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I do not have the will to speak
if I were to string two sentences together
my voice would crack with the grief
wild evil rain, thunder, unable to die
unable to live, a tangle of madness
utterly alone surrounded by prophets,
the horizon rises and yet not healed,
my voice has barely begun to
sing the ballad of my destruction,
I wish to be utterly alone, to have no
hearts to rest in, the world a barren
of nothing, gently like death or cold,
I am tired, burdened by my existence,
the roots where my dreams grew have
darkened with envy, give me the caul and
the cord loop it around the kissable neck
of my youth, and hang me like a ******,
here comes death
she’s been swimming in my bones.
Been a sad summer.
I remember when
the moon cried within my mouth,
the night we first met
when you watered heaven
with your tears,
desire before the desire,
primitive like digging
for mother in the dirt of earth,
a death that came from loving too
much, a death that came to tremble,
a death that is a swell of blue,
with hungry ghosts who crawl
over the calluses where you
dipped your fingers into my carcass,
enough holiness in the hands
but the head is where the halo rests,
with heavy blood, a vowel, a consonant,
an open mouth, the stench of rose water
as she swings her arms at me,
a fist aimed, a hand opens,
and her anger's brute force resting gently on my cheek,
when she is asleep, she goes to places,
so far far away from the sinews of my heart,
it's a crime to want her, clawing through dirt
to find maternity,
but it is a bigger crime she does
not stay with me the way I follow her
footsteps through hell and bruises,
she sleeps gently, darkly, and deeply,
the tide of her healing,
I am tired of her breathing,
far away there is a girl who takes
revenge for me,
she is iridescent and strong,
the vines she grows are pagodas reaching,
the geisha who is unbalanced in mind,
the body self destructs,
I have been dead for a few hours,
I dream in death that they scored
the lake and found her body,
I am tired of her breathing,
bloodlet as a ghost would, at vigil
light with youth blighted,
they would carve her into cadaver,
I reach for her throat now,
I am angry, the ocean is my mistress,
in the rot of my anger I am the
skirt that kisses the thigh in the pews,
half poltergeist and half godless goddess,
no, but I am the girl still with
blistering blues on her back,
who rises like fog-dulled stars,
never daring to say
I am tired of your
breathing,
let us both die here
in this poem,
I won't say it out loud,
but the willow weeps,
the willow weeps,
she sinks a hook through
the mouth of my moon,
and she drags me into water,
each night
each night
I say oh honey, sweet heart,
darling, I pray for
love, I let boys touch my
hand in class because I
do not wish to show them my back,
and I hate it all,
and I hate it all.
each night I ask the god
of my ceiling for something
new, to make the chamber
of my well intentioned wound
into nothing but nostalgia,
but god above, he just nods
and tells me to get on with it,
so I become a river
and drown each person
within me,
but even in death their
bodies and bones float to the
shore,
leaving me.
leaving me,
and yet she still sits their breathing,
and I cannot bring myself
to wish death upon her,
the mother I dug from the earth
on a Saturday, whose tendons
I had crafted from the ceiling god's
mysteries.
memory is the home,
and the base is the violence,
the moon that is now
fizzling in my marrow,
the losses uncountable on my heart
one day leading to it's demise,
and yet I am loved enough
that still I wander into other
people's fields begging them
for spare change,
the heart starts to eat
the self,
traveling through the desert of my
destruction to bring
to you my love.
I am many, countless,
I am all,
that sinks into
the sad cycle of her violence.

Ophelia lying
in a mirage, heart soaked,
finally she breathes
in the water,
the moon on her lips
shining like an herring.
fall is the season I come back to
in the summer,
get off the train
and into the anorexic arms of my hope,
she holds me there like Goliath
my pebble made of dust,
it was I acetic and weak
who lets her breath again,
I am stuck in her teeth
like a song she picks at,
love arrives to hold her then,
and love leaves when it must,
she holds me in her jaws,
harrowed, pathetic,
I shake in the metallic contraptions
of her heart,
my lover's kiss drips
like tea into my mouth,
remembering this I want
to run to Dakota, maybe
let us go to Verona,
I tell her this as she crumbles again,
it is midnight,

the station is empty.
I don't mind
the world  ending
each day it ends for me
in the morning
I am still here.
going all out on lowering expectations these days.
take the spear
and give me a lyre,
I would sing your praises
to heaven alone,
dip your toes
into my soul's fire,
darling where you go,
so shall I go.
And so I fall in love just a little ol' little bit
Every day with someone new
in this city there is intense
kindness,
friendly, charming,
but nothing behind the eyes.
the mask of sanity
slips

slips

something terrible
comes a calling,
there was a ringing in my blood,
maybe I should go a-killing,
you look lovely choking
on your tongue,

you are evil.
in this town,
you must do evil
but softy,
secretly
-caress your lover
then stab the *****,

pain is intellectual,
the superior modus operandi
to happiness,
only evil is worth the time.

an accident happened,
the neighbour is dead,
let's go outside

all at once

and watch
and watch

you are stuck in the machinery,
in this city,
we watch as your body
mutilates,
mutates

into god.

in the city
there is eternal happiness,
serene, perfect bliss

your children grow like guileless
psychopaths,
they drink in the
light of
your deformed god,

praise violence secretly,
praise despair
when mourning
happiness,
for too much of it
and you might
as well swing from ropes,

in the city though,
the tourist comes
to see eden at last,
here the dallying,
here the breathing,
synchronized in our
gentleness,
never knowing of
war, famine,
hunger,

we **** ourselves with smiles,

the joy
of successful sacrifice,

I cannot do it justice
this city,
this beauty
iridescent and benign,
the cup of elixir,
weeping mystics
bow in reverence,
pious housewives
turn to the saints
adorning the doors of our households,
and at night the
wife does not slam doors,
she opens them
and sits on her own accord,
and the husband does not drink
he eats the food of the lord,
and does not throw plates,
and the children are beautiful cherubs,
they sing of heaven,
and water the plants with their tears,

the table is ready,
let us feast upon the idiosyncrasy of our
ignorance,

in the city there
is but one flaw,
there is child who weeps for pain,
he is half starved,
illiterate,
mumbling,
***** matter covers him,
his gangly arms
ripping at the bread,
his eyes droop and
are shadowed by
idiocy,
he urinates upon himself,
and eats
at his hand
when dinner is not given,
he stares at walls,
and his skin is littered with lice,
absent mindedly he scratches
until blood is drawn
and licks it in thirst
- he was never taught
better,


but the happiness
of the city depends upon the child,
the suffering of one
for the betterment of
a million others,
the experts say
it is illogical
to sacrifice all
for the improvement of
one, who
has no chance of
regular function,

he is but a child,
but he is the child of the city,
and his pain feeds
our happiness,
his gentle cries
for his mother
rest upon our dinner
tables,
and make us salivate,

he is our child,
nameless yes,
but he is so wonderfully delicious,
his flesh
squelching under
the brute force
of crowbars --our salvation,

but in this city
there is no guilt,
we fatten our children
for strong futures,
we do not shake our
babies,

for we love to shake our boy
when he cries,
and hit him and

watch

as they beat him

such beauty
such beauty

tears spring to the eyes.


for we know the child
must be there,
the happiness that
radiates through the
city
depend upon his
jutting bones,
in his misery
lies the knowledge of our
scholars,
the cures to our diseases,
the terrible
justice of our boon,

but some
when they are brought
to the room
of the boy,
simply look,
and go sit under a brook
for a minute
then they get up and

and

walk away

from this city of stardust
and fairytales,
and eternal sunshine,
where they go,
no one knows the better,
maybe someplace far
far more lovely,
maybe someplace wretched,
it is possible they cease to exist
for they never come back...

this city,
this city

is beautiful

but if I told you about it
you wouldn't believe me, would you?
beneath the sinew of
my narcissism lies a brain,
you might call it a soul,
and when I sit down
with my mother breathing
down my arteries,
I tell her I might
be a writer,
and then she laughs,
and then I die little.
you don't go to hell,
you carry it around like a corpse,
dragging and shouldering,
praying to a god
constantly,
asking if he too
is even there at all,
I tell her
I am not insane,
it is just that I have been
cursed to feel everything
so deeply,
it leaves me in shambles
and
then
I go over and sit
again pretending to be
a writer,
my neurons rotting
and collapsing,
what was the word
I ask?

as my flesh stretches
over my divinity,
a god that cocoons
himself in my innards,

the news scream of genocide
and progression, side note on corruption,
the neighbour
screams over the news
to her sociopathic lover,
crawling in and out
of each other's flesh,
make me better,
make me good again,
and I wonder what to write about,
how to convey the death
decay the stagnant water,
the rotting weeds
reaching, forever reaching,
as icarus rises
to his destiny,

the city fills with rats,
bright lights all
wobbling towards the rotting
flesh of tomorrow
bones over sinews,
fill the sacks of meat with food,
the eyes with electricity,
the heart with indifference,
and the ducts with tears,
the graveyards
with their corpses,
rise the putrid smell through
blinds and knocks
upon windows
of homes long empty,
and the mind
fills with ghosts
that heave their bodies
against their ivory cage,

the muscles stretch reflectively
the smile,
always the smile,
the perfect response
is always
has been i'm fine,
but you could be
dying and they will still
ask you and that's what you
would say anyways,

my grandmothers rosary rests
gently on the fingers,
as i try to recall,
hold it like this she said
and focus on the inner god,
the soul always searching
for god,
the flesh always searching for flesh

and yet
and

yet

lonely.
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