Wicked forms
dark as dark can be
in count of
one more than three
leave me
leave me
I've been haunted
enough

The piece of me that isn't dead cares
that piece is what will always make you aware
as my ghost becomes numb in the shadowy corner chair

in the dark, sweet darkness
you left me there to wane
in the dark, sweet darkness
so darkness I became

I hear a passionate song
but I'm a ghost my passions long been gone
an apparition, I haunted you, you'd had it in for me all along

in the dark, sweet darkness
you left me there to wane
in the dark, sweet darkness
so darkness I became

you can't make amends with a ghost
all I had to offer was all you hated most
if you ever want a tall flask of cold, black coffee I'll be your host

In the dark, sweet darkness
you left me there to wane
in the dark, sweet darkness
so darkness I became

as it swallowed me whole
and lay out my shame

She was cold iron—
I smelled in her blood, elixir,
What made stars explode.

.
The red-headed woodpecker drums,

Drilling hollow life into old pine tree,

Insects scurry in dance of spiral daze,

Robins waiting for the grubby entrails.

i used to cradle her bleach-cracked hands in mine
and decode the stardust resting within her fingerprints
     up until the day that i lost touch with the art of reading braille
     and she stopped slinging tall-tales for me to fetch
and rest the plot-twist at her feet

often in the post-script
i'd find my train of thought highjacked by the sunlight illuminating the rainbow of earth-tones ablaze
in her frizz-ridden curls
as if she'd been washing her hair with the damaged case of beer
she'd gotten for half-price at liqour depot
     she never did quit drinking
          but neither did i

at least we tried

though sometimes
in the middle of the night when nothing was alright
and we'd barely survived another fight
her face would catch my glance
cast aglow by a flood of lava-lamp light
    
     the sea of freckles resting at the crest of her cheeks
     rose lips perma-pursed in half tilt
     her resting heart-rate so high that i could almost see it
          pirouetting within her chest

it was then that i'd love her best
     amidst the ruins of who we were
     just moments before

i can never find my drink
     it's not so much that i forget
     it's more so that i'm never around long enough to circle back twice
but that's alright
     i can always find someone's

i talk to myself
**** near constantly
     i'd like to think it's not to hear myself speak
     but to let myself think
the only time i get the chance
to say the things i've always longed to
is when i'm the only one around to listen

     i love to listen

i also love to eavesdrop
just to see how others talk
     when they're expecting only to be heard

i still don't believe in hell
     not as a destination
hell is some place within me
i dredge through it daily
and not a soul can save me
     guess that's why i've never feared god

no
     not god
but **** near everyone else

i've got this ******* anxiety
just welling within me
and what's worse
is that no one can see my crazy
     no
     just me
but it pecks at my brain
and howls at the moon
and consumes my thoughts whole

     i'm afraid of everyone
     always

i'm the most afraid of me

i'm afraid of the things i see in the mirror
     i fear for myself
that i'll never really grow up
     just more scared
     and angry
     and bitter
i'm afraid of my heart-rate
     climbing higher than your balcony
     until it factually breaks

but i somehow know i'll be okay
i feel it more and more each day
     because somewhere
     in my static-charged skull
     and double-time heart
     there is at least a little balance

     see
     i've got something that most people don't
          i really only know one thing:

if i ran into the six-year-old version of me
if we passed as strangers on the street
     she'd smile
and think that she'd like to grow up to be just like me

Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes

on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked

Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred

the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long

life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard

to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such

you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together

her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)

that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it

was the pox
stuck his *****
in some *****'s hole
she stopped to serve

a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter

wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint

up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her

laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates

one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers

afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted

the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy

her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over

her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served

the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory

you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take

the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply

what you thinking about?
she asked  
how well you serve
the customers

you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours

in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes

that is why
I am here
to serve
she said

but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.