"candlewax" poems
There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Something comforting.
It is a comfort only very damaged people understand- the tacit agreement to cause pain, and to receive it.
Pleasure is for people who have what they want.
But for those of us who are starving, ours is best peppered with suffering.
Being with someone who understands that carries its own worth-
I don't want you to make me feel good.
I couldn't stand it if you did.
I don't want you to touch me gently, or ask if I'm alright, or stop to look into my eyes.
I am starving, and so are you: I want your teeth.
I want you to make me hurt. And I want to hurt you.
I want you to hurt me because I'm not him, and I want to hurt you because you're not her.
We want to see each other suffer because we are starving and we need to feel that someone else is.
Don't hold back. I want you to lower me because I'm too good for her.
Don't love me, don't caress me. Dig your nails in. Drip candlewax on my stomach.
One step down from torture is all I can stand in the way of human connection, when it isn't her.
Punish me for looking at her like a baleful puppy tonight, even as you waited in my room with your soft skin and your sharp teeth.
There is nothing you can do that will be too violent, too brutal, too sadistic.
I don't want to be loved right now.
I am too raw.
I want to be touched. I want to be ruined. Leave marks. Smear lipstick.
Lower me because I am
Too
****
Good for her.
Let this heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs don't matter.
Help me **** it. Help me pin my demons to the bed and make them writhe, and I will do the same for you.
Let's exorcise our loves tonight and banish them to hell.
Let's tell our skin that it is irrelevant.
Let's say **** you" to the things that bind us. I will cut your heart out for him.
I will kiss your scars, not to heal them but to remind you that when you put them there you fought for something, something we both fight for now.
Hurt me. Fight her. Do it for her.
Do it for her because I'm not good enough to hurt.
Do it for her because I'm TOO good to hurt.
Crush me.
You could boil me alive and it wouldn't make up for her, so at least leave me bruised.
I will give you what you need, and you will give me what I need: not love, but contact.
Please,
Let my heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs
Don't
Matter.
There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
Choking on the sour taste of whisky as I say your name
My brown skin spoiled for your tongue
My heart beating to the rhythm of your drum
It calmed me to be able to surrender myself
to someone so pleasurably cruel
Going as far and as much time you permit
As your poison runs through my bones
His lips going down my neck
His breath burning my skin
Hickeys on my *******
His wandering eyes locked on my body
His hands tracing my curves
And then a stinging I felt. One that I enjoyed
You read my body's mysteries
Produce the scenes in my fantasies
My skin tied in your knotted desire
I bite my lip and press my thighs tight
And there you were, your hands around my neck
Making me light headed
Each whiplash, each biting scar
Each delicious sting from candlewax
The thin line between pain and pleasure
Only you know how to satisfy
This hunger inside of me
To make me scream and moan in sweet melody
His body was my temple
Taking pleasure as I kneel before him
And stand at his command
I knew the wetness between my legs
Would help him calm down his flames
And that his flames would cause a river
To flow down my legs
The storm inside me raging like a flash fire Consuming all in it's path
A tempest that drowns out thought and sounds
Swirling like a tornado of sensation
And I look up at him to hear his voice
The command that releases me
*** for me.
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 AM UTC
Tonight i sat in the dark for a bit.
(A moment of silence if you will.)
Holding a taper candle, staring into its flame.
At first, for a bit, i was worried about candle wax dripping down and spilling over my hands and onto either my bedsheets or the carpet.
(Can hot candlewax start a fire?
Surely not.
Right?)
And then i thought to myself,
**** it."
If something happens ill catch it before it gets too bad. Ill feel the pain and it will remind me that i am alive.
That i am lucky.
That i can still feel things.
The candlewax did not spill or drip at all.
(Did you know they make candles like that??
Magic.)
Now, a bit disappointed, i thought,
"What a sediment"
I took the candle into my right hand.
Oh, so carefully,
I tilted the candle holding the flame over my right wrist.
One drop.
I flinched.
The pain stopped as soon as it came.
One for me.
I thought,
As i shifted the candle to my left hand,
"This is for you.
And all the pain you felt.
And that i didnt know about."
"This is my proof that i would have tried if i had known."
One for you.
I didnt even ******* know you very well.
We werent really even friends.
I dont know how to spell your name.
And still
Its too bad.
Its so sad.
Way too ******* sad.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC
day after day ticks by as i sit on the shelf
head held high with pride
cheeks pink
lips rosy
hair gloriously golden.
i am the epitome of grace
i am beautiful
i am perfectly proportioned
i am everything you want to be
and more.
*i can be a goddess
and you will no longer be godless*
let me sit upon your mantelpiece
your table
your bookshelf
so you can tire of me in a year
(perhaps two)
and I will lie on the ******* heap with candlewax and rotting vegetable peels
staring blue-eyed into nothingness.
(you are nothing without me)
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
he is pulling snails from my petticoat
making sure their antennae do not grow
and left feeling such as candlewax,
flesh walls seep from under their
pulsing bottoms, the apex of one head
and I am the girl it is given to, a gift
******* at my breast –
how uncomfortable to be the center of
such longing, being touched and
fingered with when something does
not belong into your body’s crevices
pressing, oh, like candlewax –
I know he removes them because he
loves, but I want them to stay
because they love me just as much,
dyed pink against my body, snail hugs.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
*i.
He told her
That mathematics was too
Sombre.
Too, too
Linear
To be poetic.
She said that
He had only seen himself
In a mirror,
A reversed hologram
Of his external self
Burned into his retinas with
His subconscious filling in the gaps.
But she had seen him
The rays reflected straight off him
Into her eyes;
Not some half-assed reflection
Off some silvered surface.
ii.
She said that
His jawline was
The slope of a curve
Pencilled on a graph sheet.
His candlewax skin
A wavelength
Quantifiable on paper.
His spine
A number line with
Dashes, to show real numbers
The set of which was infinite.
She said that
A Fibonacci sketch was
A minimalist rose,
A post-modern bouquet.
And that
The reflected pale morning sun
In a half finished cup of camomile tea
Was a cardioid
With fixed coordinate values on the axes
And an algorithmic tangent.
And he
Was a negative infinity
A paradox not sorted under
Quine's classification system.
iii.
She had
Recorded his heartbeat and blood pressure;
Measured the distance between his lips with her own;
Tried so hard, so very, very hard
To put him down in a numerical form
And write him off as an equation.
But all she could say was
That he was more
Than the sum total of his meagre parts
And that she
Was his reciprocal value.*
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Angels melt like candlewax upon their pedestals
And I stand here to find with you this heaven of mine has flown
Though some may find me ignorant of more than apparent facts
I still find myself in the man who carried out such acts
You helped me though you broke me and I must thank you for this
My body is somewhat stronger from the virus in your kiss
And these angels made of candlewax can be reformed with just a flame
Though, in sorrow, something was lost which will never make it the same
So who am I to get down on bended knees when tears come to my eye
Pray tell me soon if tears will help my journey to the sky
For though your intent may have been to break me, in survival lies my will
And I may not be flying soon, but I'm not standing still
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:37 AM UTC
She cooked the final meals at the gaol,
Collected the hangman’s clothes,
For he inherited everything
Of the hanged man, heaven knows.
She gave the widows the twist of rope
That he’d used to hang their men,
It all came down to the widow Crope
And whether she liked you, then.
She’d interview the widow-to-be
With a questionnairre or two,
About her man, was he handy, and
What did he like to do?
Then later, in the condemned man’s cell
She’d say that she’d cut him free,
‘You’ll never see your woman again,
So all you have left is me.’
Her husband had died on the gallows, so
She’d known of that final *****
A widow Kerr had done it for her
Before she was widow Crope.
Then down beneath that terrible drop
She would wait for him to appear,
Hang on his feet, as well as not
While he kicked at the air in fear.
Then once that the corpse was pale and still
She’d take it down to the morgue,
Lay it out on a slab, and then
She’d borrow the gaoler’s sword.
And while they were pouring the candlewax
For a later hanging in chain,
She’d slice a couple of fingers off
For the rings that were hers to claim.
But then she might, in an act of spite
Cut off a dead man’s hand,
Dip it well in the candlewax
And walk it late through the land.
She’d light the end of the fingertips
And carry it like a torch,
Making her way where the widow lay
And spike it, out on her porch.
And wives would say as their husbands lay,
‘Don’t mess with the widow Crope,
If ever the hangman comes, that day
She may be your final hope.’
And those awaiting a capital case
Would sit with their husbands there,
And tell them that it would be okay
In that final act of despair.
She’d never worn anything else but black,
She called them her widows weeds,
But never, she said, felt safe from attack
For her husband’s evil deeds,
She finally married the hangman, Jed,
And handed the job to her,
An hour since she’d hung on his legs
And made her the widow Claire.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
Your eyes touch the back of my mouth. Make it so hard to swallow.
I never breathed so evenly, my stomach feels so hallow.
I'll bury my face in your neck. Allow me to sink my tongue, and
Drown my teeth into your arms. Your breath fills my lungs.
Everything is easy now, since we simply let it be.
This is anything but sarcastic, the way our colors bleed.
I love your golden irises, I love your sepia skin.
Wrap yourself around my bones and melt into my ribs.
I feel like our arms glide through each other,
Like dancing lovers, after years of familiarization
Predictability in every step, but for once
Comforting to know what's going to come next.
Your hands hieroglyph the language of my fingernails
Decoding a sensation that belongs to something bigger than us,
And finally understanding that it's okay to touch that.
Contentment for war. Trading pity for empathy.
Trading sympathy for care.
You were always in the confines of my aching head,
Your name is in all my search-bars.
If I had the right fingers, I would create you in marble
I would design a statue and have it be gilded
In your honor. And if there was a temple for us,
It would be in the shape of a man, aimed at the earth.
He would be bowing to a large evergreen tree.
And our initials would be carved on the side.
Let's finally spraypaint our faces in underpasses
Eyes like this deserve to be gazed into.
Eyes like yours.
Deep breathing, my face in your chest.
Breastbone meeting skull
Dripping my lips onto your skin
Like candlewax.
If you kiss me with finality,
"I promise, darling, I'll kiss you back."
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 10:35 AM UTC
to pluck out his eyes and
stain the earth with vitreous humor.
to separate the lonely wind from its
counterpart in my soul and its
thickness choking my lungs—
to escape the death grip of
the twisting jaws and
****** talons of the
sharks that rip us raw
hawks that
streak from the sky
harpies
harbingers of
to eat the flesh that
drips like candlewax from our
febrile skin
to hold morality in one hand and
maps in the other
to learn the general principles of cartography
one must commit genocide.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
The wick upends
wax, string,
flame
coating my arm and my sinuses are corrupted
am I in pain? Or am I just on fire?
ridiculous how everything (and I mean EVERYTHING) is on fire
flaming fake man, scarecrow
out of house, out of mind
Colder than moon rays or hatred or soft
refrigerator hands
colder than the liquid I pour on my face to wake me up for the world
colder than hungry
colder than resting on my porch alone
singing: "ooooooooooo"
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 10:10 AM UTC
Rose petals blanket the ground
Sterling silver lullaby
My ears bleed
I taste of metallic melancholy
Candlewax rivers flow
Hot through my swollen veins
My throat feels like razorblades
They carved my name
In the stone
This is my permanent home
Everything goes cold,
My body is stricken stiff
Earth fills my lungs
I choke, then give up
All is bliss
My ancestral hierarchy reigns over me
I sleep all of eternity
All is now bliss
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 8:34 PM UTC
Garth lay still in the gilded cage
Unable to move a thing,
The bars were merely spiders’ webs
Of a faery’s magicking.
He’d wandered into the Faery Ring
Where he’d seen the mushrooms spread,
And now was caught in a faery spell
With the rest of the living dead.
With Tom, the Candlestick Maker’s son
And a barrel of candlewax,
He’d dawdled home from the marketplace
And lay in the beckoning grass.
He woke to find he was tightly bound
With a faery up on his chest,
She said, ‘Lock him in the cage as well,
Along with all of the rest.’
And Madge, the maid with a milking pail
Who was sent to milk the cow,
She’d wandered off on her way; she thought,
She needed to feed the sow.
She woke to mushrooms, ten feet tall
All towering over her head,
The stalks were bars, set under the stars
And her limbs, they felt like lead.
While Tim the Tinker was there as well
With his knives and sharpening tools,
His grindstone lay in a pile of hay
And the bonds on him were cruel.
The beggar lay in his filthy rags
While the rich man muttered, ‘Shame!’
He’d soiled his boots and his Regency suit,
Was bound with his watch and chain.
They lie not far from the caravans
Of a gypsy camping ground,
So Faeries say: ‘Let’s take them away
Before they’re seen and found!’
But dancing into the faery ring
Is the Gypsy, Mavourneen,
Who stumbles over the gilded cage
And steps on the Faery Queen.
The top flies off from the gilded cage,
The webs of the bars are torn,
And Garth crawls over the mushroom heads
To swear, ‘I feel reborn!’
The faeries weep as they carry their Queen
In death, to their Faery Dell,
There’s mushrooms still in that Faery Ring,
But now, Toadstools as well!
David Lewis Paget
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
Shadow's fingers
making the contours of your
face breathe fire
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
it is dark inside the moon.
the moon tastes like candlewax
and cold sweat.
you cannot be beautiful on the moon -
the earth will not allow it.
that is why,
if i should ever slip into a spacesuit
and you should ever kiss my helmet goodbye,
i will not think of you.
i will think of the earth
and break out in a cold sweat.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 6:05 AM UTC
I am ready to leave,
this nest of
m&s duvet covers,
The smell of pasta,
Fresh linen,
Striped carpet,
Laughter,
And candlewax.
This nest has kept me in its
Clutches.
Safe, warm
Like coffee in cold hands,
Surrounded by the scent of home
For 18 years.
Finally this bird
has fully extended wings
and
will fly
Onwards.
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
Shards and candlewax,
ache in my belly,
I am
lost in the looks
of the
transient.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 4:51 PM UTC
high voiced Irishmen and spun sugar turned to
teenaged dreams and a teenaged circus
cold beaches in October like candlewax and promises
to call
bacon on the stove and cemetery gates and no one
to answer
if-this-was-the-cold-war to
this-is-the-goddamn-cold-war to
how'd-you-ever-get-so-blind
to the summer of warm warm warm and
the nights you'd have wanted at
sixteen and twenty
if you'd thought about it
and the big empty road in front of you that
under Orion's patent-leather belt looks so
not empty
how you're tall
and freewheeling
but not without
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
I sipped candle wax
and was told I was a genius
As it hardened in my throat
And every cut and bruise
Is honored as glory and strength
When it's just a sign of my pathetic mortality
And every step I take into the ocean
On cracked feet and hot skin
Burned because I demanded it to
And 60 days of minimal sleep
Is a sign of dedication
To my waking hours
Rather than successful neurofunction
And for all these reasons,
They tell me I'm smart because
Intelligence is measured in longetivity
In the face of persistent self destruction
Because the sick are those who've truly got it right.
Nietzsche spoke of an inversion of values
Where weakness becomes our pride
And strength is deemed repulsive.
You see, modesty's a virtue
That it's easier to promote
With candlewax
hardening in your
cold,
dead,
throat.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
I am cold
And you're far away
My hands are covered in stars
I am crying
And you're probably asleep
My hands are covered in snow
I am candlewax
And you are matches
My hands are covered in sins
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
What would you do if your world were blue
You're down and out as the limousine passes you
What will you do when your dreams all fall through
And who will you blame for your sadness and your gloom?
I tell you, you can do anything you want at all!
And in the dark of the very next room
Asthmatic gunshots, those sirens in tune
Pull your self up by the bootstraps and all
They say you're going down, but the writings here on the walls
I tell you, you can do anything you want at all!
That pounding sound, at the door or my head?
Start dancing now or soon you'll be dead
Then you can rise, your eyes beaming instead
Candlewax tease as you're tied down in bed
I tell you, you can do anything you want at all!
You've got to write it
You've got to ride it
You've got a right
You've got the will
You've got to fight it
You've got to like it
You've got to try it
You must do well
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC