I
There are many moments in life when tenses collide.
Ones you felt carried a
certain suspension separate
from any other emotion.
But here you are.
The gravities have hit head on
and danced into an embrace of blinding light
and you have poorly handled defeat.
Claiming care and emotion where it is never planned.
Learn control over that desire to understand.
Humans do not need to actually understand
but simply have motivation
to care about the small puzzle pieces
that compose the whole of this
mad, mad clock machine,
gliding through something we observe as
space, nothingness, holiness, magnificence, terror-
All that we attribute to
something named god
high above our clouded atmosphere.
II
But here i am.
Something separate,
but whole,
but a part, and dancing two dances.
Flung between two rhythms
too unalike
to exist
within the same night.
But I force them.
I space out an afternoon or a day, but ultimately I bring the two pulses into my arms and scatter my identity among the veins pumping lustful confusions and the brain filling up with failures that overshadow the motion of the last decade.
Yes,
the broken fragments attract the healers and the hungry.
III
Let them howl lustfully at your moonlit window.
Lock yourself inside your head and convince yourself that they have taught you all you need.
You have always been a lover
of the losers, the vampires, the beautiful demons of lilith.
They make your blood pump with laughter.
Here you are.
The moon fills such cold nights
and you abide by her hymns.
But you always end up with some fucking hope,
useless fucking hope,
that will never aid your illuminated comfort.
IV
His long home of bones hold you
and slip small moans into your golden spirals.
you reach ecstasy,
but instead of immortality,
you just feel smaller,
and more in time with death herself.
The knowledge that he no longer needs to claim your bones.
You are a glittering pendant
among tomorrow mornings garbage.
Too soon has the sun touched your totality
and given it
to other thirsty pupils.
You are a book that has already been read.
You are the instruction manual
learned too early to be made sacred.
You are merely an example of comfort,
false hope.
V
I begin to hate the teeth within his smile.
Yellow smoked ivory pierces my mind with failure.
What exactly are you looking for?
What is it you need to surpass?
The embarrassment of something you had no control over.
Well, maybe you are confused by your own reaction to the situation.
Your anger.
Your misplaced desire.
Your frustration with his thoughts.
Your carelessness to understand.
Maybe placing myself in the second person will help me come to terms with my evil.
VI
And this is also the part where you,
the actual second person,
attempts to fill the spaces I once fit into.
Ah,
how easily nothingness,
space,
can be filled
with only itself,
yet give off the illusion of golden substance.
So many alluring souls to put
in your mind.
your heart.
your puzzle piece.
So, instead you resort to the comfort of loneliness.
I wish you did not take on my vices so.
But here she is.
Glimmering with the constellations of late summer and a white smile that is filled with bones of travelers who lost themselves to the lonely wild.
VII
You suck in your smoke,
another habit I painted upon your innocence.
The nicotine makes you feel as if all this play acting is alright.
You say your part,
You use your prop,
You make the audience laugh at your vulnerability.
Shakespeare could never paint you as such a fake.
But these tenses do not collide.
You leave Ferdinand behind on the island.
Miranda has drowned herself in the surf where she first saw your ship.
She can no longer beg the gods to dismiss their nature upon your journey.
Play your new part.
Defiantly sing right back at the sirens.
Claim your knowledge with loud confidence.
I will slip into the alley way,
let your bright comedic play continue.
I will not drag down the unnatural lights,
I will not set fire to the platform you find yourself laughing on,
I will not interrupt your monologues with my sad songs of history.
I will lightly applaud your hungry smile
and be gone with the night air.
I will sip my wine and weed
and laugh at the girl’s voice traveling over the buildings of our lives.
The girl you’ve hired to play my part and sing my poetry.
She’s beautiful enough to let the audience
float above history books.
I slash my face with pleasure.
The mask of indifference covers my hideous scars.
I will never be known as the sweet girl who kissed you behind the curtains.
I am now the agitated wolf
who miserably howls
with the moon's sonnet for the sun.
VIII
If you step off your stage
and eventually smell the forest of our past.
maybe you’ll find me there,
nibbling on lost our maps.
You’ll remember how to wrap your bones
around my nervousness
and sink your soft words upon my fangs.
Maybe this will work,
Maybe I'll never turn back into the sweet wise child I was.
Maybe I am meant
to see all in the
eye of the wolf.