Drown me in holy water
since you call yourself a God,
kiss me back to life
to prove you’re not a fraud,

undress me from this white gown,
baptize me in your lies.
You taunt me with your words,
my unholy demise.

Let me worship at your temples
and sooth your aching head,
Whisk me off to heaven
where you promise we’ll be wed.

You have worms in your veins
and I feel it when they crawl,
I chained you upon the cross
in hopes you wouldn’t fall.

My false prophet, I loved you,
you resurrect me from the dead;
but I cannot give my life to you,
I worship myself instead.

Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet only two of them are mine.

Time is rugged against the grain
of questions falling on white sand.
How come no one consciously believes in
anything except fractured light and filtered water?
He walks on broken heels and birttle bones,
but somehow always steps in time.

My only memory of Jesus
is in the aftermath of a forest fire.
We danced throughout destruction,
and her hollow laughter brought the rain.
She was the beginning of the rapture,
sometimes I think of her and pray.

I got lost six years ago,
on the way to change my name.
I wonder, how could I go missing
if I never locked the door?
Did anything really happen,
or does nothing ever change?

Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet none of them are mine.

I may not speak, but I still hear.
You cut like butter and taste like beer.
A rhyme against the sun and sky,
I am not yours to justify.

I have spent hours perfecting the words
to tell you I want to spend the next eighty years
with you
in a stupid white minivan
that's supposedly heading north;
but I can't read maps,
and you can't stand the sound
of the British woman on my GPS...

So we navigate by road signs
and sundials,
somehow we find out way back home.

I have no idea
who I am. My fingers bleed,
teach me to concede.

Leather jackets,
black lace,
broken hearts,
a car chase -
“take a drag”
an open ended
offering of peace.

She is hazy eyes
cooked over easy,
and I no longer want
to live, or die, alone.

Are you looking for something?
Digging dirt, red-handed,
like a snow so cold it burns.
Are you looking for someone
who’s not looking for you?
Who’s not looking at all?

I feel like clouds

(with you)

for once,

(I am)

weight(less)

I hope you like boys who look like girls,
because I like boys who look like you;
but I won't sell my soul for alcohol
even if you begged me to.

one.
The first time you ugged me
I tried to trace the outline
of Orion
on your back.
But I messed up half way
and just left the sky black

two.
When your mother asked me
if I believed in god,
I lied.

three.
You are the best road map
I ever forgot to read.

No poem
can
articulate
everything
you can
and will
become.

I fell in love with a girl, she's lemon and lace,
we're spinning through corridors in outer space.

I am nothing but a city-slicker
with a bloodstream of liquor

asking this angelic being to dance.
I don't deserve that kind of chance.

So instead I sit and bob my head,
imagining her inside my bed...

sleeping by my side,
a thought I never tried.

Trust me, I don't want to ****
to know you're safe would be enough.

The ashes of my cigarette
scream the nothings I regret,

for she is made of morphing stars
and I'm brawling in dingy bars.

In my head, she’s just for me...
For her, I’d break reality.

we are doomed
to
d i e

we **** to
prolong
g o o d b y e

She cracks her bones like whips,
augmenting her limbs and fingertips
like a demon i cannot satiate

Play with me, I hear her shout
and all I want is to get out,
an endless loop I must escape.

I never want to see these dreams again,
a distorted body, my dear friend,
I mourn the monster you've become.

It's time to end what I've begun.

I met the girl of twisted eyes,
her body scavenged by the flies;
they gasp beneath her ashen skin,
they're drowning in what's never been.

"Good morning" he chirps
as I am mourning my lost
childhood stupor.

"Good night" he whispers
between kissing my cheek and
the door slamming shut.

too far,
too far,
the blood runs red.
too much,
too much,
take her instead.

i'll sacrifice her to the stars,
tear apart her beating heart,
i'll do anything for you -
I said this from the start.

too far,
too far,
the blood runs red.
too much,
too much,
take her instead.

she is dead and i am alive,
living wrapped beneath your side
i wish i could say i felt bad,
but she never knew what she never had.

I am not afraid of anything
that man could ever touch,
I had the stance of warriors
and eyes that saw too much.

There is beauty in the downfall
of this violent tragedy;
I'm calling out your name now,
are you reaching down to me?

Bear me from your hip;
bleed me into existence
through the sharpest note.

Are we
fated
to fall
apart?
For love is
an eruption of
l a v a
and
s i l k

"Don’t flinch, or else!"

She was born from the rib
of Jesus himself,
an angel’s light dancing
through cigarette smoke.

She nips at my shoulder.
I am older than I thought
I would ever live to be
by about a century and a half,
maybe more,
maybe less -
I second guess myself too much.

Her bedroom is royal blue,
with white lace to match
the thong strewn across the lampshade
like a barricade against the light;
flickering, flickering, flickering...
I can just make out her parents' bickering
in the salt on her lips.

I am younger than I thought
I would ever live to be;
she rejuvenates me,
and I hate every moment
I spend in her head.

Why do you sing the
song of ravens, can't you see
I am but a crow?

Hand rolled cigarettes
help me to believe
that I am, in fragments,
an invincible boy
with a midnight grin.

She could blow smoke rings,
and was on a first name basis
with all the local punk bands.
I was emptying my chest
to hide her away, because if
her parents came inside and saw
my face between her legs,
they might think anything other
than love, love, love.

I left the doors open,
and the moths came in
looking for a light
there has never been
in this run-down house.

I am sitting in the dark
while they melt the felt
of the dress I never wore,
to the dance I never saw,
in the life I never lived...

I do not care for these reparations,
or the consequences of creations
made by humanity's feeble mind;
turning clocks, winding time...

Small girls with empty palms,
begging for scraps, singing psalms
to a God who never replies,
to a man with vacant eyes.

She has butterflies for eyes
and candy corn for teeth,
rummaging through my innards
for anything she wants to keep;

like the omnipotent fingertips
of a sculptor with no name,
she sorts through my organs
like some twisted little game.