Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.

It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.

The bass thumps
The crowd jumps
Lights flash
I move with them in perfect sync
Filled with a toxic mix
Liquid courage
Smoke of joy
Pills that numb the mind
Finally i feel happy
I jump and dance into eternity
I dance with her and her
Kiss her
Make out with another
Take a diffrent one  home
But when we're done
And i lay there holding her
All that plays in my mind
Is the memory of holding you
When the music stops
And the high wears off
You creep back into my mind
From the hole i forced your  memory into
Your memory scraping at my mind
Till i loose it
Theres nothing left to do but repeat
Night after night
Girl after girl
Nothing i drown you with
Seems to **** your memory

No longer
imprisoned;
absolutely, purely
lost --
always suffering

when last have i had a 3am kind of conversation,
with my star like emotions scattered all over the darkest parts of me,
mimicking the sky,
my moon like persona that always returns back to hiding me away.  
when last have i felt safe enough to let somebody in,
to not have visions of my vulnerability being tied to the bed after he locks the door behind him,
his voice like some sort of broken record that keeps on repeating that
"it's gonna be okay."
when last have i had a shoulder to cry on that isn't my own,
for my neck to stop worrying that the tear filled sea on either side won't get waves big enough to drown me.  
when last okay,
when last has it felt good to be me.

seeing this boy:
gets naked
with the hands of
drink.

drooling, vomits
              ––

into nothing

sinks.

Stupid:

the raw and beautifully dumb

      (i want to hurt you)

    .A flower that's
a lot like
your mouth
and throat
choking on me;

my pistil and thread
pulling into
which heart tries to make
love from–
                     hips and head.