle, dying is being able to think without questioning existence, dying is a moth, paled by smoke.


it is that tuesday night i promised myself i would never write again
if all i wrote was about you.



ii.


this is how i broke myself :

whenever i thought of you dying inside her, i would think of *******.


******* is a blessing.  


******* is the reason an orchid can sing without a stigma. ******* is the malformation of your tongue when you say " i hate myself, because i hate you, but i hate you more. ". ******* is about three blocks away from love. ******* and love are probably secret **** buddies. ******* is saying you love her. ******* is saying you love me. ******* is that heart-shaped bruise that you left on my wrist, that tuesday night you ***** me and called it love. ******* is telling me i am not her.



this disposition of 'her', the realisation she plays a better 'her', than i play 'her', the realisation that she stole 'her' from me, when'her' was a dream both of us  could hope to fake.



iii.


why people are kept broken:

you once told me, while ashing out a cigarette on my neck,
*"it is better to stay broken so nothing else can ever break you again."

I am not one of these leather wearing ******* you see on **** sites. I am real. I listen to 911 calls on repeat. Images of gore, abortions, death, and torture fill me with unbridled lust.

Humans are amazing... Their build, their skin, with billions of embedded pain receptors. Optic nerves, sending horrific images directly into their frontal lobes. I love their faces, tiny changes in their expressions with different types and increments of pain.

There is such a glorious range and variety of pain that can be inflicted upon a human. Few appreciate the sublime canvas of a humans body. Each sense can be tweaked and tormented. All of there emotions can be played like an instrument, by someone with the right skills and tools. Their screams are sublime.

There is a certain kind of scream a person lets out, the moment they realize their own mortality, but it is beyond words. It makes me see red. I lust for it. I adore it.

I am free. I am not bounded by your conceptions of morality. ******, ****, and torture are simply choices. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want to whomever I want. Whether it is one death, a million, a billion, or an entire planet or the entire universe, it means less than nothing to me. I have no ideology, religion, or higher purpose. If the slab of meat and chemicals you call your mind is searching for a word to append to me, just think of me as an artist. My medium is flesh.

I walk among you. I understand you better than you understand yourself. I have studied the human body, peeled back the layers of flesh, the emotions. I see right through you. I am the nice, unassuming person you know. We share secrets. Some of you like me. Some of you love me.*

None of you know me.



I am, *sadist.

you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  



you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.



you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.


there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.


i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.



i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.

i.

a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.


she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.


another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow



ii.


on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she  
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and


i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because


i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off


azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well


those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that


sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.




iii.


death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream


but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.




iv.


when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.




v.


i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.  



i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
  
and i am bitter.




vi.


i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.


i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.


i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.


i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.


vii.

ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest,  and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.

i.


dear poetry, we met when i was four,
you were count lestat, and it was love
at first sight. you were made of bone
and bane, and razors, i was a mosochist

and you were a black widow, i would
know, i was there, trying to pry
open all of your eight legs, looking
for the amrita.


ii.


dear poetry, if i were to answer all
of the thirteen questions you have ever
asked me, the answers would be,
no, no, yes, march the thirty second,
"how frail a human heart must be -",
diacetylmorphine without the butterfly,
mother, yes, barely, jolene, you don't
love me, contractility, and no.


iii.


dear poetry, you have pretty legs.


iv.


dear poetry, i am an ugly archetype of denuded
adolescence and i think you smell
like teenagers and a leather hacked smothered
in *** and black labels and ck perfume,
and a pound of god.


v.


dear poetry, if sleep is the brother to death,
where does my mother lie,
before ribbons of aubade
seek the flower in the sky?


vi.


dear poetry, today i don't think i love you anymore.


vii.


dear poetry, if you were humanised,
you would be ugly. you would be defleshed,
you would be ugly. you would be marked constantly by
ugly people and you would bleed ugly people.


viii.


dear poetry, today i might ******* my muses,
i might make them wear fishnet leggings,
with ****-me heels, i might give them *****
to suit others that **** them better than i do, and
it is all your fault.


ix.


dear poetry, i promise myself i would not speak
to you anymore, at least not in words, but
we both know poets are nothing but
liars, don't we?


x.


dear poetry, i am not a poet, all the poets are dead.

they died for you.


xi.


dear poetry, i am writting you thirteen letters
a year, they are ugly, like i am, they spell
an ugly word you would never speak of. you
will be anatomised, i will stuff you with
consangunuty, i will re-invent you.


xii.


dear poetry, you are older than me,
i am twenty, but you are only ten,
i am ripe, bruised, plucked from purple lips,
nothing is ageless.


xiii.*


dear poetry*, i am going to break you,
grind you in a mortar, roll you up,
into a blunt, and i am going to smoke
you along with the angels.

there is teeth


in your eyes.

such monstrance
you possess for
such weak wrists
and fallacious mind.


Remember , my dear:

your plastic skin,
your bruised ***,
your reverie mind,

is ******* dissectable.


don't **** with me.

- -

CJ attack you from the metronome
Catch you in your groove home alone
Blowin wit the chrome
Im blowin to the bone
My title be known.. cannibal.. dynamical maestro
Sparked and fully hydroed my team of psychos
Sell it higher than the Eifel Towers
Seconds minutes led the hour.. wein the power
Spittin bibles..the sunshower.. the wise out on the scene
They think we forget the dream
My aura sheens like morphine in your veins
Pastors saying can you and your crew.. oooh stand the rain
Many men possess the gin in the jungle of sin
Deeper than.. Sum chosen others frozen
From the explosion, my opposition
Protect my team of demolitions, full competition
Keep em drinkin Benjin
Like some chicken heads on the ground
Bite the trey pound for foes that wanna get down
Me and my clique sharpen the sound
Infiltrate the town

must i long for
the scarlet rain
that
did not phlebotomise,

did not secrete
from  
codeine clouds,
    
                                                                        if  the milk would be spilt.


must i conceive ignus fatuus
colourcasts from the television
inside a mouth
that caterwauls
faces of static and pollen
and Klaus Nomi masks  

as if i were lobotomised
eating flowers fingered out of
the flesh of the brain

                                                                         carnations would not exist.


i do not want to believe
the promise
of  lovers were
merely  yous' and



eyes'.
no such world is eyeless.
or any less without eyes.

                                                                            become my chalk and bones.

i want to believe
humanity
is a defined mass
of bathypelagic insects

sleeping in chrysalids
longing to be
broken.

                                                                             break me.



i want to understand
there is an euxine ocean



beyond my bathtub.

The sun would always come out a little after

                                                                        the mind massacre
                                                                          
                                                                               - follow the monsters-

            i fancy lying on the
hard floor
because it is the only place
where the train of vertebrates in
my spine
can set in its rails.  


                                                               i am a void
                                                               bleeding out oxidised civilisation
                  -holes in my head-
                                                                in a world where colours
                                                                are just fabricated memoirs
                                                                of porcelain filmstrips.
                                                                            

i fear that i am becoming anorexic:
my brain is splattered onto
a tiny plate
                                            -emaciated-
where i maliciously
pick out the
soft and pretty
bits.


My tongue is cancerous,
segregating words into
Pinks' and greys'.        
                                                                                
                                                             my heart has malformed into      
                                                             an ugly blister
                                       -swollen-
                                                              milking saps
                                                              of dismal yesterdays.        

i'm swimming
alone
in an acid bath
of bleach and ice.                                            

                                                      can't find the light
-the light-
                                                       beneath the glass
                                                                                              -the night-
                                                       of the
-decaying-
                                                       chandelier.

i know a secret,
as small as a lump of cancer and pale
as oessin cartilage, insignificant
as the number thirty one
until the end of december.

i know a secret,
locked beneath the tongue of the demon
inside the piano,


-

spitting out keys, oxidised,
corroded, foul, cut for bone marrows  
and cheap hotels and umbrage and
odium and pathological experimentations.

i know a secret,
decolourised in the shade of red and
no matter how raw you scratch me,
it will never bleed out, not even
for you.


--

they are coming, the surgeons, you say.

they are here to anatomise, to dissect, to ****,
to clean, to find, to ****, to dichotomise, to
divide, to sever, to ****, to ****, to stitch,
to seperate, to hide, to fix, to ****,

to make me sick.


---

i may as well be sick.  


----

i think i may as well gut out your stomach
and tie your pretty ileum into a pretty
ribbon, to a pretty street lamp,
and make you walk in a straight line
until you die, to show me
how much you love her.


silly boy, getting to her heart
was an easy as a six point
four centimeter incision.


-----

i was the faire semblant and  
you were the toothless protagonist
of some drunk playwright's
filthy dream, they gave you
gloucester eyes.


euthanise me, i want
your ugly face




------

to be the last ugly face i see.

we were speeding on 'e'
in dastardly overused lexemes
i used to forget, ending
peachy words with
'jolie' (or 'moche').



write: meta-cognition.


he writes lines and
chisels octaves onto my
skin, dough, bones and lacquers,
he says they are the only places
where mad love-notes would fit
without the keys.


the bed has turned bipolar,
diagnosed with isochronous stability.
we sleep in half-cut apples
held up by sombre scissors.


he imbibes couplets
from strophe tea-cups,
he leaves me hungover
in stanza trains.


he says that i am
the last pen he has and
if i were to stop dreaming,
the poet would be dead.*




write: writhe, wither.

david wayne johnson*


                                                   yourfuckingstupid.
                                              ­                              

                                 ­                                                                 ­      i hate you.

I reside in your stomach, lying here is bliss…getting gnawed on everyday by your attacking pepsin enzyme. I suspect you would not digest me yet, dear Jennor? You sneak. You, I believe have changed me the most, with your knives. You cut and carve me in your pleasure…shaping, moulding me into the person ridiculously typing this myfuck **** today. In return, I’ve done nothing but bleed with you under the cyanide sun. You’ve ordered me to write, of which I obeyed, and forced me into acceptance. You protect me from everything, at a distance, possessively stalking from the shadows. For that I thank you, and I adore you, ever so dastardly. When I am strong enough, I shall protect you too, and be there to save you…I shall infeckt you in my eternity. You claim my soul, locked up for safety …and but of course, our secrets shall stay untold. Smother me, until I am purple and can no longer breathe.

to the garden lack of the pulse of insect's colour
paved with voices,
a dreaming girl selling her little body
it starts;
girl in box, girl in box,
when will she be let out?

a dreaming girl, dreaming
in her empty dream


i do not think i am late, am i?
who is still here?

I've never been someone anyone would understand. I think differently. I act differently. I believe differently. I'm different, to lay it all out there.

I can be a very nice person, that doesn't mean I am very often. I have to try. My behavior depends on my encounters. I should probably be more level, but where's the honesty in that? Level people don't rise and fall. I'm waiting to rise again.

I'd rather have a conversation with my dog or someone I'll never meet, than with someone that knows me. Pre-conceptions are funny that way. I suppose I perceive people perceive me inaccurately. They do, actually. But I do it too, except one would think I might know myself by now. With strangers (and dogs), there are no pre-conceptions. Or at least, those thoughts are hazy and not defined. I hate being defined. Maybe that's why I haven't figured myself out just yet, it's for the best. I feel more free this way.

I'm not free. I've never been free. There were times when I was held under someone's thumb, someone who didn't even have the right kind of grip. Then there are those times when obligation held me tight, I couldn't escape it. I still can't. Even without all of these forced bindings, I'm simply bound to tie myself to something or someone. I can't seem to help it. I need to be needed. But I want to be let go. I'm sure I'd feel differently if that were to actually happen though. There I go again, not knowing…

I don't believe in marriage, but if I did…I'd marry a handsome blueberry farmer. We'd grow blueberries and grow old, all at the same time. He'd play the harmonica on the front porch while we sipped on sweet tea and watched the sun go down every evening. The dogs would love to hear him play, and they'd sing along…you know how dogs do. The kids would think us odd and wonder why we never get bored, sitting on the same porch together. And we'd think the kids are funny. Because let's face it, young people get weirder all the time.

I have my doubts about time. It seems it always runs out. Maybe I get a late start. Maybe I ***** around too much. Maybe it's that way for everyone. I don't know. I guess I shouldn't waste my time worrying about it.

I don't trust things. I trust words though. That may sound odd, in that someone has to say them. More than likely, I won't trust that person. Words are honest, the thoughts behind them may not be. That is to be debated in the moments or even after the fact, I suppose. I guess I trust the written word more so, to be specific. Words are for always, even if the "say"ers are not.

I don't talk about myself very much, really. I converse with people…and dogs. I elaborate upon what I mean, and sometimes I share stories. But I'd rather talk about you. I'm not sure why I do that. But I just discovered it about myself. I like discovering things about myself. The one thing I've known for a long time is I am honest. That's one thing I pride myself on. I won't lie to myself or anyone else, not anyone that matters anyway. And if I choose to tell you something, more than likely you matter. So, trust me. I need you to.

Lati ball dressed for the costume party with relish.
She wanted to look pretty.
She wanted to look mysterious.
So she took a mask from her closet of witches, tied the lace bow around her head.
"My" she said as she stared into the mirror.
She thought 'the men will ask me to dance, the men will forget the rest.'
Lati Ball went to the dance, the mask fit on her face tight.
The people did not reconize her. But she was the best!!
"oh who is this women!" they all cried,
"she walks like an angel, and floats like a swan!"  
She swept around the floor into another land.
The night gew late, Lati Ball had to stop inbetween dances to rest.
Then the clock rang 12 times, and a cake was brought out.
A cake of 12 candles.
Lati Ball wondered whos birthday it could be.
So she hurried to hear.
The hostest of the party laughed and said
"the cake is for you, the cake is for the best! now take this knife and cut some for the rest!"  
But before Lati could cut the cake, she wanted to make a wish!
So she leaned over the cake and said to herself
"i always want to be the Best; Better than the Rest!"
So she blew at the candles.
But the cake was made out of wood, and caught fire.
It burned her face, it burned her mask.
Soon the mask was part of her face,
and she looked like *death.

he calls me angel ,

but he does not realise
through the
retro-spective communiques
and unfleshly
jargon,  

i am a *******







with a stitched up *****.

your face as pale as knuckle,
it fell off like a stubborn cherry,
your mouth is clever as a ****
and mine isn't.

i could believe in the mouth of others



                                       honey, you both got chemistry like sugar and ice.



i could believe in my own little brain

                                      


                                  tell me what is so wrong with me..                                                

                                                               ­                     



tell me why..




                                                            ­i could kiss your lips

                                                               ­     with o p e n e d  e y e s ,


                                                     but i cannot bear to look at you

                                                         when you are embracing me






                                 i could confine in the quarters of my heart.


(since when did the fact that I possessed such monstrosity come into acceptance?)                                                     ­                                                     

                                    

                         ­                          inside the four rooms




                                                       ­         portraits of your face

                                                           ­                                  lingering  
                                                     ­                                            vanishing  


                                                       held up by strings of infatuation,



                                              
              ­                                       making the walls






                                            collapse      ­                                            condemn
             ­                                                constrict                       collide      
                    
                                     carress                             consume                     crash    

                                                      ­crawl                                            curse


        ­                                                      cannonize  ­               corrupt

                                                        ­                  
                                              ­                                  crave




                                                            ­                   floating          

                                                               ­                                     down
                       ­                                                                 ­                      

                                                               ­                                                down
                                                            ­                                                  
  
                                                             ­                                       down.    

tell me why..


i could write so shamelessly  that


i need you                              


                                                      i adore you          

                                  i miss you                  
                                           ­                                                      i   l o v e  y o u                          
        
i want you                                        
                     ­                             i cherish you
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­              
                                                


                                                   six thousand and eight hundred times.





    

but i cannot tell you that  " i want to see you so much it hurts " .
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                   

                           it doesn't quite matter.                                          






it is only a simple act of
attempting to balance the sanity
of a toothless adoration
with blinded self-proclaimed
masochistic interpetations.
                                                 ­                     


                                         ­                          it is only the veil of an apathetic shell
                                                                ­   to fortify monsters
                                                                ­   laced by the maddening hormones of
                                                                ­   teenage mediocre oestrogens.


it is only bruised knuckles
wrapped in cheap bandages
in the futility of closing wounds;
as there is no such
blood in the world that has not yet
been tainted by obscenities.        






                                      ­                       it is only the fact that
                                                             i have a tendency to stare at you as if
                                                             i could stare right past your flesh and
                                                             bones but i forget that your skull is
                                                             just too ******  thick.                                      




it is only a masterful literate
who can comprehend the laws
of sentence structures but refuses to
write the word " you" and " me"
in fear of establishing "us".


                                                  




                  it is only my heart that you hold, bleeding in your clenched fists.




       the more i think : the more i hurt.

i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.

ix.

when you were eighteen
and i was fourteen
you handed me a blindfold
teethed with razors
because you say
truth is schizophrenic:
                                                                                 and angels are anemic
and my eyes are sweeter
than pomegranate
but your poison did not stop at
fairytale apples or lazarus
or hellish flowerets,
it re-mastered
left its tar around
your marrows.

iii.

when you were twenty
and i was sixteen
you gave me a Glasgow smile
on my tongue:
                                                                                like the pale harlequin
so i could bleed solace
and sympathetical commiseration
through every word
when ever you needed me

wheil you emitted a rosary
that encircled
clavicles, threading it to a hole you manifested
inside my sternum
because you belived
a heart was not neccessary
if a doll could
love with fingers

*

now you are ten years old
and i am seven years older
you ask me to write a poem
about you and artistry
but i am waiting
for the aestheticist
beside the violet car
with one ear and
debauchery

licking my fingers
and biting off your nails.

maybe he left his wedding ring in your **** by accident


that night when you told me
you wanted me to *******
wearing his sordid black suit but  
it was about four sizes too big and his
heart was four rooms too small.

i forget that the anthropoid chassis
possessed no ****** limitations.  

and yet you were there,
wailing out cherries and
casuistry and swollen
macabre in absinthian
vinegar,  wearing the dress
that i hate.

you have weak wrists,  
you bruise by blue tuesdays.


--


maybe i left my gun in your **** by accident

that night when you told me
only love and explosives
got you off. i of course, went
for the least dangerous.

you forget that the anthropoid intellect
possessed no sadistic co-existence.

i'm just an ulcer when i am
inside you.  you scratch me raw
and you make me
take off that face
that you hate.  

my poetry lingers tight-lipped in taciturnity,  
keeping you wet on your deathbed.

i'll wear your braclet of cherry beads.

Draw me a pretty pink heart

on my wrist
                                                                            so i can wear him
                                                                            under my
                                                                            sleeve.

The steel
is warnest
in the water.

                                                                                         -mouthless-

You kiss me
with cherry lips

Spitting out
layers
and layers
of me.

                                                                                        -stiletto sliting substratums-

The air is foreign

                                                                             curious
                                                                             hypocritical
                                                                             treacherous

                                                                                         -animalistic conspiracies-

i'll remain in
the water

                                                                                          -solace-


where there
isn't
too much to
breathe.


My flesh is weeping
pale tears


                                                                                          -surrendering-



                                           as another basin of
                                          cherry beads blossom.

All you

Are an octave without lines

                                                                                     Synchronicity

A treble-clef tattooed upon

                                                                                     the skin of my heart

Notes like

                                                                                      bloodcells in my veins


                                          **I.Can.Never.Play.You

' I love you more than life itself.'


     'You make everyone else look so ugly.'

     ' Remember that you have a wall of friends who will ‘gg anyone that wants to hurt you, we are stronger than you think we are. '

     'You are the only person that could truly understand me… We are probably, always being ****** over by the world.'

     'Your words humble me, hah, but really, I only do what is best for the people I care about. '

' … what’s wrong with you? '

'You’re not dead, don’t say you are. Stop playing dead.'

'One day, your face is so full of light, the next you seem like all the life has been ****** out of your eyes… I hardly know you anymore.'


'**** your philosophies! Just once in your life, can’t you be straight up for me just once? Can’t you say anything that’s not abstract? Huh? Why won’t you tell me the truth?'

     'You’re so pure… and innocent.'

     'Hah! I’m not saying you’re a best-friend… You’re the best-friend… and you’re all mine!'

     'You’re perfect.'

'You know what? you’re quite beautiful… even if you are different than what “Beautiful” is… I think you are.'

      'I want to meet you again.'

' I think you are selfish… and you over exaggerate. I think you are full of ****. You know what? Sometimes I feel… I’m mentally abused by you. I think you just use me to blame for your own life mistakes. '

' Why the **** should I care about you? '

' We’re drifting apart, sometimes I talk to her, more than I talk to you.'

     ' You’re a ****. Go hide behind your little boyfriends.'

     ' You are so little.. and tiny, sometimes I think I'll break you. '

     ' I'll only be fine.. if you are. I need you to be fine.'

     ' We'll go to the beach again, love. I promise!'

From my fiery bed
I watch him take small steps
He races back and forth
Entranced deep in thought.

I hungrily stare at his flesh
One I wish were mine.
I am a demon.
I cannot own flesh.
I take it with me to suffer.

But the more I watch
The more I covet his body were mine.
I lick my lips in hunger
Eager to taste such defined muscles.
Awaiting the right moment to claim them.

I stalked him
Until he took a wrong turn.
He walked deep into a dark alley
Poor boy, if he had only watched were he had walked
He'd still be alive.

An eccentric,
A ****** assassin.
Waiting hungrily for his next ****.
I saved his body
I claimed it.
But I still took his life.

Now I have flesh
But will I be missed in my fiery bed?
Oh, only if Satan didn't have more eyes
I would enjoy the different tastes of my brethren
My fellow deadly sins.

Pride, sloth, envy, gluttony, greed and wrath
They are very tempting
To the human flesh at least.
Will I be able to taste them?

Centuries I've watched humans make the same mistakes
Fallen deep within their desires.

Violators claiming the Young's virtue.
Multimillionaires seeking to expand their fortune.
Angry men killing to avenge.

How I have dreamt of living like they do.
Taking bites out of temptation.
But what I seek the most
Is the hardest I can possibly acquire.

I am lust.
I cannot feel desire
For I am desire.

My perfect plan,
It has failed.
I wished my tempting snake called upon me.

But I am that snake.

All I want is the attention
The want
And desire.

and the sheep turned on their sheopard
       selfish
and drank their saviors blood
thinking it was rain

     as the bombs tore holes in Gods skins
and he quieted..,

        but not for many years.
after all that was left was a scar and His hands. which took on arthritus.

Darling,

                                                                       our truth that we inhabit under
                                                                       its crystalised sky is
                                                                       masochistic
                                                                       undenying, tameless
                                                                       thriling  

                                                                      
                                                                      Shattering above us.



Don't*
                                                                       be afraid
                                                                       of the eyes that
                                                                       stare at us
                                                                       through fields
                                                                       - flowers of cruelty

  
                                                                     For tonight,

                                                                      
                                                                      I will take your
                                                                      mind
                                                                      tongue
                                                                      flesh
                                                                                                                



                                                                                                                                    all.


you
                                                                        are an octave without lines
                                                                        Synchronicity
                                                                        A treble-clef tattooed upon the skin of my
                                                                        heart
                                                                        Notes like bloodcells in my veins
                                                                                                                    
                        
                                                                                                                    I can never play you.  











lie                                      
                                                                           yourself inside
                                                                     and breathe inside
                                                                            what I am
                                                                            what I will become

                                                                                               neverending


                                                                          
           &n

i cant do it anymore..*

***.

white (birds and red) birds


making blisters in the sky



-          - memento mori.

i was upon the onslaught of
desolation
and i assiduosly flirted
with suicide.

Contractility - i love you,
stitched in between two heart beats.
palplitations
that set blood cells on calamitious voyages.
that dance in sweet habanera
to the shrieks of your name.

i want to swallow you;
fold out your skin
into paper dolls.
to be intertwined by
the plaiting of flesh.
to be asphyxiated until
the colour of violet.

i want to carve your face
and wear it in burlesque.
to devour myself
in all aspects of you-
to become you.


i covet.

i.

  truth is clever
  when you underestimate
  him,  the moment you
  are sober he will
  excavate the flesh
  from your
  fingernails, grazed
  out with
  his fugly ones,  

  and while you wail
  in this agony,
  this soundless saliency,
  you will seize
  only for
  this fragile moment
  and only then will you
  cultivate what is true,
  the truest and the truest
  fallacies.

  it is only
  like this  
  when it hurts.



ii.

  i like the smell of
  rain because it smells
  of absolutely nothing,
  and it reminds me that
  nothing
  can really be everything
  because nothing is what is real
  and nothing is good,
  and nothing is better than
  happiness,

  but really, nothing is
  the only nothing,
  the nothing that
  can surrender
  this theoretical emancipation,  
  this sugar that tastes like
  cardboard and crack,
  this chemical that
  is white enough
  to bleach away
  sins with cold
  fire.  



iii.

  i'd rather believe
  in the bruises
  around my neck,
  lynched by
  the metaphysical ribbon that
  ties me to reality  

  than to believe
  in the bruises
  that appeared
  on my brain,
  raw from the world that
  is fabricated by a
  *******logical
  malice derived
  by a mind  
  like yours.



iv.

  am i merely a nudiustertian,
  and the monsters before that
  and the carcass after

  or am i simply a demonised mother,
  of 'duplicity' and 'profanity'
  or any other piece of lexicon that
  defines a rapture between
  the word 'human'
  and the word 'sublime'.

i cant write for **** today,
again, lol
i think my brain wont work.. or something,
tomorrow, ima force it to work! >:)

Straight faced In your embrace Gripped around my heart Innocent I plead my case
I'm never going back Please don't unwind This tether twined Around your heart
This tether breaks Decay Erase Finish what you start I know that it's not too late To save
us from ourselves Remember when your smile Made everything worthwhile
Finish what you start

She has a little heart.
But it's her's...
Her heart, it may be little
but if feels things bigger than you and I.

She has a little heart.
That's what the doctors say.
Her heart, that it's little...

It doesn't belong to you.
Her heart, please don't break it.
It's not your's,
but she wants you to take it.

Just please, please
please don't break it.

She has a little heart.
But it's her's...
Her heart, it may be little
but it feels things bigger than you and I.

*Please don't break it

;when you cut me open
at least nurse me.


until I perish with my eyes open.


" don't play so innocent. it's great being you. you are pretty and good at everything.
who wouldn't want to have miss perfect luny juny."

can we stop? i don't like this game. it reminds me of guns. hide and seek wit guns. everyone is dead. and mad. but moar dead. the rain is gone. the sky is pregnant.

" you are love in flesh, angel."

tell me where the rabbit found you. tell me how it was amputated it's foot so it would survive with luck.

My friend asked me the other day
"Why are you so sad? Tell me what's wrong. Please."
I told her nothing, but she new I was lying.
"There's someone else living in me, too. It's not just me!" I told her.
"Tell me about this someone else, then. Tell me about this person." My friend replied.
But I shook my head.
Because I felt the other part of me getting slowly angry..

That someone else, you don't ask about him.
Him.
Gender neutral, but I'm sure it's a him.
My other side of me.
He can be nice, funny.
But.. he's the angry part.

The part that lets out the sadness and the anger, even the rage, the want for revenge.
He's what makes me feel paranoia, what gives me pain, what makes me cut, what blinds me, what make me want to die.
He doesn't leave me alone.
I call him Ales.
Because he is what ails me.
Ales.

He's the part that makes me lose friends and fight.
What makes me want to **** things, break things.
What makes me want to scream, shout, jump.

Neither one can win.
I fight with you like I fight with a sibling.
You're not a sibling, though.
You're a part of me.

He's what makes me bored with lovers.
What makes me feel fear.
He's what makes me cry, sob, toss and turn.
What makes me unable to sleep.
What makes me lash out on impulse.
Yes.
He's my impulse.
I don't think when it's his time to play.
I act on impulse.

In chemical swirls
Swimming slowly through my brain
There you are
I'm not alone in my head, I'm not alone in my body
Multiple mes, multiple yous.

i am just so ******* tired.
of people that try to write like me.
i hate it. you would think i like it, and
i am flattered mind you, but i ******* hate it.

sometimes i just see my words everywhere,
i see my sentences everywhere, ****, even the
way i have normal conversations. i am happy
and grateful so many of you idolise me, but
when i see a sentence of mine in another's poem,
it actually really hurts. don't ask me to
teach you how i write, because i cannot.
i hate it when its the people really close to me
that think just because i value your friendship,
you have that privilege. i hate it more when
people just try to be close to me just because they want
to write like me.

just stop it.. okay? or, i will be no more.

i forgot how to write..
everytime i try, it comes out ugly,
i hate it.  the poet poems,
are the lamest **** ever,
but i tried,
maybe tomorrow
ill try again :)

are weak in
your design.

perhaps one day
i would ask you
what you were dreaming of,

and then perhaps
you would ask me,

and i will reply:

*" why were you not there?"

This is a place
The girl with that face
playing her ace
fell on her face

broke every bone
feels all alone

drinking it in
feeling like sin.

I remember skin today
it aches, and dans. my feathers sway
the car won't stay in the right lane,
I broke every window pane.

The pain is more of subtle blue
It makes me feel all full of rue
What, that makes me think of you?

She sits alone with bread like rye
Feels so bad but just can't cry
Why did her spirit have to die?
Because it's time to say goodbye.

Everybody goes through those times in life when you feel like nothing is going your way, and everytime you feel you take one step forward you're actually taking two steps back. I lost focus for a split second, I've always stumbled and fallen but always managed to pick myself back up no matter how painful the news, how hurt I was.

so addicted to your love.