i.

a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.


she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.


another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow



ii.


on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she  
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and


i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because


i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off


azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well


those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that


sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.




iii.


death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream


but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.




iv.


when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.




v.


i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.  



i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
  
and i am bitter.




vi.


i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.


i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.


i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.


i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.


vii.

ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest,  and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.

when it hits, there are no words.

the drive, the glow, the kind air
disappeared from my heart a long time ago,
it seems, and this is nothing but the last part of the breakdown,
not so much as an aftershock
than the very aftermath.
i cannot break down if i am long gone;
i cannot speak if i am empty—

and i am just empty,
a quietly sitting void, a patch of vapor.
the words do not come to me, and here i sit,
artless.
i think,
this is where the anger should be,
burning somewhere in the back of my mouth,
or, this is where the sadness should come,
turning my eyes to water,

but it doesn’t. it doesn’t.
and so there i sit, then,
empty.

you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  



you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.



you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.


there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.


i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.



i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.

In a world of green,
Of white, of blue, of dream
There lies a young white girl
With young white thoughts

Realization of her world
Such simplistic pleasures
With yellow thoughts,
and simplistic measures

A little too innocent
A little too pale
Well delicate in thoughts
Silk woven like a delicate sail

Her thoughts swayed
Her thoughts swollen
Some selfish,
Some lovely,and some sullen

In a world
Of colorless visions
Her bright mind
And dreams, lie pretty

Abused in simplicity,
Artless and mawkish
The world sways her thoughts
In manners mistaught

In a world of green,
Of white, of blue, of dream
There lies a young artless girl
With young artless thoughts

The world dims her thoughts
Her pretty yellow,
Young and mellow
Compassion filled thoughts

Her bright red heart is stolen by one,
And then another,
and another,
Yet her thoughts remain to speak of yellow

Thoughts of blue,
of green, start to fill
A void in her life unfulfilled
Yet her pretty yellow thoughts persist

Pleasant in her mannerisms,
Simplistic in her artlessness,
A world of green, of blue,
of darkness, fills her innocence

Smile she tries,
Cry she pries
Her pretty yellow,
Yellow artlessness, fades

Hurt, she wallows
Beneath the swallows
Soon the darkness rises around
And her thoughts grow dimmer

Within hours, in sight is a farmer
Whose words reflect the waters of the world
In finality he speaks, with no sorrow
"The pretty yellow lights seem have no morrow!"

In a world of green,
Of white, of blue, of dream
There lies a young headless girl
With young headless thoughts

The harbingers keep colour in lesion
All the elites convict us of treason.
Unfurled lectures deny credibility
Poised on the rot, kept their dog-like virility.
Ledge of artless puppet-fervor
A plateau effect, might as well be ******.

The poetry
It has spilled
Like the blood of a great massacre
And it has diluted
To a near transparent film
Over the 21st century
Over Miley Cyrus' ***
Over grotesquely distorted salaries
It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities
It's on your cat
It's in your parents hair
It's in Angela Merkells teeth
And this omnipresent film
That only few can see
Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty
It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar
It's what slavery was to the blues
Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus
Or what the crusades were to the renaissance
So twerk on Miley
Your artlessness
Makes art stronger by the day

I have beheld
the simpleminded
lark, who sings
sustained
until the very moment
he crumples against
the glass--
I have beheld
the fruitlessness
of his path.
I see now that
the sparrow is
propelled, and what
propels her:
a heedlessness
an artlessness
behind her.

I have held
the hand of a man
in tears and
pet his head.
I have walked in-
to churches one way
and expected to come out
another: naivety.

I have come
to understand why
few ever find
the tunnel's exit.
Behold: one smoker,
smoking; one sad
girl with an older
man; one blind
woman, walking;
one foolish bird
in flight
towards a window.

anomalous, employing confidence despite artlessness,
effortlessly emending residual callowness.
seldom forgetting to find the time and peace of mind
to wield my puerilism as a social chisel,
avoiding parergies, attempting to carve out a balance
in between conscious frivolity and daily drivel.

Tears bring me here
where you don't care
aren't even here really

Fester, I fester here
in this white petrie
as you sniff nothing

And I'm angry at  you
say your perspicacity
must be poor and failing

not the artlessness of this
effort at resurrection whilst
lonliness' crooked smile reigns