All strung
out
       on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
      that injected
the next defense
      to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
            of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
      the truth behind
the doors of
           beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
             vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
       in an ocean of sighs

Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
                       drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
    sick doctor
who shares
          this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing

In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
   who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
         the stars,
receiving their
            shadows
           of light
      like a blessing
   upon my
   nettle-stung
    tongue
and
       rise

Tree, I have come to shelter and with the rain to weep
I am soaked, barefoot with mud running through.
Soft the moss, cool and cold
to soothe my heart that bleeds.
Our waxing nights of love and moons
now fallow, a field that burns.
****** our hollow bed
of haunting, silent screams
too soon the fiery devil
too far my lover
the spring.

There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield,  pretty
as you please

She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair

She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves

Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood,  going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.

I remember the days when we were two stupid kids,
we were eating blackberries grown on tombs
and the moon was just a big stone
the sun was leaving its last breath on.

Now I am looking for you on the Wood street
where you last time smiled at me,
on the Wood street where people eat with their hands
the remains  of those burned by unhappiness,
while fools sing about love and dreams and the holes in their hearts.

I am looking for you
and I don't know whether you are a human or a dream
or the ash
that slips through my frozen fingers.

Maybe you are just the hole in my soul,
maybe the moon is more than a big stone,
maybe I loved you
maybe
you are still there somewhere
in the Sun's last breath.
Maybe it's just your smile
that has burned
covering my soul
my hands.

Every time, you hold onto
the words for too long.

The words rot under
your tongue, where you left them;
you pretend you meant to,
savour,
a compost for more —
but it only ever makes it
hard to speak.

Logos is the thing
you might be able to put a finger on,
but if you leave it for too long it
will burn through.
It’s brittle and brutal in ways
you can’t imagine.
Reasons
have bloomed for two years
like a headache, swelling water,
like an argument
that only leads one way.

Write it out, don’t
try to fit it or fight it.
The more perfect state of us
would be what exactly?

I’ve developed a bad habit
of leaning towards you
and sometimes I think you
encourage it.

**** me up, why don’t you.
You’ve seen it happen
the opposite way around. Every time
you hold onto my wrists
I feel
the cracks
built into my bones,
the things I haven’t explained
to you

in so many words.
It takes
a while to take
but once it
does

I am torn galactic
evolution in your pocket
the fight for fight’s sake

born and we immediately
start to die
this piece of us
of the divine in us
is giving
the order to burn and change

giving colourfades
to cut clear our own path
but chained Andromeda
dear
they may never believe you
unless you can tell them
where
this would be embodied

if it were real
and ask the monster in the water
ask me
to rip apart everywhere I might touch
were we wrapped together
I would

the side of your ribs, your thigh, your shoulder

were we wrapped together in womb or in worship