Where do you think we're gonna be,
twenty years from now?
when I'm a deadbeat daughter
and you're a drunken *******

and if I'm being honest, I don't really care
I just wanna be where your light is,
I wanna be where you face the dark,
I don't care, I could break down anywhere

'Cause I don't think we broke each other,
I think we broke ourselves

and I'll be Zelda, you be Scott
and I'll paint and dance ballet
and I'll watch you destroy yourself
while I'm wasting away

as long as I'm,
your deadbeat girl

Of the world's most handsome poetry
Of the champagne of the tongue
The rapt lovers of cursive stroke
And the sweetest, most decadent paper caress

I like the cheap beer remarks and the box wine conjunctions
The whorish, scribbled word on the back of café napkins
The bitter inky graze and the rancid graphite touch

Some days
I have drowned in a sea of elaborately dressed words
With less intent than proud showmanship

And most days
I’d rather float on a Dead Sea of salty wit

I'll admit, you're my weakness
Oh, but not in the way that you want to be
I don't yearn for you the way you want me to
The same reason I try to leave is the reason I stay
You offer me no sustenance, no mental nutrition

So, when I'm feeling the world crashing down around me
And when I'm hearing a million voices telling me "no"
I call you back from the darkness and you say "yes"
You're a walk in the park, you don't further my questions
You don't leave me to play tennis with my own demons

But when they subside, and the light comes back to me
I realize I don't want you there, you offer no challenges
And I push you into the dark until I need you again
And you will wait and smoke another cigarette
Until I call you again, and you will say "yes"

You will always say "yes"
Just once, won't you fight me?

Every time I open The Roominghouse Madrigals,
an estranged part of me comes back with blistered hands and a heart so heavy it's like Wile E. Coyote has it attached to a chain hanging off the edge of a cliff that's beginning to crumble

And every time I open The Roominghouse Madrigals,
a peculiar part of me leaves without warning to wander and turn over some things in its head like I've got multiple personalities and a few years from now it'll return and kick Jane out and insist I am Mary

And every time I open The Roominghouse Madrigals,
There is a deep sorrow within me that I think I mistake for love

But I'm getting ahead of myself-
The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poems by the drunken poet Charles Bukowski
The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poems about sadness, madness, genius and solitude
The Roominghouse Madrigals is                                       a young girl's first broken love

I first fell in love with it on the floor
I first fell in love with it on the floor of the balcony
I first fell in love with it on the floor of the balcony of the book shop
I first fell in love with it on the floor of the balcony of the book shop where I first fell in love

Simply you see, The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poems that washed like rebirth
The first time, the first poem, the Brave Bull, it was a sudden clarity with a taste of joyous drunkenness
That first time, that first poem, the Brave Bull, it was cured amnesia reminding me of all the things I forgot I ever was and a psychedelic mushroom, dressed as a fortune cookie, dressed as a book of poems, that told me what I would be, and so I became it

And if reincarnation is real maybe the world's so messed up because it's the same group of idiots being born over and over again to be raised by the idiots they raised

Because the first time I opened The Roominghouse Madrigals,
I tasted life and death simultaneously

And I keep it near to my heart but not near to my bed should anyone find it and think I'm a perverted and miserable girl who can't help but fall apart every time she mouths the words some dead drunk poet weeped into a keyboard with curses crashing into black keys like those tears, still warm & ever so salty
But I am and I do and I keep it near to my heart      like a first broken love

Hold me close, I'm a walking cliché
Flitting around in Converse sneakers
And that stupid old army jacket
Bet me $5 I could go for an hour
Without my lips uttering
"Consumerism, capitalism,
Elitist *****" -the usual *******
And I'll lose

Hold me close, I'm a stupid teenaged kid
Stomping around my room saying
"Can't they just listen for a change?"
And slamming doors to prove a point
And when I go to house parties
I'll sport my trusty skull shirt
Just so they know without a doubt
I'm different from them

Hold me close, I'm running around
Like a chicken with its head cut off
Running my mouth like a politician
And spewing my thoughts like a hippie
I'm a ****** hypocrite and it kills me
But I'll just lay awake at night and think
"How are they content with living this way?
Like hamsters in a wheel? Dogs in a cage?"
Then tomorrow I'll sit down
And reread the same old poems
To make me feel okay

Hold me close, I'm an idiot kid
and I just want to be someone

I’m a perfect portrait of teenage angst
Black pants and an army jacket
Tired eyes atop a solemn expression
High school backdrop
Roaming the halls alone

I’m a perfect portrait of beat down,
Broken up and disappointed

I’m the mess after The Scream
What’s left after The Kiss
I am dreaming of A Sunday Afternoon
On the Island of La Grande Jette
While tracing my mind over the swirls
Of the Starry Night constellations
Over what it could mean

Inside
I am Salvador Dali

Outside
I’m a perfect portrait of all the things I never wanted to be

I am Mona Lisa’s misery

I let you slip through my fingers
As every day yours began to slim
And the puzzle pieces that fit perfectly began to float away like melting ice caps under the Alaskan sun
And I wanted to hold you a little longer
But all the while I felt you absorbing into death like spilt coffee in a washcloth
And bit by bit I watched the sand of your hourglass slide to its end

You always told me you couldn't be scared because heaven was real and you kicked the devil sideways years ago
And for your sake I hope he stayed down, and for your sake I hope you were right
But these days it feels like he's standing up, holding his side, coming back for revenge
He's got his pliers out and he's coming for my soul and I'm kicking I'm fighting I'm screaming
But I'll never be as strong as you and I never learned how to keep afloat of my own sin
So now I'm sinking

And I sit and listen to them speak in artificial intelligence
And wonder how they've kept the devil down
Do they stand on his back and scream "You can't have me now"
Or has he just lost interest like I have?

When all sounds are lost and I've made enough tissue paper thin excuses to stay alone for a few hours, I picture your smile, cloaking me like warm candlelight
But you know the wind came years ago and now it's a flickering warmth
I remember your fingers, skeletal now
And I hope you were right
I hope our slender fingers meet one day
But for now I will feign strength and grind my fears to dust with a mortar and pestle
And for the time being
I cannot look at my own hands
For fear that they be bloodstained

Upon the pages of my poetry books,
you might circle your favourite phrase
or leave your bookmark in the page

Drawing one last puff of your final cigarette,
you might say "I swear this is my last"
and then you might do what you're hoping to,
and set off for another pack

And when you say "babe" or "baby",
I might reply with a smart retort
and then I'll walk away

And some days you'll make a dumb remark
we might fight and I'll curse your name
and other days, you'll smile and wink
and it'll be okay

Can you imagine that bottle of Canadian whiskey on its last few shots?
And my crouched body and their comfortable nostalgia?

And thoughts of these dark times,
And his dark grave,
And finally a drunk dial to an old friend
Consisting primarily of "I'm sorry" and bad, drunken Star Wars references
As if a few Chewbacca jokes can fix this mess

And there's that familiar feeling of almost breaking into tears
And the tough-girl response of "**** this, pass me the whiskey"

And this hammered mess thinks,
I wish I could forget
I wish I could leave the earth
I wish I were Mr. Malachi Constant
And *******, I wish death weren't so ****** final

But then again, I don't think I've ever been alive
No matter how fast my heart has beat
No matter how sentient these moments have made me feel
And no matter how many shots of Canadian whiskey I managed to tackle
I think, like Frankenstein's monster, maybe I was born to be half-alive
While my mind circles back to these dark times, and his dark grave,
and finally a drunk dial to an old friend,
consisting primarily of "I'm sorry" and Star Wars references
as if a few shots of Canadian whiskey will bring us all to life

Are you a real boy, now?

Sour thoughts, broken glass and
A thin veil of cigarette smoke

"I have no regrets" she whispered
"Pardon?" his eyes met hers
"Nothing" she said, intertwining her fingers

"Fight depression with chain smoking!" he says, half-joking
Fiddling with the lighter in his pocket
(He knows about her grandfather's lungs boxed up underground)

They will exchange the usual
Books, philosophical ambiguities and terrified uncertainties
Ideas of the unknown, which makes up more than the known

They will talk about how they would both rather die alone
Than surrounded by false pretense of love

Every night is an existential crisis, every other night one will feel strong
On the graveyard shift of saving the same life for the millionth time

The Night hosts her socials for the monsters inside and out
In the moonlight we come dancing, clinking bottles, wandering about
We are goblins, ghouls, mummies, witches, zombies and misfits alike
Dressed up in our finest tuxedos, pearls, lace, bloodstains and the like

The Daylight wont have us, but the Night plays hostess to our monster bones
She slips into her midnight blue party dress and she puts on the Ramones
And we dance
we dance
we dance

O, we are the dark psychopaths, the feared, the soulless creatures
We companions by the moonlight are shaking, stammering vultures
We are friends in wayward trudges, we are spitting, foaming vermin
We are in love       We are the World's rejected kin

The ghouls and the witches and our old zombie friends,
The World's most dark and repulsive in clear-cut diamonds,
We monsters aren't alone in the night, drunken, broke and hideous,
Charming and disgusting, we are the Night's beloved insidious

In the night, we are happy, giddy, wasted children
We are the Fiend Club, we are the monster brethren
Until we are caught, disfigured, drunk and red-handed        by the Daylight
And we make our way home, to crawl under the floorboards        and sleep until twilight
Until the Night's long fingers slip an invitation under the door
And we will put our party dresses and our tuxedos on once more

*O, the moon is out and the Fiend Club has woken
The Night is young and we are broken

I adore the phrase,
       "You're going places"

Yes, I am

Later I'm going to the supermarket
Because I'm running low on avocados

And after that
I might stop by Addy's house
To pick up my blue button down

Maybe I'll go to Turkey, Bali, Istanbul
Hit every gritty, run-down pub I find
You know, I'd love to go to Ireland someday

There are a few places, however,
I would like to avoid, as would anyone
Jail, divorce court, Wal-Mart on Boxing Day
Just to name a few

But I'm going places, yes I am
Who knows where, who knows when
One thing I'm certain is
Some day I'll go some place
And I'm never coming back

So between now and then
I'm going places
Anytime I can

For gory guys and glamour ghouls

The Night hosts her socials for the monsters inside and out
In the moonlight we come dancing, clinking bottles, wandering about
We are goblins, ghouls, mummies, witches, zombies and misfits alike
Dressed up in our finest tuxedos, pearls, lace, bloodstains and the like

The Daylight wont have us, but the Night plays hostess to our monster bones
She slips into her midnight blue party dress and she puts on the Ramones
And we dance
we dance
we dance

O, we are the dark psychopaths, the feared, the soulless creatures
We companions by the moonlight are shaking, stammering vultures
We are friends in wayward trudges, we are spitting, foaming vermin
We are in love       We are the World's rejected kin

The ghouls and the witches and our old zombie friends,
The World's most dark and repulsive in clear-cut diamonds,
We monsters aren't alone in the night, drunken, broke and hideous,
Charming and disgusting, we are the Night's beloved insidious

In the night, we are happy, giddy, wasted children
We are the Fiend Club, we are the monster brethren
Until we are caught, disfigured, drunken, red-handed        by the Daylight
And we make our way home, to crawl under the floorboards        and sleep until twilight
Until the Night's long fingers slip an invitation under the door
And we will put our party dresses and our tuxedos on once more

*O, the moon is out and the Fiend Club has woken
The Night is young and we are broken

it is 2:23 am
the fan is set on high, despite the fact that the weather outside is -20°
fans are good for these sorts of things
white noise
drowning out the silence
the thoughts the beer brings

thoughts of fools in love in coffee shops
and cynics in tears in basement rooms
and once brave men in coffins

the dog chews on a rawhide bone

and I unbraid my hair
untangling each knot with trembling fingers

I undress slowly
removing each piece of clothing like a memory

I put on that shirt I bought for you

I crawl into bed
smearing plum lips and black eyes on an off-white pillowcase

and I think of once great loves of cynics
I think of coffins
I think of you in light blue

I've been so old, locked in line by expectations
I forgot that love is a $20 ticket to a punk rock show

Sweaty bodies pushing forward, slamming hard,
falling to fall in love with the words of some yelping, grown-out teenager

And we're all drinking ****** venue beer just because it's dirt cheap
and suddenly I remember that I'm only free with ***** feet
and I come alive in mosh pits and I die when I live for paycheques

We're all dripping beads of sweat, making necklaces from our youth
Tokens of everything we love and shedding everything we hate
We'll sweat it out onto the ***** bar floor
We'll keep going until our legs give out, I swear to it

I've never been more free than when I'm dancing to these songs
I've been so old, forgetting that I'm just a punk rock kid, with $20 in my pocket and ****** beer in my hand
Singing songs that mean something, demand change, ooze with emotion, celebrate divine & dingy moments, make me feel that transgender dysphoria blues

I forgot that this is euphoria
I'm not jaded quite yet
Not in this moment
How dare I be
How dare I?

Don't underestimate how little i can do
don't underestimate how easy i can break

tough isn't a jean jacket and black boots
lipstick doesn't mean **** yet strong
running away doesn't mean my lungs can take it
never looking back really don't mean a thing

don't overestimate me
i'm a real good liar but i ain't good for much else

There are only so many poems to write about heartbreak
only so many ways to say "I love you and I hate you"

Only so many ways to personify the Night and hold her accountable
for the thoughts she shoves down one's throat, fear-dripping and cold

There are only so many ways to reach out in metaphors
desperately grabbing at any emotions their words might stir

There are only so many poems to write about being a stupid kid
with a mixed-up head and a heaving heart
with a cynical mind and a disappointed shout
and only so many ways to cry it out

Only so many half-smoked cigarettes and sweet perfumes
Only so much room for oxygen tanks and desperate goodbyes
It's getting crowded here with heavy clothes and defeatist tones

But there are so many of these murky nights
and only so many ways to get by

For My Sister*

Doll face, what does it matter
if you're ugly as hell?
If you’re short or you’re fat
Or your face is full of pimples?
Why the hell should it matter?

Sweetness, who gives a ****
If you tie your laces upside down?
And your left hand smudges the words on the page?
If you break down crying at the sight of rotting road ****?
Who is anyone to laugh at you?
Who is anyone to tell you who you are?

I am sick and tired of seeing your red-rimmed eyes
I am sick and tired of seeing what they do to you
I hate to see you hurt and I crave the very best for you
I want you to be happy in all the ways you can
Let go of it all and crawl on the ceiling, weightless

Darling, people are messed right up
And we've all got cuts and stitches and oozing wounds
But don't let the bruised and beaten up punks
the privileged warriors, the wait-listed mental patients,
the scummy lost wanderers, the vengeful aching souls,
Tell you it matters if you're ugly as hell
Please please please
Understand you are so much more than a shell
than an exoskeleton of a soul
You are a glorious, bruised and beaten up,
Ugly, pimpled masterpiece,
And it's a shame that they don't see it

Think of everything you know: you don't
Think of everything we knew: we didn't
Think of everything you think: do you?

The earth used to be flat, we knew it
Cigarettes were the cure, we blew it
Double entendres, we'll lose it
Translation, time, linguistic disintegration

This god, that god, miracles or chemicals?
Brain make-up, societal shake-up
Left wing, right wing, cha-ching, quiet king
Extremists all around, different by nature
A set of monkeys trained to hunt grandeur
The science of the day, the philosophy of the age
Every other thing is the best thing since sliced bread

Think of everything you think: do you?

I*
And i guess,
that there is something more to this,
that we are all a cog in this machine,
and I am a good person with good intentions and good breath

And i guess,
that we all have some kind of purpose,
when I die, I will really, really become something,
and I'm a special little snowflake that'll never, ever melt


II
Forget about global warming, friends, 'cause that's just unpleasant!

Come on, tell me
How's the weather? How's your girlfriend? How many likes did you get?


III
Oh come on, life's not so bad!
Believe me, you're not alone!
OH! Jesus loves you! OH! Jesus loves you!

IV
I wish you'd stop smoking cigarettes
You know what they can do

V
Oh come on,
You know how the news upsets me!
Read: Let's just pretend like they aren't real people
Oh come on, that's not fair.

VI
Let's blame the government!
But then again, we are so blessed, we are so-o-o blessed!

VII
All these causes! All these diseases! All these horrible disasters!
Too much to keep track of! I can't be bothered, I simply can't be bothered!
I am a very busy person with a very stressful life, and I can't be bothered!

Did I tell you? My doctor put me on another set of pills last week, but they're making me gain weight. I've gotta change them again. ******* him. ******* idiot! Doesn't he know? I am a very important person with a very busy life! I can't be bothered!

And I'm a special little snowflake that'll never, ever melt


VIII
And i guess,
that I should listen to my mother
and I should stop smoking cigarettes
'cause Jesus loves me
and it makes him oh-so-sad

She sits on a piano bench,
in the basement of a church,
the church she once graduated in,
with the boy who has died,
died the day before,
much after going to school,
with the girl who now sits on a piano bench,
in the basement of a church,
the church she once graduated in.

Reality does not hit her at first,
but four days later it assails,
crushing her skull and collapsing her lungs.

She stands holding a candle,
holding a candle in a pew,
in the church she once graduated in,
at the funeral of a boy who she graduated with,
remembering him in a blue dress shirt,
and glasses, with a round face
and tears stream from her eyes
and she feels the weight,
of a life lost too soon.

I was an idiot last year
but I liked that idiot better
Just know I'm still clinging to the tablecloth
Where the wine spilt
I'll try to get it out but you know I'm useless
And sweetness
Is lost on me

I'm sorry for my poetry
I'm sorry it isn't about coffee stains
On lace tablecloths

I'm sorry I don't have little anecdotes
About our shy and awkward love
Or his fearless mouth

I'm sorry the lipstick is always faded
The metaphors are sloppy, stumbling drunks
And the skies are never blue enough
I'm sorry about my poetry
I'm sorry for my poetry

I'm so, so sorry
Please just let me cry it out
I swear I'll clean it up

My dear, just stop
will you breathe for a moment?
stop writing lists of what you have yet to do
turn down the radio, put your bills on hold
don't fret about these college degrees and potential promotions

will you just stop?
take some time, breathe the air that scares you
as if free time makes you high on some terrifying hallucinogenic drug
darling, take some time,
just think
look at the anthills, think of what's there
look up to the stars, imagine what's more

please, I beg you
just take a minute
to scare yourself to death
to appreciate life
to set aside all they tell you to believe, to be
if college and an office job is the life for you, live it
if not, don't let them tell you that's how it is to be
you are not a brick inlaid without potential for motion,
you are the Northern lights
you shine
you move
you dance, brighter than the darkness would allow

just take a moment
please just ask why
ask, why am i doing this?
why am i saying this?
why do i believe this?
why do i live like this?

and if the answers suit you, let it be
and if not, break out running like a deer who's escaped the trap

live. please do anything you can,
why not?

i hear you whisper my old tunes, like that dreaded broken record,
"what's the point of trying to be happy when we all end up dead anyways?"
dear, would you ever let a newborn pup in the fighting ring just because one day it will inevitably see its end?

darling you deserve the world,
it is yours
with the stars in the sky and the potential for life
with the ants and the termites, we are alive
we are but condensation waiting to make waves

my dear, just stop
just breathe for a minute
wondrous is the universe
let us be wondrous with it

There is something to be said for the way your smile lights up passageways in my heart that have long been darkened

I remember the smell of your soap and the taste of honeycomb cereal and the feel of your soft hands protecting my small hands on the way across the road to my kindergarten classroom

And here today I sit across from you and I want to thank you for every cut you cleaned, and every tear you wiped, and the way you taught me to smile no matter who kicked me down, but I have to remember that you are now someone else

And to you, I am as good as a stranger
To you, we share no memories
No quiet mornings or warm afternoons

And I sit here today and I'm smiling and you're smiling but all is hollow because you cannot place my face in your photo frames of memory and I cannot help but curse myself for letting you get away from me

And these diseases of the mind are the silent terrorists, waging wars on memories and leaving ticking time bombs with tired families

I don't cry
I don't cry
I don't cry

Every Sunday afternoon you spent carving me into the person I am is gone, and I am coming to realize that without your love, this being you forged is wooden and hollow

You mean more to me than anything in the world
But you don't know who I am
I am gone to you

And every Sunday afternoon, I tell you who I am
And you smile and nod, and you're as kind as can be
But you are convinced, you've never met me



I have to smile
No matter who or what kicks me down

To Death and You, the terrible two:

Can you feel your grip loosening around my neck?
Can you feel me getting lighter, smarter, farther all the time?
Can you feel my heartbeat finding its own pace,
Not matching yours, as it did before?

Can you feel me slipping into
Happiness    for a change?

We were once a Sisyphean process
Low ups and lower downs
We once were endless
Or so we thought

Can you feel my lightness overcoming your dark?
No longer in the shadows of the consuming unlit?
Do you think it’s true, what they say?
Do we not know what we have    until it’s gone?
I think so, not so much for you as for me
I didn’t know how much you held me down
Until I sailed the skies of the blissful unknown

This is one last hoorah for the lowest of lows
One last note to those I leave behind in the dark
One last toast to Death and You, my all-consuming terrible two

One day at dawn, Charlie packed his bag
Found a big city man with a big fancy car
And sang his song, a beautiful piece

It was song for the world to hear

Each strum so strong it left a callous
Bearing him down and pushing him on
A hardened piece of him, like the lyrics had been

But the big city man said,

"You're not quite what I'm looking for"

So Charlie shook his hand firmly,
And the big city man drove away in his big fancy car

When he was just around the corner,
Charlie screamed and he cried and drank ‘til he was numb
That was the last song he would write for the world to hear

He learned early on that no one would listen,
And so his most prized piece,
was the song he wrote for no one
he sang it and he wept

Baby, aren't I pretty, in that tortured kind of way?
Don't these dark circles under my eyes add something?
A little sense of mystery? A taste of poetic desperation?
Baby, don’t you love to play with this mane of dirt blonde hair?
It’s a marvel of half-wit curls, don’t you think?
And don’t I have the bluest ocean eyes?
Not quite Liz Taylor, more the polluted Toronto lakeshore
But doesn't this wide face have so much character?
Like a 1950's housewife, you sometimes said

Tell me baby, aren’t I pretty, a real sight for sore eyes?
A little bit pretty, a little bit ugly
Don’t I match with my insides?

Firstly, I'd just like to say: *******.


*******.
*******.
*******.
*******, *******.

You are the only ******* one who knows a ******* thing about me
You are the only one who I ever believed really loved me

*******.

Did you really think that after all these years and all this-- that because I wasn't going to be yours-- that you could leave me?
Don't you understand,
Just because I'm better alone and ****** up
Doesn't mean you can leave me?

And everyone here thinks I'm a total ****-up
And the ones who stick around just think that I'm funny or they like the idea of me & bedsheets and I hate them for it
      Backwards and ****** up and completely too emotional,        do you miss me?

      ******* and I miss you.


I wanted to tell you,       my favourite person in the world can't remember my name anymore
She's spent the last month that you've spent forgetting everything about me, trying to remember anything about me

I wanted to tell you,            because you once would mend these things
Now it seems you're the one hammering the nails in


I'm exhausted now but under my breath I'm still muttering,      slowly, "*******."

You're the only friend I ever had and now you take my soft-spoken,     heart-broken,     tear-soaked apologies and you say,      "*******."?


Here and now I'm utterly alone in the dark      thinking of all the times you saved me from it
And how you just left     because I couldn't love you     like we both wanted me to

Of all people and things,      I never thought you'd be my executioner

Four years ago I started dying,
not of terminal illness nor poetic expression
about how we were all born to slowly die,
I died the first day of his last six months
and I died every single day for the next ten

This is four years later and Dad comes home
at 11:50 saying “She’s going to go tonight”
and I don’t cry
but I calmly allow myself to die a little more
and I glance at his own oxygen tank

At 11:55 we pull up to the home
and it is exactly what I expected:
oxygen masks and morphine
clinical and impersonal
next to her pale, familiar frame

And I kiss her softly and tell her I’m here
and she tries to open her eyes

This makes everyone exceedingly happy

The nurse shuffles in with explanations, condolences,
Make her comfortable's, There's nothing you can do's,
expecting heartbroken surprise
but the words are less than foreign
to this family they are home enough
familiar as an old dog’s bark
       all we can do is to hold her hand



Eventually we say our goodbyes
and I walk away waiting to feel eighteen
waiting to feel alive

"Curiosity didn't **** me"* said the cat,
*"She just introduced me to the wrong crowd"

Quiet compliance to daylight, loud taunts of haunted night
Demons which crawl, scratches on walls
Darkness the swindler, light the betrayer

Heart knocking, knocking, knocking
Breaths heaving, heaving, heaving

CRACK

Mind, decaying floorboards, one step     collapse

You were a poem from the beginning

Something in your boyish features and shining blonde hair, shabbily cut across those blue eyes
You were a marvel to me simply in the way you walked, floating on knobby knees and slouching socks
In your blackline tattoos, the silver hoop in your left ear, your skin Moroccan gold
And you had that one darkened tooth of a crooked smile lover

In the afternoon, I watched the sun cut through the holes in the space above us
In shy glances, I watched whole worlds of your boyish beauty as you slept in the sun
Occassionally waking for sips of warming beer from green glass bottles
Your warm honey belly balancing a clever man's novel

And later, in the dark, empty palace of a room, between those ancient stained glass windows and those eternal flowing fabrics,
The boy I knew as endless whispered so softly,
"I think I must be boring"
But I could swear you are a poem breathing life
You are sweet cadence come alive

I can still taste chocolate and wine on your lips
And I feel the laughs from deep in my belly as you crossed your legs and told me stories
I still feel the softness of your hair, the sweat from the tip of your nose
I still see you smiling at me from the far end of the pool
That one dark tooth of yours the only imperfection in sight

I hate it when I hear,
"Depression means you hate yourself"

I think,
"You shut your ******* mouth"

Let me tell you why:

I'm apathetic towards myself,
I think I'm alright, I'm quite okay
I'm not perfect

But the questions which haunt me
taunt me, tear at my insides,
bring me down

It's a daily dose of helplessness
A jolt of shakes, half an hour long
Can't concentrate to save my life,
and even then I couldn't give a ****

I'm not clueless to the things around me
I'm wrapped up in them
they consume me

I think about the deaths,
the murders, the rapes,
the wars, the addictions,
the illnesses, the schemes,
the scams, the
lack of compassion

And death

I think about death a lot

I'm not scared to die
or be insignificant

I'm scared to think of
my family's skin and bones
in a hole in the ground
Of my best friends' cries
and smiles
forgotten
and their dreams let down

I don't hate myself

I'm scared to be alive
because it means I know what will be lost
by the hand of inhumanity
and the Grim Reaper's bony grip

I made a friend today
He isn't real, you see
But he's a very good friend
The best friend you could need

My new friend is quite sweet
You see, we went for a walk
And we had a fine afternoon
He was easy to talk to

Though I feel I must admit
And I'm really quite embarrassed
That on our first day of meeting
I wept to my friend, on the path in the forest

I bore my soul to him, my new daydream friend,
(Now the salts of my tears are on his make-believe sleeves)
And I asked him, if it wasn't too much trouble,
"Keep my soul? Would you, please?"

He has it now,
Safe in his invisible hand
He doesn't seem to mind
He's a very good friend

I'm standing in the rain
I'm standing barefoot in just a shower towel
My feet are in 5 inches of freezing cold water and I'm thinking of you
Thinking of how the water meets your box in the ground while it falls from the sky
So cold, so cold

And now I'm standing in the rain
Hitting me, hurting me, but it's okay
Maybe it'll wash me clean and scrub the dirt away
Because I'm filthy
I'm a *****, broken mess
And I'm drowning in this moment but I like it this way

I haven't been able to put it into words
Since you left, while I was holding your hand
The last skin you ever felt
I can't look down at my hands
I can't look down at my hands
I can't stop shaking.
And I'm not sure if it's the cold or the memory

And now I'm just waiting to be washed away
Hoping tidal waves will form and carry me to where we buried you
And there I'd like to stay     if you'll have me


There are worms at my feet and I can't bear the truth of it
I'm hoping, praying to no one to be washed away
And I can't look down at my hands

We are a play
A constant spectacle

We are wrinkled foreheads
Ink coated arms
And frilly dresses

Cottons and silks define us
Bad haircuts destroy us

We are ears stretched wide with plastic tubes
Hearing sounds of scoffs and silent condemnation

We are male parts and female prints
Drawing judging eyes and ignorant fists

We are the wrong brand of jeans just once
Seeding carved patterns tucked away
Under the right brand of sweater sleeves

We are snap judgements
We are controlled independence
We are the humans trapped beneath

That night, my eyes paraded along beige pages
Dripping with satire, self-loathing and daddy issues
And I felt the cynic in me dance like a madman
Who had just snapped the neck of a baby bird
Cruel and unsympathetic, but dancing all the same

And then my eyes met a string of printed black shapes
Which halted me, though lukewarm in comparison
To its sibling pushes of ink, jeering and suicidal

The shapes read,
“People don't want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.”

It was something I'd touched several times before
But denied myself to hold on to
I would catch it like a leaf in the wind
Then my eyes would cross its black spots
And I would let it go, brushing my hands of it

But that night, in my madman craze and my sneering laughter,
I felt the familiar bother of a leaf orbiting my skull
And my eyeball parade froze and my madman feet could dance no more
So I lay there until I felt the sun blush and heard the birds begin to sing
For it was not one of their own laying still, plagued by demise

The problem with creation is it comes from destruction
One life created is only another destroyed

See, a delicately engraved chest is just a gutted tree
Like diamond rings are just contemporary slave drivers

Long and lovely road trips are but poisonous gases
Like gourmet dinners are pesticides and animal bones

These books and beautiful words are murdered worlds
(And a poem is just a dead part of the soul)

But I guess that's just for cynics
I guess the darkness doesn't haunt us all
(And it isn't always the Circle of Death that revolves)

O, you blessed creatures, do you really mean to say
You aren't at all plagued by the morbid fall?

You were here on holiday, only stopping in on the big move to England
And I was just a lost girl, a little wandering wonder,
And so I was here for 90 days, and I knew you for two

We met in the afternoon in a pub
It was that *****, early 20's, new and a little exciting kind of thing

And you had an instant fan in me
You were smart, you were funny, well-dressed and fairly kind
And you talked about all the stupid things I liked

And I watched your strengths and I wondered if you too saw your weaknesses,
And I loved that you were afraid to cry at the new Star Wars premiere

And so we got a little tipsy, paid the tab and left to find ourselves more sweet, sweet beer at a more reasonable price for two such kids

And so we got drunk on a park bench on €1 beers

And we listened to your scattered songs
And we kissed in those old Spanish streets as if we'd been in young love for centuries
When it had really only been about 3 hours since we'd seen each other first

But it was good, and it was nice, and we both needed it, I think

So the next day we met again
You were just as funny, just as kind, and this time, even more well-dressed, in your smart leather shoes

And we did it all over again on day two
The pub, the beers, the bench, the tacky kisses and the bits of banter

And the next day, you left

But we still keep in touch
And I'd like to see you again
I'm hoping for a day three
I'm a big fan of yours

It's not the painless choice
that I've coached myself to believe it is

But why not, you idiot cynic?

Because I only find happiness
in moments of ignorance

And?

And in those moments of ignorance
I find minutes of shame

And?

And in those minutes of shame
I find hours of sadness

And?!

And in those hours of sadness
I find  endless  defeat




...that's why I sleep life away

Why, you fool?

Because in a lifetime of slumber
one finds nothing at all

I was born with blood stained hands,
They named me Roman, strong like an empire.

My mother loved me dearly,
Tucked in my shirt and held my hand.

My lover loved me gently,
With a light laugh and a heavy passion.

My child loved me naturally,
He would be my pride and joy.

My mother showered in gas and slept,
My love had dinner and a show,
My child is a mama’s boy, it’s all he’ll ever be

Death is the only life I have ever known,
My love will slit your throat.

They named me Roman, I was an empire born to fall.
When Death does finally come to take me,
I will gladly follow.

The floor is dr i i i pping black tar and the air is the bottom of a grease trap
the wind outside sounds... heavy.
it seems air has lost its weightlessness and now everything is being pulled
d
    o
       w
          n

and i look at that typed cliché and i think
"there's no other way"
because weight reigns and it's so heavy it pulls
and structure and pause mean more than what's been said before because   what hasn't?

Feels like i'm pacing back in forth in my mind but i can't help but stumbling
and every time i do, i end up sat on the ground of my consciousness hugging my knees thinking STOP.

because they told me only a belief in their God can get me into heaven but listen,      i don't even believe in myself

and I'm sorry but may your **** ******* you for being so irreverent to my irrelevance
and I whisper to myself, ******* him for being so ego-centrical    that even now when i can't believe in anything I'm waiting for a lightening bolt to strike me down because I question old teachings
and I get it

Listen, I see the good and the bad
the yin and the yang of the Christian dimensions

Listen, I get it

but do you think hell is dark?

because the light's been giving me these sickening migraines and I break every time
yes i  b r e a k  every time
so leave me in the dark
so i stay as whole as i can while i'm here

but listen, i know i could use your prayers
because if he's up there
he should know i don't fear the light
it just plays tricks on civilizations
and i never trust a magician

It was so good seeing you
Your hair is getting long

But your eyes,
they don't capture me like they did

And your tricks,
they don't fool me like they did

Oh your lips,
they don't meet mine like they did

Do they still taste of coffee?

It was so good seeing you
But I don't miss you like I thought
More fondly than passionately
Though I miss you just as much
And this is all about baby steps, I suppose

But your lips, do they still taste of coffee?

I like the clumsy lovers
The boys who don't make every right move
Who don't have slick & tired lines borrowed from tacky romance novels

I like the ones whose clumsy words widen their eyes in disbelief that they could've said such a thing at a time like this

The ones who laugh nervously are heavenly
Making jokes to make up for whatever it is they think they lack
They don't know my laughs are cups of red adoration as they spill from my mouth and onto my pillowcase

I can't help but love you when you stammer as you tell me I'm beautiful, while your eyes trace me as if I'm a private discovery of yours

I love your vulnerability, your nervous hands, your silly jokes, that kind heart and those little smirks

I love how you look into my eyes and say what you mean, beautiful or not

I like the clumsy lovers
Because in the moments you think you're falling apart, I'm falling hopelessly for you
Believe me, clumsy lover, there's something right for me in the way you do things wrong

Hold your assumptions
Do not surmise or deduct
That because you are not
The keeper of her affection
That she is heartless
She has a heart that beats
In the hand of another
And she holds his
Shaking but without hesitation
And they have stood like this
For the span of one year
Waiting to see which one of them
Would rip the other's out first

I don't have the voice for spoken word
It shakes and it s-s-stammers
And I'm not too sure if it's too high or too low
But it's missing something

There's a power that wont pass these lips
And a commanding tone that can't quite rally its troops

This is no smooth, jazz inspired tongue
This tongue has been bitten
There's a metallic feeling of blood and it's pooling into deadweights
So, on this tongue lies a thousand pounds of blood stronger than feeling

And I can't quite get it out
When these words are weighed down,
These feelings sink back into my chest and the metallic taste passes these lips and forms a deadbolt

I don't have the voice for spoken word
It shakes and it s-s-stutters
And I'm not quite sure if it's just an extension of myself
Where the feeling stays inside and the blood collects
And there's always something missing

*******
I feel better than I have in so long
Just while everything's going wrong

But how can anything go right if it never went wrong?
Every right turn that should've been a left makes me smile
Every brush stroke that should've been a charcoal smudge,
It's a dream come true

Holy ****
My grandma just turned ninety years old
I swear she's the most fantastic person I've ever met
She's been pushed down so many times and she still smiles

Because how can anything go right if it never went wrong?

****, I'll dance in the rain if I want to
That might be why I'm always sick

And I'll be a ******* ****-up if that's what you wanna call it
Broke and stupid, sick and impulsive, but *******, I'M SMILING

Everything's gone so wrong
But when I stopped singing to the rain, commanding she go away,
I ******* danced and loved and lived (whatever that is)
And even my demons danced and even my ghosts chuckled
And *******, so many wrong turns led me to the hurricane coast
And it's the best place, and the blessed place, where I can't help but smile

Because how can anything go right if it never went wrong?

"You have fifteen minutes,"
he says,
"fifteen minutes to write a poem."

As if it's that easy

As if the rhythm and the cadence
are moments away

As if poetry is a sudoku puzzle,
logic and reason

When in reality,
there is nothing rational
about poetry

"Five minutes"