Only paper to feel our
secret lips sealed to expect
something posted
money is what it is
The blessing Sweet Lord yes
Well I have news for ya

Haha Tra la Oh La La
The laughing stock
Having any luck the
fortune teller 
Tick tock birds
in a flock
His cards race timing
clock
He's so dapper
The double bond of paper
Further apart or closer
_ what?

What did you expect
Oh! what the heck
Tip of the hat  "You Rock"
paper scissors
All resisters fingers scratch
Round paper another match
Did we see the black cat
The movie cut no time
for losers so ****
Out of our head zigzag

On the plane paper card
and I somewhere over
the rainbow
Prepare yourself for the show
Judy's turn and Johnny
be good taking flight
        jetlag_?

In life, if you play
your cards
Eyes so set to win
Just begin don't dig your
own grave expect to
be saved
The invitation the best
Scotch and match her
Gin standout grin
The Queen of the Ball
Oh! God Godmother
Expect another brother

From strangers to lovers
From birth expected
I will always love my
Mother
The lucky number
Fathers birthday January
13th I remember

Morning glory flower
"Robin-September"
Other peoples money
"The Bee's A= Honey
"Law of Attraction"
Time at birth
Does money grow on
trees
How unexpected
I saw you on your knees
The new year online

The--- world--- we--- all-- shine

Showing your good heart
writing in your diary
He is so loyal his
wedding finger just mastery
Knows her hand and fingers
New lyrics to your song
A card to nose falling
snowflake
She tingles like the keepsake
"Robin Remake" jitterbug
jingles

The silk ribbon heart card
for singles
If its only paper you could
rip to tear
What do you really fear?
The whole world
trigger happy
If your happy and you
know it
Clap your hands
SunFace to Dark world
 Hitman
The Wizard of Oz
It's in your stars
Who is your
biggest fan?
The movie card Tinman
If I only had a heart
or brain
Expect Robinhood train

You better be good
He acts like he's God
Smell the orange zest
Expect your New Year to
be the very very berry best

If its only paper
money flies down
to zero
You're bigger than life
Expect a hero
So many good ones
in poverty
The rich what do
they need
to confess?

Everything goes bam
Uncle Sam chances slim
What's left for
her Social Security,
She-devil with patience
The "Grand Entrance"
The door goes slam
Your health insurance
truly your protector
In paper cutout heart
forged signatures
Camera light fourteen carat
card like copycats
High cheekbones you love
Your I tunes

Whole world feeding lies
Apple computer like a virus
just dies
Your best paper card
remained in your head
Thinking of Valentines day
Its hot Red red red

Like Moms delicious
Nutritious Apple
Paper card coconut- lime
Not a crime "Mon Cherie"
Hear it for the boy's
boysenberry
Taking the New York ferry  
The right words to a card
What you got way beyond
ambition you worked hard

Then smile when your heart
is aching New year we are
expecting you
You will find your words on
the paper card

Some people have no regard
Like poem words so strong
believing who you are
God is not a paper moon
Expect a card real soon
All in the family everyone's
happiness stack of cards
It's in your smile you touched
Someone's heart inside there
card and met "Godliness"

The headdress danced in the sun
On the Indian's hollow
And eyeless skull.

It was framed in feathers
Brightly-colored serpents in the
Salty air flames licking at
Dancing and ***** bare feet.

Dark-skinned, tall, high cheekbones
And solemn eyes full of
Wisdom--he surveys the
Badlands, Moses's rigid face
Blank and silent in a
Heatwave desert.

Beyond the teepees and the
Black bonfire smoke and
The buffalo rhythm, the plateau has
Risen, bleached bones
Litter the plains as a constant
Reminder.

Light Darkness,
Soft Shadows,
Brilliant Undertones-
Flush with Flesh.

Dramatic
Elegant
Raw

the weight of a hand
resting in yours
the resistance to the touch of a single finger
upon another
the sizzle of a thousand hairs between fingertips
the dampness of breath upon your cheek
the redness of pair of lips
...or of a blushing forehead
...or of cheekbones under droplets of perspiration

the silence of an empty room
the sense of someone close
...who is a thousand miles away
...and thinking of you

Today, for the first time, I looked at my mother. Really looked at her. I've been watching her for years. I know her habits, the way her face slackens when she's mad. I watch the way she is in the world and I know who she is, what she feels like, how she smells; but until today, I couldn't have told you what she looks like. She is beautiful. Breathtaking. It's Christmas and the house is warm, glowing, smells like food. We had company and she was flitting about, kitchen to couch, apron wrapped around her fancy dress. No stockings or shoes. She was waving her arms, twiddling her fingers around her wineglass, rubbing her feet together, always in motion. Her face slid so easily into a smile, creases outlining her happiness. Strong features: a big nose, defined chin, high cheekbones, easily visible because of her short hair. My mother is not a small woman, nor is she big, but she stands tall with broad shoulders, mine now the same, and her presence is colossal. I could see the 20 some year old that my father fell madly in love with. Gorgeous. Strong. But at the same time, so soft. Every part of her nurtures. I sat in awe, stunned that I had not noticed that she was once so much more than Mom. Still is.

I wish I could formulate-
into poems and stories,
fiction and film
the way your eyes
show the innocence of love
and the vulnerability of trust.
I lost myself when I found you-
in the most extreme way
I found double entendre's
inside your tone of voice
and sibilance in your silence.
But it was never your intent
it was and has always been
my greatest downfall
putting more into others
than I will ever get back in return.
Slowly, I am crawling back to
the skin I used to find comfort in
and the smile I used to hide behind.
You brought me out from underneath
the mask I had spent years painting
beneath my eyelids
and above my cheekbones.
The scars from my old skin have faded,
but the wounds from my mind are still present.
It may take some time
but I will form a new exterior
and it will no longer be just a mask
I will run far from the person
that didn't quite love herself
and I will run into your arms
no more self harm.

Burlesque fatuous is the implication of your emotional daily pretentiousness. I am seldom, otherwise a psychopath, able
to own fraternity which I can't
discernment or jester because there is an art to love and ******
And it's a conventional edit to your own dullness. I am vivid,
Debris to impersonation.
I am absent but identical
to thin air. I am a Prometheus
Arabian night in Lysistrata premise.
My words may remind you of the day I held your eyes in infinite cluster. Perhaps my love isn't enough for you to understand. For example, the glassed vain is paralysis iridium illicitness which is svelte to inadmissible synthesis. The cloud let are torsion, assail with cypress and impossible solariums; and the propane was a sensation of disjointed loveliness.
Every time I go for a walk, mosquitoes understand my lonely talks because they sip my blood at a quarter past ten but these glazed roads scrutinized my wrist, escorted vernal preposterous blue/purple relentless ghostly cheekbones.
Thought I could festive the blaze among the cedar bridge road
but take a pause and look at my skin and thighbones,
Preterists to flowered unless I smile and tell you
"This is heartbreak"*

*Unable to keep up with your facetiousness, personality failed me temporarily. Mind melting in a moment of dissonance,
This cognitive refrain refracts the 'I' that oscillates accordingly.
One's morphology, tuned to its own metric of change.
Hypnos whispers and sleep beckons, taunting insomnia (which makes a mockery of all humans) but Morpheus has no time for anything less than grandiose archetypes.
Last night I may have dreamt or drunk some foolish things, told people the truth untruthfully, let slip more than I should have.
What a pity, secrecy. They say
information wants to be free.
Who lingers in the details?
Past memories are liberated only by the present. I stand here in the downpour, soaking it all in.
Compassion, god is in the rain.
My fulgurite heart resting on the palm of a deity, at a tilt, slowly it's sliding off; when it fell I gasped.
The reflection of wide eyes in each of its atria, emotion flowing through these venae cavae, those
dilated eyes shimmered before it shattered, gleaming with passion. Us, in the blink of an I.

i remember how her eyelashes used to flutter against her cheekbones whilst she was talking
i’d never seen anyone’s eyelashes do that before,
the way they’d jump up and down,
almost as if they were dancing
one night when she was asleep i counted every single eyelash
a lot of things in the world can make you feel awfully sick
and sad to the core
but her eyelashes were not one of them,
her eyelashes took all of that away
i loved her
i loved her eyelashes

Hair flecked with silver streams

Grooves in the skin creating ripples of wisdom

Wisdom shown in the glossy eyes



Body of watery experience sitting in the rickety chair,

the chair that squeaks with every rocky wave



If wisdom had a visible aura

it would be seeping out of his eye sockets

creating rivers of tears flowing down the cheekbones



It would be pouring out of his ears,

watering the thirsty hydrangeas that rest by his feet



It would be running out of his nose

into the decades of wisdom gathering around his chin



It would be salivating out of the corners of his mouth,

down his chin

drenching the front of his argyle sweater vest



But people walk by

blinded by nearsightedness

They don't see the water that creates a tsunami

strong and tall



People walk by

content on their dry scratchy gravel,

not wanting to dip their toes

into the murky pond before them



People walk by

closer toward the desert

where they get stuck

waiting for something to quench their thirst.

The room around me is filled air that feels too tight like ***** hose when I’m on the very edge of going up a size.  You’re sprawled on the bed with the duvet scrunched under your face and between your knees.  Glasses rest by your alarm clock and I’ve woken up before it.  The hands are unreadable and I make another note to go to the optometrist sometime soon.  

I sit up and stare at you, the worry lines relaxed.  Twenties are when wrinkles start and sometimes I can see yours growing on me.  I see the sunlight drift over the planes of your face, touching your stubble and the patchwork skin you’ve worried on your lower lip; for a moment, I’m reminded of the last time my teeth caught on the slickness of your bottom lip and I smile.  The plywood box spring creeks under me and your eyelids flutter and I about face.  Somehow, sleeping with someone, being in love with someone, namely you, doesn’t give me the permission to drink in the naivety present in your morning rest.  Your arms around me in all the nights before didn’t excuse me from invading your space in the first moments of this day.

I stare out the window at a train passing by.  It’s better to stare at graffiti-clad cars I’ve seen a thousand times before in this railroad town than for you to see me watching.  You watch my frame fake interest in the engine outside and I feel the corners of your smile grasp the edges of my matching pajama set I picked out specifically for nights spent next to you.  I hear you call me cute and tell me good morning and I feel the blood rise to my cheeks as I realise you’ve been awake this entire time.

Skin as White as Winter Snow
Legs as Boundless as the Sea,
Stationed in Venice or Bordeaux
From Blue-collar to Bourgeois.
Hair is Chic, Yet not Pristine
Soft and Cropped and Fine,
Cheekbones High a Distinct Ravine
Embellished by a High Neckline.
Undefined Peaks and Troughs  
Cumbersome and Lank,
Garnished in the Finest Cloth
Awash with Unassuming Swank.

Miss Androgynous hear my call
For I've Become a Virile Gent,
I Yearn for your Unwieldy Frame
That God in Heaven Sent

February 2011

the way your lips
and your eyes
make my skin grow scarlet
and my insides stir
the planes of your face
as I caress my fingers across your
cheekbones,
your eyelids,
the skin behind your ear and the
muscles under the sheer cotton of your shirt
they make me want to do to you what
a summer breeze does to the dandelions

love is not a safe word
it’s one haiku revised 400 times
on cracked leather chairs in the corner of cafés

some of us love badly
she says as she kisses the rim of her glass.
some of us love stretched out
like pizza dough that rips when our rolling pin rolls it too thin.

some of us love in secrecy
we do not trust your hands.
you try to pull our scalp off and draw your portrait on our mind

some of us love clean
like bubble bath that smells like lavender from some fancy store in the mall
some of us love *****
we cant clean you off our skin

some of us kiss with our teeth
some of us braid our lovers into our hair
and when we remove the hair tie
it is crimped and messy and tangled

some of us love love
but only far from home
when we slip into bed we start thinking
and we can’t stay still

some of us wash our clothes even when they don’t smell
or aren’t stained
just because it feels like you are inside of our shirts and pants and sneakers

some of us walk alone past your house
on the way to ours
and stop at the front step
waiting for you to come out
and smile at us
the only thing we wait for today
are the smudged signatures of snails
scrawled across your pavement

some of us love to the bone
until there are no more “ifs”
just “is” and “are”
the collected poems of our fingers
swollen, bruised, red like a bouquet of roses

some of us love
and we regret it
we never get home in time for dinner because of it, we leak like a faulty faucet, we sleep with our pillows over our heads to keep everything in
but some of us love
some of us own a watch and know the time with a glance at our wrist, some of us own a sponge to soak up the water, some of us own satin pillows that feel like whispers on our cheekbones

Flecks of violet, patch-quilt  loofah skin of  sponge-green iris, gold dusted
Emerald  eyes... wet stones in flesh tone, parachute baskets; paratroop lids
Descend... thin paradigms slip ; adrift upon a Seam of Tears. A saline Sea - with
Glass floor; lensing starlight over mint pink trampolines
covered in tiny copper filings,

And two Black Pools that Expand.
Two Sunbathing Night Blossoms -

Dead center. Unmanned...

Her cheekbones encroach upon Cataracts of Vacancy.
Lipid lathes of Lethe ; lips departed... red zeppelins, moist and mute . pontoons
Plump and mindless. Bee stung -
Open.

Soft mimes, glide
Over bleach and stain; over -
bone white; glide
Over Nicotine sigils, hiding -
in off-white
Enamel...

like anonymous petroglyphs for Dentists.
or Rosetta Stones for a lethargic Tongue.



II


Theta-wave turbines, throw rods and spark nods ... as others speak.
She resembles a dream-catcher’s mitt.
Words hiss now, and solid mist, twist the tell o' gram.
Into Fable's Armada !

Fog.... fog rolls in...   She rolls in, Beneath  a New Between. of Chasms
Hazardous grammar spasms, stammering -
Deaf tones of Diction -
All This ....In the Good Ear.
An Ear Of Cornucopias Delete.... The Dry Cob
Of  Annulled
Speech. [ but Morphine ]

Maybe a half-dozen kernels of distinct cream ; velveteen vague...
Or vivid - pleats in pure radiation.
?
Perhaps,  varicose inanities are expiation enough to drown a Kraken ?  Maybe God Happens ?

Let Ampule be the Judge.  Let Pack Mules be Priests.

As Others speak, Our Lily,  decrypts languidly left of linear... dislodged -
from Lexicons ....with long Odds, Against...
She Relents, Relentlessly-  And Utterly

Utterly Regardless...

She aborts pregnant ( .... )
pauses.

All this Fog rolls in... Agnostic.
She Robs
The Cuckoo... She De-bones the Soup
with Disjoint Comments.
And Scuttles
The Broth.

She's all Starlings and Polaroids.... Savage Pinwheels  and Aurora Vandals.

She's  All Plasma...
And Rapture -
with No Handles ...

She's Both Ends ... Burning
NOooo Candle .

A Wee Atlas; Shouldering A Loss
Ever Since Her World  
Was  Dismantled ..  A  Burden ( ... )
Lily
Phantom
Shrugs  

And Random Drugs..Atlantis.

June 28, 2013.
    
Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me.
    
Dear Cupid.
    
This is about you and your stupidity and idiocy, and your breathtaking suckery in archery, this is about how much I want to punch you in the face if you really exist, because of all the gods and goddesses the Greeks and Romans worship, you're the most vile of them all.

This is about how you whistled merrily down the street, completely unaware of everyone and everything around you, clutching your bow with an arrow nocked on its string, poised to strike.

This is about how you saw this girl who was indifferent to almost everyone and almost everything, this girl who never really cared, this girl who did not know love. This is about how you smirked to yourself and suddenly felt power surging through your veins, for you have found your target, this girl who always thought about everything and never let her heart decide, this girl who tried so hard to forget she can feel, this girl who never, ever loved, and was never, ever loved.

This is about how you felt everything slow down around you, how your sight narrowed down to the space between you and this girl, how your arrow yearned to be unleashed, to fly across the void that needed to be filled, to strike this girl who often forget she had a heart, this girl who needed to know love.
    
This is about how you pulled the bowstring to your cheek, felt the flecked feathers brush the bottom of your eyelids, saw nothing but this girl who forgot how to smile, this girl who never imagined you would set your sights on her, and this is about how your fingers set the string loose, set the arrow free, sent it soaring across the gap that you wanted to fill.

This is about the explosion of color in a gray room when the blade made contact with this girl's chest, this girl who went reeling back, stumbling back, so taken aback was she that the sudden fire in her ice-cold world rendered her blind and dumbstruck.

This is about how you snickered smugly to yourself because quite abruptly this girl was suddenly no longer indifferent, this girl suddenly cared, this girl remembered she had a heart--because it started beating too fast, it started screaming, it started living.

This is about how pleased you were you immediately set your bow and your arrows down, how you sighed in anticipation of an entertaining show, how you were so satisfied you instantly sat back and relaxed to enjoy the real life movie.
  
This is about how excited you were you forgot the most essential thing about your job.

You forgot to shoot the other one.
    
Dear Cupid.

You're such an *******.

But this is not only about you, this is not only about your folly, this is not only about your irresponsibility, this is not only about the wicked weapons you carry, because this is also about the one you forgot to shoot.

This is about him, and how I wish he could listen to the songs only I can hear, how I wish he knew I'm talking about him, how I wish that someone will somehow capture you, Cupid, so they can tie you to a stake and set you on fire, and maybe this feelings will hopefully dissipate along with the smoke into thin air.
  
This is about him, and how the sudden vibrancy of the colors around me disabled me almost completely. This is about him, and how his eyes suddenly seemed purer, his hair darker, his smile brighter. How I saw stars in the velvet sable of his irises, and I saw poems etched on his skin, words filling in the empty spaces inside him, the silence he wraps around himself a harsh barrier I can never bring myself to attempt breaking through.

This is about him, and the way every ounce of my awareness fixates on him every time he enters the room, and the way my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings, singing a frantic, desperate melody of fear and panic and anticipation and everything dreadful contained in your arrows.
  
This is about him, and rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, and everything I've never known.
  
This is about how the girl who never knew love suddenly knew how love looks like. She knew the sharpness of his cheekbones, the angles along his jowls, the point of his chin. She knew the softness of his lips, the hardness of his jaw. She knew him a lot more than she wanted. She knew him intimately.

This is about him.

This is about the words I'll never have the courage to say, the poems I will never be able to write. This is about heartbreak and chocolates and long walks in the rain. This is about the tears I will never be able to shed, the smiles I forget to wear, the genuine laughter I always try my best to imitate.
  
And I lied, because this is also about me.
  
This is about me, and the lies I tell everyday. This is about gazing at the stars and wishing I could tack my fingertips on those bright pinpoints of light, wishing I could give my body to the sky, because having no body means not having to feel anything.
  
Dear Cupid.
  
If only you know what you've done. If only.
  
I would love to strangle you with my own two hands.
  
And maybe I'll forgive you for giving me this, the way I forgive him everyday for every hurt he gives me.
  
But this is not only about you, and this is not only about him. This is not only about me.
  
Because this is also about love.

My friend Ana has many followers.
She feeds us promises and fills our dreams
when we cannot, will not, sate the cries
of our bodies because those are easy to hush
during the din of day, but not in the void,
night when

my friend Ana comes through a glowing
screen in the form of thigh gaps, community forum posts,
and calorie counting apps where our intake dwindles,
anticipating the moment we take in the waist of  our skirts
so maybe that boy with the blue-jean eyes notices
our size 0 because on a scale of 1 to 10, we don’t fit.

My friend Ana remains forever in our minds,
teaching us to listen to our inner strength as muscle tone
ebbs, seething when we reach for some bread, but loving
the sweat-drenched skin as we run nowhere on a treadmill that we believe leads to a salvation as perfect as the symmetry of ribs—

of cheekbones that jut out from a thin and beautiful face
which smiles at muted murmurs and falls as I look
in the mirror at bodies shaped so divine, you might see
premature grace because
Ana never dies.

Little girl with wide blue eyes
Dreams as boundless as the skies
Surrounded by dust and dead ends
Waltzing in a land of make pretend

Freckled, fervent and coy
Twirling past the neighbor boys
When she moves, she slips away
Lost in a smile and a happy place

Left to wander the desert dry
Alone and forgotten no matter what she tries
Looking for affection in an empty well
Fading echoes of forgotten church bells

With her reveries she swiftly dropped
A leap of faith and the whole world stopped
Warm blood and dampened grass,
A mangled foot and a binding cast

In dark days she prayed for help
Wanting to step and perform
Not ready to give up her last chance
To take the stage by way of dance

Ten years later, she's swaying
and twice as stunning as before
Sculpted cheekbones and brooding eyes
Grabbing audiences by surprise

She's reborn a star of the movies,
With a new name and tiny waist
Pretty young flapper with a striking face
The little girl has finally found her place

Her own love isn't enough
it never is
not when she can't be what her mother wants.
tears of desperation fall and
linger below her eyelashes
and dry on her cheekbones

those cheekbones her mother gave her
those cheekbones her mother birthed to her
Yet,
she wasn't enough
not when her other children
are there.

One more time,
she tells herself
thoughts of hope and accomplishment
give her pride, give her validation,
yet not enough validation
to be cared for like the other children
not enough to be heard.

her mother's words caress her
endearing her that she's good enough.
But the truth that she feels is
so powerful and vivud,
she knows that she possibly
couldn't be good enough.
No matter how many
things her mother tells her,
she knows the truth,
even if her mother can't see the truth.

It's not enough.
Not when she can't be the daughter
her sister is; she
could never be for her mother.

Moth wings fluttering against my cheekbones
you are warmth
you are light

I am standing at the edge of this ocean
watching the galaxy pool around me

I do not care if it is a halo or horns
you have hiding out beneath your hat

It does not matter to me if you have shoulder blades
where your wings should be

We can press our bones together for all of eternity
We can be an archeological discovery

Love buried in ash
You are forever all I will need

When I was eleven I joined the cast of the school play
Aladdin
And the genie was played by a girl
Three years older
With straight dark hair, and a nervously witty way with words
And the most captivatingly violent contempt for the world
That masked and mingled with a host of little insecurities,
And the largest jewel tone eyes I'd ever seen.
One was blue and one was green,
And she looked at me.
I think it was when I was peeking out from behind the curtain.
She just looked at me for a second and
I fell in love with her right there.
Six years later was the first day I forgot to think of her,
And I do believe I'll never go a solid month without the ghost of loving her pressing up against my back once or twice,
Quite unexpectedly.
I didn't speak to her for the first four years,
And when I did I became her best friend, sure that that was what I felt for her.
And two years after we met,
She disappeared and I was glad by then,
But loved her no less.
That was the first.

Then during my eighth grade summer,
Just before I started high school,
I walked into my summer camp
To the theatre to audition for the play
And there on the stage there was a girl
With freckles on her shoulders like cinnamon sprinkled.
She always wore a close fitting hat over her short hair
And her eyes were the deep, slate grey of the sky just before a rainstorm cracks through the clouds.
Her fingers looked like porcelain,
And I couldn't stop looking at them
Because I remembered the sculptures in the Museum of Fine Art
That I always wanted to touch as a child- smooth and white and delicate but with the suggestion of strength.
And when she spoke her voice was the lowest, richest one I'd ever heard
And everyone in the room bent toward her as if caught by gravity.
The way she uses words when she talks is the way a concert pianist uses the keys-
You have to stop and stand in awe, sometimes.
She can make you feel things.
I saw her on that stage, and I fell in love with her, right there,
And this time I think I knew it was love and not friendship.
Four, maybe five years later,
I know I'm not over it.
She was the first girl I ever thought about kissing.
That was the second.

Then my sophomore year, I suddenly looked at a good friend of mine
And saw her for what she was instead of passing by.
Chocolate brown eyes full of sweetness and vitality,
Long brown hair that fell in little curls about her face when it escaped its pinnings as she danced,
She was radiant, inside and out,
Full of this innocent joy, an ability to be... happy
That I had never imagined.
Her little beauties snuck up on you,
And then all of a sudden hit you hard and knocked you over.
It was her loveliness as a person that made her truly extraordinary-
She was nicer to me than anyone I'd ever loved.
By then I knew it was love, and I felt ashamed.
I gave her what gifts I could-
Perhaps too many-
To satisfy some need in me to thank her for existing.
And although I finally learned to keep myself from pining for her
I know that to this day I would fall for her again if I saw her.
She was like a balm for the hard cold brutality of everyday life;
Knowing her was like healing from being alive.
She's overseas now,
Lighting up some room somewhere,
And I hope that the people in it feel the warmth of her like the sun, like I did.
That was the third.

Then my junior year, quite unexpectedly,
I found that I loved no one and hurt over no one,
And I began to find a peace in that
Until on Halloween I walked into my friend's party
(My friend who has, since, sadly spoiled from the inside out over the years,
Or maybe he always was rather that way.)
And I saw what sunlight would look like if it were a person.
Dark hair, black eyes like whole galaxies, high cheekbones, full lips
And the softest, most radiant skin I'd ever seen or felt.
I thought I dreamed her that night,
And many, many times since then I've thought the same.
She kissed me and I felt it through every cell of me,
And although I slowly fell in love with her mind in the coming weeks,
I knew I loved her soul when I saw her eyes the moment she first looked at me.
The joy of being hers left such a glow upon my soul
That when she left I was blind, and fell to my knees.
For a long, long time, she was all there was-
First in love and perfection, and I shivered when she touched me,
Then in loss and devastation, and I shook without her near.
I worked harder and longer than I've ever worked for anything in my life this past year
To learn to love her and live through it even though she is gone
Instead of letting go of the memory of her and hence losing her for good.
Worth every second, I maintain.
She was the person who first loved me back-
The only one so far, honestly-
And I know I will be in love with her until the day I die.
That was the fourth.

And then when I had resigned myself to a life
Of loving someone who wouldn't touch me anymore,
I met somebody new.
She has dark hair that catches the light red,
Wild and curly and it dances in the breeze.
She has the bluest eyes I've ever seen, full of laughter and warmth-
Eyes like that are dangerous, they can make a whole room hot or cold
All on their own.
She saw me loving her, and drew my soul from me
With the touch of her fingers on my cheek
And took it with her when she pulled away and walked down the hall
At 3 am
And when she rounded the corner
She'll never know that I sat down and cried
Right there
Because I knew I'd never quite get it back.
I knew she wouldn't be so close ever again.
But I cried with a smile
Because everyone I meet who can make me feel so intensely that I lose control
Is the most important person I've ever met, all over again.
So now there is her
Her and all these ghosts that press cold against my back when I lay down to sleep
See-through arms around my waist,
Making sure that nothing warm quite touches me truly.
And if she fades with them-
For she is already blurring around the edges,
Starting to retreat into the part of my heart that can house the things that
Hurt
-If she fades with them
There will have been another lesson to go with this loss.
I never know what I'm being taught
So brutally
But hopefully someday I will figure it out.
Maybe then somebody will chase the ghosts away and put her arms around me
And I will know security for the first time in my entire life.
She is the fifth.
But heaven knows who will be
The last.

twitchy sniffly noses
silky bracelets woven
a sennight of whispers
and soft rains fallen
bones strident ringing
skins slow submerging
bloodshot eyes and
star-shot skies and
cheekbones shrouded
in staling chlorine

sneaking syrup smiles
under honey gold
four tonics drowned
to fight off the cold
and fast fortune-telling
for finites foretold
trace the lines and
face the folds, please
hold both palms closer
but leave them closed

twitchy ditzy fingers
***** rings unspooled
a sennight of stories
and sinking in pools
bones washed in phenol
skins slick like ferrule
bloodshot minds and
star-shot why’s and
wisteria lips speckled in
the warmest shade of cool.

In a different town.

The baked streets have thinner air.
The fata seem to belong less to Morgana than to the mountains.
The tall mountains that freeze
The water of the eyes to
The water of the roads a mile away.
The terrific air.

I can now only barely recall.
No sound, the film skipped,
Slightly off the projector track.

The dark insides of a native heritage.
The store with an open door.
The stern woman behind the white smoke counter.
Turquoise is expensive,
But no one buys enough for it to be in vogue.
A vogue might swallow all the sulfur
Sand.

The sharp nose,
Cheekbones that squint the little black eyes deeper inside.
I can see why they must have been afraid,
Though I’m not quite sure what I mean by “they.”
This town is different from any other one.

And you can feel it when the mountains
Pin their tongue into the sun.

To M.

See, I should have kissed you.

I should have kissed you when I had the chance to. Should have pulled you closer, stood on my tiptoes, my hand tightly clutching your neck, and kissed you full on the mouth. Should have run my fingers through your spiky hair, smiling as your arms closed around me.

I should have found you, the taste of tiramisu still on my lips, and I should have kissed you, giving you a taste of the happiness in a box that you'd handed me so timidly.

Your voice still rings loud and clear in my head, I hear it when I read your messages, that distinctive accent, eyebrows raised, cheekbones moving. And that smile, so sly and cunning, your lips slightly upturned. I *should have kissed those lips when I had the chance to do so. Then and there, among tears and sporadic, almost desperate hugs, I should have kissed you. When you held on to me for just a little longer, your hug tight, your hands running along my back, I should have traced your lips with mine. I should have sealed that promise with a kiss.


"You never see a person only once in a lifetime," you whispered in my ear, your breath tickling me. "That's a promise," I choked on tears, "You hear me, it's a promise."


I should have kissed you; instead, I hugged you once again as you held me tightly and rubbed my back. I should have just reached out. Fate or whatever mystical force there is ******* us up pretty badly. If only I'd met you earlier. If only I'd known you before I got mixed up with the wrong person. I wish we'd had more time. I wish I'd done a lot of things differently. My heart drops in my stomach every time you say you miss me. Your voice will fade away. I won't be able to conjure up your face without looking at pictures, and all your familiar features will be blurred by time and memory. The ephemeral imprint of your skin against mine will soon be gone forever. My heart will grow cold.


The taste of tiramisu will linger, though. Always in the back of my mind, the unanswered question of what it would be like to taste it from your lips. Have tiramisu some time. I hope it tastes like me. You never see a person only once in a lifetime, but perhaps you only have one chance to kiss.

I should have kissed you.

Anna
Red hair fell like fire
on her thin shoulders.
Her wide, open eyes, now
seemed sunken in, and sadness,
for a moment, lingered there.
This was her last night on earth.
She again, ran through the events
that took place earlier that night.
When she was with him, in the back
of the Impala.
Images of the car's windows glossed with a
sheen of steam, blazed across her mind.
A smile blazed across her face.
She thought of his smile and her own widened.
She thought of the way he touched her, so gently,
like a feather moving over her. The way he left kisses
in a trail across her skin. The way he held her, as if
nothing on the earth could ever take her away.
Not in that moment.
But there are more than the kind
and protecting angels in this world. There are
demons. But even so, worse are the angels that
have turned their backs on heaven and now
work for the forces of evil.
The angels that would tear their comrades
from this world.
The angels
among
the
demons.

Crowley
Black.
Black as dark as night.
Black as dark as the inner
reaches of the earth.
Black as dark as death itself.
Black like blood.
Red.
Red as deep as warm, copper veins.
Red as deep as magma beneath
the earth.
Red as deep as rage at the sign
of betrayal.
Red like smoke.
Twisted.
Splashes of agony and hatred and
remorse stained his tattered soul.
A true evil radiated from his
vessel. A crafty and
malicious essence raced through his veins.
But he was no Lucifer.
Somewhere, deep down,
there was still a man who
longed to be loved. A man
who longed to be forgiven of his cruel
mistakes in his past life. Deep down, there
was still a man who longed to come back to
the light.
In a world so dark as his, the only light was the fire,
which should have brought comfort, but only
brought pain.
Deep down, he liked the dark.

Mary
Hair like threads of spun gold
tangled around her face. She was fair with
bright blue eyes that held
hues as heavenly as the sun-beaten
sky.
Soft, angular cheekbones sloped gently
down, a tinge of pink, coloring them slightly.
Locks of her wavy hair met her shoulders
but beneath her fair
appearance, she was a
rough girl.
A hunter.
She had seen things most terrible in the world,
thinks that no one should ever see.
And still, he remained a
loving mother and a kind person
in spite of
her demons.

Sam
Echoes of a former friend
rang throughout his
conscious mind.
Mischievous and
sinister laughter danced
around in his head like demons
howling and gibbering in
the night.
He could feel his brother's presence
and the angel too,
but felt only more unnerved
because he knew he was the
only one who could hear the voices.
Another shrill scream pierced
his ears and he ducked, holding
his head between two shaking palms.
Bright flashes of color exploded at
the corners of his vision and danced
around his eyes like a psychedelic
kaleidoscope.
He went spiraling again in his mind and
every color blinked out, like a light.
Everything went dark as the psychotic laughter
echoed throughout
his
skull.

Castiel
Over the hill moved a creature, round and
Glowing with a cold, white light.
Like a spectacular
Moonrise.
It had hundreds and hundreds of
Eyes in every imaginable color, faceted
Like jewels that covered wheels within wheels of
It’s spherical body.
It was an infinite series of intersecting
Rings that spun constantly in
All directions.
Like a gyroscope.
The rings looked like steel but
The substance was
Pearlescent and, like an oil slick,
Contained all of the rainbow within it.
Steel-like whips caressed the ground
And skies as it moved.
And at its center stood two
Wings, upright.
Feathers made from the metallic
Material rippled in the air. Around the wings pooled a
Sticky, warm light. A sheen of phosphorescent light coated the
Feathers and pooled around the wings.

Dean
Through the windshield, the soft
glow of a solitary streetlight glistened
over his cheekbones
and poured down
his jaw that had grown taught from
rapt contemplation.
His coarse, sandy-brown hair, was messed
from his last tango with a monster.
Brilliant flecks of gold danced around in
his hazel eyes,
entwining with years of past remorse and
echoes of both sad and happy memories of
being on the road.
He kept a firm hold of the wheel, gently guiding the
old muscle car down the road.
Tears prickled behind his gorgeous, tired eyes,
but didn't dare escape.  The plastic army
soldier stared him down, but he
could pay him little mind.
His brother, riding shotgun, slept
sitting upright, his long, chocolate locks
covering his eyes as he dreamt with
his forehead
against the cool window.

Lucifer
A luminescent beauty radiated from him.
Behind his tattered vessel's eyes, a blazing
light shined like a beacon in the night.
The fury of a thousand suns, and
the beauty of a million moons.
The bright and morning star.
The most magnificent in all of the angels,
yet far more dark than any demon.
Sinfully exquisite.
Those who say he has horns have never
looked upon his countenance, for the gems
faceted there rival the colors of the morning skies.
And a voice like silk, soft as the
timid pulse,
a voice that could lead you to your own destruction.
Hands both so gelid and searing, you'd quiver
at the touch.
Hands that have brought so many to their death.

with frozen skin
you send arrows flying
through eyelids of glass
shattering visions
of peace and contentment
love and war
with lust separating the path
now roads are left unclear
but as night drags on
you might as well be slaughtered in slumber
for what days brings is much worse.
keep your enemies under warm wraps
when winter arrives
survival is easy.

You can wipe the makeup off your overdrawn cheekbones, Barbie
But you're still plastic.
And you're still hollow.

i loved you, right

a love unreturned,

unrequited

but alas, still

stoked by little miners with

hearts of brass their

iron faces grimacing at the task,

little beads of lots of sweat

dripping down their

taut frowns.

so what i meant to say is that

i love you, right,

and it’s a love that still

burns, bright, enough

to bring the boys home but

let’s be honest

it wouldn’t best the sun, but

****, it’s a terrible light,

it throws everything into a soft relief

where pretty, soft voiced sheep say

pretty, soft voiced things like

‘it’s okay to feel this way’

‘i want you to be happy’

‘she sounds amazing’

and other things that normal people

tell me mean that either

i don’t love you

or i’m moving on.

they don’t understand though,

i mean,

i love you, right,

though all that sheep **** makes it

sound as if

i’m waving you off,

smashing the celebratory champagne on your bow,

waving you off into the distance with a lacy hanky,

joyful tears cascading down my powdered cheekbones,

i’m greedy

maybe even,

needy,

a disgusting word and

even if i make pacts with myself

to the order of

‘he can do so much better’

‘i am damaged goods’

and other associated half truths

i’d be a liar if i said that

i would kick you out of bed

or even rebuke the slightest of

advances, no i’d take my chances

and i cannot bear it, really

i’d touch you and whatever wholeness

whatever someone else would

parse as clean or pure or holy

wouldn’t disintegrate, no

wouldn’t tarnish, no

would most probably just implode

under the combined pressure

of emotionally-mentally-******-in-the-head-doe

(where the **** do you think the miners got all that coal)

so, yes… wait. no?

i love you, right

but just ignore it

enjoy the lights

please remember them

tell your friends and

cherish them until

they are taken by

death, drink, dementia

but i’m sure your mum,

teacher,

or television

long ago informed you that

bright lights are detrimental to vision

so think of your future and

forget now

if you’re tempted by how i look at you

remember how

sunburn seems innocuous

until you see your skin

and sunscreen pretty useless

‘til you learn the sun will win

and the best way to avoid

dainty melanoma

is

to

go

inside

and

lock

your

door

and act like you don’t know her.

She laughs, he smiles.
The black forest taste he could only taste at the peak of light beams
Her laugh seems similar, quite similar.
Her haha's outcasted the glooms and dooms
Just as the black forest melted on his taste buds when sun rays streaked upon his shoulder blades.

She cracked a joke, he laughs and nods
Intellectual is what they might say
A brainy maniac she is, who could co-host a sitcom
His Friday nights would now only be filled with her wits
Replacing all the beers and stouts for a while
His once bumpy and rocky throat is nil compared to the highly raised cheekbones visible during a good laugh

But one day she cried.
The guilt he carries overshadowed his sympathy.
Her big swollen eyes
Her pinkish and warm face which was covered in dribble
Hadn't he known?
All those time he made somersaults, he was drown deep below
He could breakthrough,
but was too mesmerized by the mermaid's blinking fishtail and scaly skin.

And she saved him
From being turned into a merman
Only then he was back to square one
Where her laughters, her jokes and her sobs are actually his sugar crush, his Gatsby gold
As always, she was after all, his soul saver.

A beautiful head of hair offered her a drink.
She had to drive home.

High cheekbones and a leather jacket asked her to dance.
She was never a good dancer.

Tall and lean made eyes from across the room.
She turned away.

Friendly and endearing made small talk on the stool next to her.
Weather.
Music.
Occupations.

“So, are you… in a relationship?”
She looked down at her hands.
A white line against bronze skin seared with absence.

“No,” finally,”not anymore.”

I came to the Relazation,
I don't give a ****.              
Only when I'm
high as ******* some                            
Man made ether-                                                           ­    Now, etherized
it's easier to comprehend the demensions that led to my mental demise.
Yet and still.
I don't give a ****.

Numb.

No need for the clenching of hearts or
worry some eyes-
This is a different "Numb".

Confusing your senses to where you
Hear color,
Taste sound
See beauty in all belonging to God
An feel only with your heart-

I'm riding on cloud 9 -
Yea, high...
Surfacing on a pen that's barely scratching
The surface of my potency.

My being is being caressed by night fall,
Stillness finds space to
fit and slip down shoulders
once burdened with all
but a dream.

Reality never touched me here
So it's easy to imitate a crescent
for my lips main wear.

Corners peaked
Gracing cheekbones once hidden
Now amplified by rose colored bliss.

I wish I could stay here -
Live within my imagination
Because in this realm-
Creativity added to a heart of gold
Not affiliated with currency
Is riches.

Unfortunately,
I can't stay trapped in this... dream-
Because like that 14 year old school boy
My imagination too,
has a curfew.

Only is at 8 a.m.
When the alarm sounds for me to mask my desires
In a blue collar-
To work the "grave yard shift"-
For a dreamer.
Hmm...

I guess my stress will greet your relief again at 5.
Or if I can't wait to embrace that comforted race-
I may have to show face on my next lunch break.


- Danielle . A. Watson
✌

I sit holding my aching head in calloused hands
experiencing ‘forlorn’
a worn soul aged beyond the calendar
dreary eyes look upon the state of humanity
irradiated babies trading rabies with deviants
live on pay per view
seeing the shape of famous faces
manipulated flesh blankly posed
only desperate oculars show the truth
darting frantically form mirror to mirror
attempting to validate existence through reflection
but not like the monks in Tibet
regret fills bent cheekbones
spackled with Botox and raspberry jam
thinning peak aligns with the occasional grey strand
and I sit wishing only to see people love themselves

Staring at a reflection
Watching for clues
Waiting for signals
But I'm never allowed to lose
Weight
Fat
No flat stomach left
And thin hairs mar
The one you're left with
Your body protrudes underneath your
Bra-line and
It makes you want to cry
Your butts still good
But you fearfully watch the
Jiggle of your thigh

Your body is all you've ever had
Your teeth are yellow and
Your hair loves to be bad
your nose is chipped and angled
Your skin mangled with spots and
Scars
Marred
Imperfect
Only the mirror makes you smile
But photos lack the style of
'Attractiveness'

You feel you can only look like you
In person

But now you have to search for the good
You know they would have you do that.
Okay, I like the practicality of my body.
Where I have stood, there has stood
Health, a wealth of love in
Laughter lines
I love the lines of my muscles
Count my contours,
Feel I'm fine when I breath in my
Cheekbones, hate the stress filled
Frown lines
Never forget the time I
Looked and found myself

Too thin
Too tired
Too wired up
To find myself
Too injured.

Never regret
And never forget
The point I realised
At least imperfect
Allows for 'happy'

So the lads decided to head down the town one day
(it bein' a great stretch of sun, especially for here,
and playin' Fifa tournaments and
actin' smart were losin' their charm)
Anyway,
Miles had his eye on this young one, and Giro and Hooper
bein' the friends they were riled him up no end about
what he was goin' to do once he got his chance with her, y'know, the usual stupid teenage macho lad crap.
But sure, poor auld Miles, as he was back then, was a sensitive sort
and although he was the handsomest of the chaps at that stage
-with the boyband cheekbones and
the butter-wouldn't melt bring-me-home-to-your-mammy-she'll-think-I'm-Lovely exterior-
he was just a bit too shy to get taking to her in the square that day,
the two of 'em were both awkwardly just sat on opposite benches
with their eyelashes flutterin' in the wind.
And sure didn't the boys make a holy show o'the chap by shoutin' "D'YOU WANT TO SHIFT HIS FRIENDS" at the young one's mates, and them visibly horrified,
with the precious stuck-up Loreto girls' mouths dropped in mortification.

They were somethin' else back then, alright.

But here's the thing,
He's marrying that girl next weekend. (-The same one?) (-Hardly?!)
Swear on me Granny's grave, got sent the invitation on Facebook and all!
Meself and Tracy are goin' to it, obviously, but I barely seen the chap since he moved up to Dublin that time, but the girl is friend's with Tracy's cousin.
Danielle is her name, she works as a graphic designer.

(-She designs games?) (-No, ads, posters and stuff, you ****)
(-Well, I extend my heartfelt apologies
to Mr. CAO himself over here)
(-G'way you, the last time you heard tell of the CAO
was when  you used it as a farewell greeting to
the sub-teacher you fancied when you
handed in your pass maths exam.)
(-What's he doin' again?) (-He works in KPMG)
(-...Sorry I asked)

Apparently they had lost track of each other, but then randomly met out one night and rekindled the old flame. (-what, the old premature pubescent horn?)
My point is, doucher, that you cant keep a good man down...not the greatest choice of words given the context, but, y'know,
fair ******' play to him anyway.

On the other hand, I saw Giro in Mooney's there last weekend,
back from Canada after only six months over there.
Hated it apparently, plasterin' walls in a city that was
only bein' built up for the first time, nothin' to do on the weekend
but drink **** beer and go fishin'.  I told him he should have gone
to Vancouver but he wanted to head where Hooper was goin'
-Those two were always the same, they'd manage to waste each others time if they got to the moon.

There Giro was, all he got to show for himself for goin' to Canada
was a flannel shirt, a snapback hat and a beard like one of those
grizzly lads from gay ****. (-What would you know about gay ****?) (It's an metaphor, genius, I don't need to know anythin' about it in order to make the connection.)
(-Sounds like the only expert piece of information you've given it all night) (-Here, your Da hates ya, go home)

But I suppose, at least a lad like Giro, totally directionless, still has the ability to laugh about himself.
He'd say worse things about himself that I would and laugh away at it, no bother.
But that's it, isn't it? Being able to laugh at the lads and at yourself when you deserve it, to own up to your flaws and forgive them.
That's what it's all about.

Lets face it.
Shes better than me.

Shes cool and collected.
Im funny and quirky.

Shes elegant,
Graceful.

Im clumsy,
Very , very  clumsy.

Dark, smooth, silky hair
Frames her snow white face,
High cheekbones and all.

Golden ,Wild ringlet curls,
Fall where ever they please,
Around my pale, undefined face.

She was the new girl,
That I once was.

She writes beautiful music,
And her voice,
Clean as a whistle.

I barley write poems,
And my voice,
Comes from the bottom of my soul.

Shes just effortlessly thin,

While i struggle everyday,
With trying to look normal.


Wait.
Just wait.
Why am I comparing?
...
Oh yeah,

You.

Just thinking about you
And her.
Or even you,
And anybody
Makes me want to,
Crawl back,
Into my now broken shell.
And now you will see her,
In a different light.
And i am in the background,
With my eyelids pried open,
Being forced to watch.

Normally if fall into darkness,
You would grab my hand,
And pull me in the spotlight,
With you.
But what if your not there this time?
Questions like that,
Rip apart my mind.
I get to see,
Just how good of an actor,
you REALLY are.

A girl passes me,
Written on her heart,
Is your name .
Another girl then passes me,
It reads the same.
This happens several times.
Then,
My head freezes over.
And my mind blanks out.
Leaving only one thought.
"Am I a fool?"
Do you want to
"play" with my emotions?
Do you want to
Act to see if you can get the lead?
Do you want to
See how many hearts you can win?
Is that what your doing?
Or are they pushing themselves
On you?
I never have,
I wouldn't know the experience.
Thats why i question you.
Your motives.

I felt maybe i was different.
You remember almost everything.,
I say.
You tell me everything.
You hang around ,
me.
So what does that mean?
Huh?
I dont want to assume the worst,
If you are pure of heart.
But my gut is telling me otherwise.
But as for that girl,
I will have to sit and wait,
Just like i have been doing.
Except this has a new deadline.
And will help with your story,
And especially my story.

Theres a lump in my throut,
I don't know what i feel,
Jealousy?
Defeat?
I just want you to be happy,
And i don't know who that is,
Yet.