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wolf mother Jul 2019
Signal failed
Signature drooping
Telltale signs
Neurotransmitters: misfiring

Glitching phalanges
Losing grasp on reality
Creativity: collapsing

Paranoia resurfaces
Obsessions, obscure
Reduced to, as follows:
Fallacies: logical

Dissociation abundance
Time? Never on it
Obstacles: insurmountable
Retention? Improbable

Mimic and nod
Emotion: mirage
Glass full of emptiness

wolf mother Jun 2015
I am but

a nesting doll, the outermost encasement
chipped from years of fumbling awkwardness, or purposeful
nicked and scratched by ***** hands pulsating unsteadily
growing impatient in
attempting to reach the innermost layer
the consolation for hard work and determination

the drool on your collar after the too-long, too-soon snooze on the bus
when you missed your stop and any of the alternates to reach the ultimate destination
a rotten half-eaten apple on hiatus from mouths trying to push away the impending scolding from doctors and dentists
who knew it had already been too late to make significant enough change
to prevent disease

the cigarette **** snuffed out by New Year's Resolutions
and good riddance

I am, by no particular consensus or consent

a small chime, at half-past nine from the old grandfather clock out of sync with the natural order of things
that cannot project its sound too far, but persists in stubborn hostility
not a blaring warning or reminder
but an insignificant tick and
a sad little attempt at notification

a faint headache
a dying balloon
a cry in the night when everyone is listening to radio shows
or the kind of opera that pierces the skull
futile and distant, muted
unspoken for

I am also, surprisingly,

the feeling you get before crossing the train tracks into new territory
or climbing the stairs after months of elevator riding due to the injury you'd incurred trying to prove to them you didn't have two left feet

the notion that time stands at the forefront
and the line of fire is a black hole
where warped memories are welcomed in hasty pleas

I am

a whisper of defeat when the pine trees collapsed in the middle of that summer upheaval, steaming and desperate
and out for the politics
turned into the
knotty pine paneled walls
that DIYers frown upon

But I am especially
the pearl of an oyster
gouged out
and taken to
someone who could decipher worth of shiny, iridescent things...its clarity, salability
a pearl now on a strand of comrades—lifeless pearls
in Chinatown, under the ruse of glamour and bargaining chips and great steals

certainly on clearance
and pushed on the people as inconvenience
a misuse of table space
and getting one-overs
or semi-precious insults
from tourists
who guffawed
at the feeble attempt
to turn a profit

eventually to be
tossed with slightly bitter nonchalance
into a black garbage bag,
thrown onto the sidewalk
and feasted upon by
seasonally elephantine rats
as they swallow the waste
from careless excess
and plastic soul collectors

it's true that
I am,
with disdain,
especially and most certainly,
that pearl
wolf mother Dec 2014
physical space
is smaller than the places between your fingers
resting pen
in the webbed, intertwining narratives
scribbled with fervor

it is no greater than the consequences of past lives
it                                is
       no                       farther
              than               Andromeda's
separate     beacons
it is less determined than my fragility

it is but a monument
shellacked in lost diplomacy
erected in dishonor/honor of all i am that you will never know
it is purposeful, tactful
for i cannot plan for inadequacies glaring, jeering
bare as my writhing body in night terrors, barren as my future
i'm always planning for things that do not exist here

i can only be one vulnerability at a time
they can never have all of me
what i want to give you is contradictory to what i'm willing
i buried my will for sunnier days
when my mind thinks less clearly
when my mind is not as rational, as matter of fact
when i, for a fleeting moment, am worthy of your touch
your eyes on every lookout,

on every break
in lines—

jagged edge
wolf mother Oct 2014
if i am the messiah
are you flesh?
wolf mother Oct 2014
Me: blood.


           You: cells.
wolf mother Oct 2014
You're not a good listener.
You're just good at making silence look meaningful.
wolf mother Jun 2014
beat me to a pulp
you've never cared for me in your breakfast cup

spit or left out
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