i wanna write
write write write
right until its dripping for more,
until the paper is aching and begging and my burgundy guts
are folded and mangled across that pristine page
i want to be raw and obvious
the world a witness to my pungent feeling,
every wide eye dripping like my letters
are chopped onions
i want to make the world drone
with the mumblings of my soul
i am bleeding recklessly onto these pages
unable to stop:
punctured and petrified
with this passion, as the ocean recedes
in fear that it will simply steam away.
and then i walk,
naked, wet and bear ***** under
flickering fluorescent streetlamps that have seen
more ***** deeds than my own hands
i am merely a skeleton rattling down moaning alleyways
breath white and stark like skin freshly slapped
against the midnight of my mind.
i will write till i am disrobed, till it has rocked me raw
until the needle just plays static, until i am all shriveled like
dried mango and a lone sun baked chili pepper,
until it has eaten every piece of me, until the giantess of
finds herself picking my own remains out of her teeth,
until i am consumed by this burning
the isle of cut-throat
key janglers, the ones with 20s crumpled in their *******
and stale smoke as the aftertaste
i will wrangle your body
for an oil pastel set
so **** me drier than the Moab
and smear the colors around like a soft serve
chocolate and peaches
i watch rugged pirates like the deep colors
black and tarnished
they sail off with
barrels of slick dreams and human liquid fantasies
getting tipsy off my honey sweet whiskey
whisk me away
the horizon leaks, the color crawls like
dripping of a godly
run a finger down my throat, i dare you
it would be searing like mid-august pavement in california
when you try to walk with naked feet and
my guts feel like a frying pan
each of my insides are steaming
if i moaned, i'd fog all of the windows one by one
thats why when i feel passionate
when i touch myself in this tiny apartment
with legs as long as lady bugs, and a patience that wears as thin
as nylons in spring--
i shut my mouth.
bumps and bruises run across my vision
red scales like slick snakes and
a rumbling like pebbles after rain that when
you crunch on them, it sounds like a series of
there is a certain sourness to my teeth:
dinner was pickles from the jar
johanna gave them to me after i dumped my
cigarettes into a flower vase.
"its an art project"
really its a self care project so my lungs don't have to
pop out burnt from the toaster.
i am carrying two stomachs
and two minds to control it all
perhaps my mother was right.
perhaps theres a **** good gemini
ripping all my organs into pairs.
i feel a raging world within
the confines of my burnt skin,
split into two:
one suppressed and raw
one orderly and profited
i make bank, i solicit myself on my own
and sometimes, i want to delve deeply
and watch as everything collapses around
the sturdy bones that hold it all up
and the facade slowly melts around
the fact that i am something else,
writhing and squirming to be seen
just under the skin
"you are a character"
that's what he said to me before we fell in love
as I put old beach glass from Anamarie Island against his eyelashes
two infant pieces in front of each eye
and you've got glasses that can see into the past.
a yellow, buttery vision,
just like I always dreamed the world to be.
on a plane to thailand,
he told me
"thats why I'd like to travel someday--
because of you"
we were pretzels, trying to find a position to sleep
intertwined and drooling,
and after brushing sand off of our relatively dry bodies
licking our salty lips with hungry tongues
he told me
"everything about you is special"
and we spent Christmas in the sea
watching as the sun got swallowed by the
relentless tide, feeling the current
push and push us closer
but our heads resist
I remember swearing to myself not to sink into his
arms and feel alright there
but every brush of his hand against
my leg, under the surface of the sea
dissolved my barricades
like a popsicle in July.
I am afraid of the comfort
it is pulling the character.
you want real ****** poetry
well cut me open
but all thats dripping out is coagulated procrastination
and I wonder
does the man living in the building across
see me naken from time to time?
what is his fascination with glass jars
I hear drunkards and bottles smash
from the windows downstairs
I wonder if he breathes smoke
and I wonder what he coughs up at night
my days last until 3 a.m.
my eyelashes carry designer hand bags
catching all that skin that
I listen to Claire de lune and feel like
scraping the itches off my scalp,
tiny thoughts trying to escape.
they'll never get far
some kind of nostalgia
in place of marrow
and every time I crack my bones
im shot up with
all kinds of memories
running in my rushing
canals of burgundy blood,
I see everything thats held
within the hands of this passing year
as clear and sharp as jangling
I take a deep,