There are nights when I run out of flesh,
of skin and bones
to fill this glaring pit,
now just a rusting can of worms
There are nights when my soul wraps itself
in silken ribbons and velvet gowns
slipping slowly off this skin:
a striptease for death;
There are nights when my soul
stills in a corner
and readies itself for Plath to collect.
Get it all out now —
the linen is too short,
the myrrh, too little
for the allusions and all these twisted laments.
This wake is good for just one tragedy.
Get it all out —
the obvious references,
the tributes to another poet,
who killed herself —
get it all out, little girl.
There is no room for two in a coffin
in a world where
Lady Lazarus dies and stays dead.
i wanna dive head first
into a map of the night skies
trapped inside our four-walled room;
maybe this is where black holes go to die
and they can all stare back at me —
swallowing a chaos of sobs
and a chaos of all your favorite songs;
regardless, i’ll dive into the night skies,
or what it used to be
and name these stars – the ones that remain anyway,
at least they take a long time to die –
long enough for flowers to droop and fall apart
on weeds and lonely epitaphs.
and dear, i hope heaven is holding you closer than i could ever had;
tell me, did you, like sylvia
write suicide notes and call them poetry?
and god do i hope that heaven is holding you so close,
you forget all of the world’s sadness
you once took for your own.
out here, the calendula falls and
my eyes mourn over petal-covered graves
poems cannot hope to beautify.
and i still wish this is something i can wake up from
Within the promise land of calm and sound
Pearls found harbor on coarse, finite-like sand
Now whitened by the faces of the drowned
****** by the berserk billows as they stand
Willows frown upon the unjust waters
Whose surface's frozen in a dreamlike blur
Cradling ghostly hollows like coy daughters
In tender whispers as always, they were
And the world bowed down its head in silence
As Lilith raised the rose of thorns in hand
"My children hearsed in tombs of violence;
my children to be salvaged!" she demand
But nevermind the promised neverland
—No one ripens from their so-called homeland
Day 8 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. Followed the site's prompt this time—borrowing a line from the Twitter bots. "Whitened by the faces of the drowned" is from @sylviaplathbot on Twitter, a line from her poem "Finisterre".
If a ship is replaced piece by piece, part by part,
It will eventually become an entirely new ship.
Not a shred of the old one will remain,
Except in memory.
I have tried to die a thousand times.
I think I’ve killed a piece of myself in each attempt.
In theory, if I **** and rebuild myself piece by piece, part by part
Eventually the “me” that is left will be entirely new.
Sylvia Plath once said, “Dying is an art”;
I wonder if I’m finally an artist.
Looting Autumn comes to pad his lustrum
w/ nacarat flags of havoc stricken.
Summer her frigid singe to his auburn
heart submits, a spinster lately slickened
by April showers cold on the rebound.
It's the last chance saloon of the seasons
for me really: in a relative stound,
thieved reels will superabound. No leaves on
electrum bark, shredded komorebi,
shall shivelight Puck Id's way to March. As if
honking peonies post-peotomy,
that last stark solis occasus won't live.
Penultimate sunset's 1 pleasuring
brumal babyblues that'll be blind by spring.
snowdrift in macular
massacre this winter, my vitreous
humour's all kohl. In Miltonic crosshair,
a vision of Hell, & that vision is
blind as a doorpost. Longer days to come
won't de-ice the subfusc verglas windscreens
to my soul. No so-so solatium
of another solis ortus shall beam
lasik Prozac to my optimism
cortex by time the sap rises anew.
Anarchy Optrex blackguards the prism,
apes archaeopteryx's worm's eyeview.
Flyleaf sun, blotted source of all inklings.
Next Summer's over; I'll be blind by spring.
i rather like the taste of men
on the brink of something.
mere seconds away.
i like the brininess of their belly.
the dead drop to their pelvis
and i so like it when
my gaze is in grease dollops
cut, by morning, onto their thighs.
this is no accident, because god creates
for worship and i am meant to be.
god creates me right now and tomorrow
and if you ask him, he will tell you that
i am no light touch, no wind-chime
brush in the mississippi november.
i am a rollicking thing.
i lean on you like truants on brick walls
chew up all the toothpicks
of all the diners from here to oakland.
i drum the earth with a flex as
tense as a cymbal and recline
in the suddenness of peeping eyes.
i will cut my teeth on you,
romp to the city of men,
It must be a crush
yet I feel crushed by you
by this tidal wave of infatuation
crippled by the thought of your lips
You crush me
when you don’t look my way
metaphysically I suppose
I barely know you
I’ve mostly invented you
in my head
like a character in a fable
that you could never live up to
because everything is better
inside my mind
I stay up at night
wondering if you’re as lonely as me
You must be
We’re alone in our acumen
No one gets me like you
the way I see art
the way you drink to escape the hell in your head
I wonder what you’re trying to forget
With every sip
every intellectual prose
Our minds slow dance
to Sam Cooke in the moonlight
The truth is
you could be anyone
I just need someone
to think about
to obsess over
to distract me from myself
so that I don’t realize who I am
and fall back into the abyss
In my head you like
and ***** martinis
We talk and talk
about decades we never lived through
romanticizing the music and fashion
neglecting the oppression
You help people all day
and slay dragons at night
Something about that cocky smirk
reminds me of him
It makes me nostalgic
of all the words left unsaid
that I can whisper to you instead
You lull me to sleep every night
with mellifluous nothings
and I sink into a slumber
and dream of your ocean blue eyes
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
Then I wake up
and you’re not there
you never were
you’re not real
just my own imagination
playing cruel tricks on me
We would never work
I’m too grounded in my hopes for the future
to fly to the moon with you
Your glasses are too tinted with rose
to see me in the light
And I’m too cold of a person
to start a fire with you
Your face changes
from time to time
but you’re always here
radiating in perfection and fabrication
I wonder what you will look like
I don’t know who you will be
but I know that you will
all over again
I think I made you up inside my head
- A Mad Girl’s Love Song
a dastardly decision
to deny a future
filled with dismay
furtive deeds designed to forget
the futility of dark days
i have, it seems, always loved Sylvia Plath. This is a reflection on losing her far too soon.
if you know someone whom you worry about losing in the same way do all you can to get them help. stay w them. let them know how their demise would affect you and those they’ve touched. call the hotline, call an ambulance. pray, do that voodoo you do. intercede. their life may depend on it.