what was it that the wind said?
what was it that the wind said when it
ran itself through your hair and
pressed its face against yours;
a foreground to the watercoloured sunset?

was it the poetry whispered by
lovestruck boys and girls
who kissed, forbidden,
in the clearings of enchanted forests?

or was it the hissing of embers
setting eachother's souls alight
in an **** of crackling fire wood?

was it the ***** chiming amongst
divine silence; only broken by
the tears of joy in a stained glass cathedral,
as she walked towards you in her wedding gown?

or was it the morning rain
as you woke up to an empty bed
with the lingering scent
she left the night before?

from around the garden,
in nooks and crannies where
the snails and slugs and spiders create
homes in the muddy dark.
beneath rotting planks
of trees from storms past
and the wind that seduced them
from the foundations of roots
that twisted through the deep earth,
around the worms that burrowed
and the soil that held dear
the decomposed bodies of the ones that breathed.

the garden where I made my rounds,
where the words never came out the way
they echoed in my head.
the garden where I stopped to smell
the overgrowth and rot.
the spider webs, and flies that became
liquid from the venom of their starved captors.
I stopped to smell the blackness that the sun hid.
I stopped to live out my humanity while I lost my words.

this day, so many days past,
we loved madly in public places.
like I never loved anything,
like the way I loved you.
when we ran in the rain
under city lights and
through degenerate streets.
the secret places we kissed in
with fear and excitement.

you made me feel so much
with your warm shoulders under
my rain soaked hair.
despite the chill in the air
from our winter.
yes, it was ours.

but now you're gone
and the season lingers
with icicles freezing off the nerves
in my heart.
a winter torn in two.
it's hard to think your shoulders
have lost their warmth now.

he had three left shoes
a tin can crumpled into an ashtray
and ate half a can of beans each day,
****** ***** from the pores of perverted men,
smoked used cigarettes from ****-stained back alleys,
licked clean ***** needles,
and slept on the side of the road just to breathe
in the car fumes.

and one day he found
he was down to his last crumbs;
the muscles in his face didn't move once,
as he shrugged a translucent corpse into
the deep earth.
a grave for a man with no name,
no mother or father,
a grave for a man who simply appeared
on this earth one day,
the same way he left.
a man who lived off
nothing but starvation spread thinly over
lost dreams and vices.

we are writers, the most masochistic figures among all mankind.
we want to connect deeply with everything and everyone
we want to touch
deeply, softly, roughly. desperately, timidly;
we want our words to make love,
breathe heavily to the blissful moans coming from
the vowels and consonants fornicating with grace
and passion, but with a growling that could make an
A moan'ahhhh' or an
F whisper under his breath, '****'

words and pain and desperation, desire;
our thoughts creating a mass **** of literate *****.

& so we feel,
feel every romantic fever,
every rush of endorphins when lips touch,
body parts grip tighter, tighter,
and hearts mingle,
but only to become a paradox

& so once again we feel,
every chill of remorse
every rush of nausea when toxic lips touch,
the once poisonous distance between our bodies becoming fresh air,
and the gentle embrace of our heart and soul becoming cold shoulders.
only to become a paradox.

but we are writers.
we thrive off uncontrollable emotions,
our very essence continually searching for a muse,
a new way to morph bland reality
into a strange, disgusting, but beautiful new piece of art.

drink away the days,
drink away the laundry,
drink away the pegs that
break as you put your
lacy lingerie on the washing line for all to see

drink drink drink
until the one with their
nails dug deep into your
heart remembers
you exist

drink away the slow internet,
the bills, the speeding fines,
drink away the withdrawals
and then stop

let your brain suffer,
let your hallucinations **** the
juice from your cerebral cortex,
let the seizures take the wheel,
spasm and choke

then finally lay yourself to a
psychotic rest as the
delirium tremens
set in because

*death is just the physical manifestation of the metaphorical ghost you were in life

I found rats in my hair, ***** of yarn, thickly matted
from daytime naps and rough nights of sleep.
run your fingers through this muddy cane-field,
drenched in the swampy summer rains.

My moon-kissed skin, where each freckle is a drop of coffee
the sun spilt on me while reading the morning paper.
it stretches over my broken porcelain collarbones;
edges jagged and protruding like barbed wire.

Teeth I wore down, chewing rocks, eating sand,
and yellowed with acid and smoke.
and my lips are chapped, small, puckered into a constant
apathetic frown. Too dry to smile, that's my excuse anyway.

Irises like drops of paint dripping into thick milk,
pupils stirring them, mixing them into a foul blend of night colours.
and wrists like a battlefield, fingernails like shattered glass,
razor sharp, bleeding bad habits.

Thighs like hot chocolate, melting marshmallows dripping
down each one - drinking me down by the firelight.
and **** like tennis *****, cut in half and slipped under the skin,
two little speed bumps on my body's ribcage highway.

a body like a corpse,
a heart like a zombie,
and a soul like liquid titanium.
and it's all just whispers from the mirror,
whispers I put blind faith in.