In the wake of morning I am dying,
My child screaming,Happy Birthday, Dad.
I need my fire to stop the crying,
Purse my lips, the last cigarette I had.
She clambers into my smoke-gray walled room,
Innocence is a baby's white smile,
This contagious cancer is my gloom.
I am her murderer, still she would smile.
I often swore I would quit this **** thing,
For my daughter's sake, not my own **** life;
And always failed, this poison is my king.
It is her lungs that goes the smokey knife.
This selfish ****** turns my whole world gray.
Stupid. By my side, my daughter does stay.

There are sketches on the walls of men and women and ducks,
and outside a large green bus swerves through traffic like
insanity sprung from a waving line; Turgenev, Turgenev,
says the radio, and Jane Austin, Jane Austin, too.
"I am going to do her portrait on the 28th, while you are
at work."
He is just this edge of fat and he walks constantly, he
fritters; they have him; they are eating him hollow like
a webbed fly, and his eyes are red-suckled with anger-fear.
He feels hatred and discard of the world, sharper than
his razor, and his gut-feel hangs like a wet polyp; and he
self-decisions himself defeated trying to shake his
hung beard from razor in water (like life), not warm enough.
Daumier. Rue Transonian, le 15 Avril, 1843. (lithograph.)
Paris, Bibliotheque Nationale.
"She has a face unlike that of any woman I have ever known."
"What is it? A love affair?"
"Silly. I can't love a woman. Besides, she's pregnant."
I can paint- a flower eaten by a snake; that sunlight is a
lie; and that markets smell of shoes and naked boys clothed,
and that under everything some river, some beat, some twist that
clambers along the edge of my temple and bites nip-dizzy. . .
men drive cars and paint their houses,
but they are mad; men sit in barber chairs; buy hats.
Corot. Recollection of Mortefontaine.
Paris, Louvre.
"I must write Kaiser, though I think he's a homosexual."
"Are you still reading Freud?"
"Page 299."
She made a little hat and he fastened two snaps under one
arm, reaching up from the bed like a long feeler from the
snail, and she went to church, and he thought now I h've
time and the dog.
About church: the trouble with a mask is it
never changes.
So rude the flowers that grow and do not grow beautiful.
So magic the chair on the patio that does not hold legs
and belly and arm and neck and mouth that bites into the
wind like the ned of a tunnel.
He turned in bed and thought: I am searching for some
segment in the air. It floats about the peoples heads.
When it rains on the trees it sits between the branches
warmer and more blood-real than the dove.
Orozco. Christ Destroying the Cross.
Hanover, Dartmouth College, Baker Library.
He burned away in his sleep.

The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
The dull dead wind is out of tune,
And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.

Etched clear upon the pallid sand
Lies the black boat:  a sailor boy
Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.

And overhead the curlews cry,
Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.

stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
  to no music - only acrid scruple
    of this being with and not being with,
     one is always alone.

  space occupies the potteries in
  the garden as a steady arm of light
  stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
  it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
   and the heat clambers the wall of
   the vacuously atrabilious moment
  of just plainly existing. the slender
  harlequin of moon, like an old lover
  having its own way with me, a child's
  yelp coming home — the hermetic
  air crushing the light, slivering it
  revealing all the ensconced phantasms
  too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
  that teems with a concatenation of roads
  and gutters bilious with the squall of day.

  a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
   receiving the star of aloneness,
    vacillating between
  place and         placelessness
   telling this originary of repossessing
       the moon with a hand in my hand,
   pressing a question of where
    have you been all the raging while.

Part 1.

What wantless seeds attest to willing soil,
Each rooted finger delving to earth's core
In counterweight, as newborn limbs recoil
Up from the grave, to rise, to lift, to soar;
To marry gold above with gold below
As petaled faces bask in fiery glow.

In each low nook, on each high rising hill,
By narrow streams wending like living trails
Down through deep harbored vales where winds lay still,
Where night and shadows meet in mingled veils,
All sacred spots that nature calls her own
Know bounty of pure beauty fully grown.

Heaven to some, to some Arcadia;
Her lands enriched not by cold ore struck gold,
But by a blessed cornucopia
That wise men seek, but few will yet behold:
Into this realm a weary hunter treads,
As silent as a widow in silk threads.

His hooded face as weathered as a storm,
Dark eyes, a crooked nose, a fearsome chin;
Worn leather garb clung to his sinewed form,
Drab long cloak loosely clasped by silvered pin;
Old sword and dagger hung from side to side,
Short bow and quiver tarry not his stride.

Part 2.

The vestige trace long lost to eyes unskilled
Takes umbrage at his oft' requited glance,
And twisting like a ****** darkly quilled
To gift the puzzled reader bare a chance,
Turns this and that but all to no avail:
The hunter ever watchful of the trail.

Through field and copse, down to a steep ravine,
Plumbing the darkly deepness of a cave
That writhes through earthly riches like a stream,
Rising to spring like buds from winters grave:
Emerging into light as one exhumed,
The hunter pushes on, the hunt resumed.

For mile to broken mile the land retreats
To greet the rouse and sleeping of the sun;
As day and night dance gaily round their seats,
Taking a turn to sit on either one;
By light of sun, or moon, or stars, the prey
Sets firmer tracks each passing of the day.

Until a dawn awakes to shrieks of mourning,
One golden speck cries foul at visions edge;
Espying of the hunter's cruel adorning
She flits away towards a mountain ridge:
The hunter leaps, pursuing at a pace,
His prey is found, his hunt becomes a chase!

Part 3.

Arcadia delights in summer faire,
Yet all departed seasons lie within;
Protected from the ravage of time's stare,
They wander here or there upon a whim;
And to her borders, winter is inclined,
So comes the chill as summer falls behind.

Soft fertile plains give way to rocky climbs,
And mountain shadows mock sun's feeble stare;
Ice clung to stone, to sting all clinging limbs,
The hunter's eyes blinded by frigid glare;
His prey nearby, she clambers up the *****,
Her racing heart surged by false glinted hope.

Arcadia bade mountains rise up steep,
To keep her borders free of dint or breach,
And rising heavenward, each snow-capped peak,
An endless climb beyond all skillful reach:
The hunter clambers swift to shrink the gap,
And in a breath she falls into his trap.

A foxhole late encumbered with deep snow
Becomes her prison hemmed by harsh cold rock,
The hunter stands above, inclines his bow,
With silken string depressed by feathered nock;
One pause to blink before she pays his toll:
He stalls, steps back, and stumbles from the hole.

Part 4.

"Cold winds chill numb the hands, freeze not the mind!
What trick of sight gives light to such deceit?
Dare I to look once more? Pray will I find
My prey's own claws or tender dainty feet?
Treacherous snow lies deep, my eyes misled!
A beast I sought, a maiden found instead!"

"Kind sir, I find myself at your command!
Pray lend me arms no smith nor fletcher made,
But as my own formed of the sculptors sand
To shape the flesh into the mould he bade:
Pray open up your heart, come set me free,
For I would spy which hunter bested me!"

"Afore I gift my fingers to your plight,
Would you attest to count them fore and aft?
And pledge no claws will scratch nor teeth will bite?
And offer up the scheming of your craft?
A beast I hunt, yet here I catch no beast,
Be swift of tongue, the swifter then released!"

"Upon the sky that houses sun and moon,
The trembling mountains tamed by winters shiver,
The hills, trees, shrubs, vales, Arcadia's bloom,
The living streams, flowers like natures mirror:
Upon all things of worth if word be aught,
I gift my word, my ill to you is naught!"

Part 5.

Her slender form, as light as sleight of white,
He lifts up to assuage her troubled snare;
And looking then upon her wondrous sight,
With darting eyes for fear the sirens glare;
He feels a hammer strike a pillowed blow:
His lifeless limbs collapse into the snow.

"Fear not for words I gift are duty bound,
And bind me as a branch unto a tree;
Would I were fool to feast upon my hound,
My bonded words so too would feast on me:
But listen now, this nymph has had her fun,
The chase is run, the quest is just begun!

Arcadia opens up her vaulted gate
To fallen souls with honor on their name;
Not that bestowed where mongers congregate,
By kings rewarding those who **** and maim;
But those revered for kindly word and deed
Are born again through Arcadia's seed.

Live free to roam in Arcadia's haven,
Fish, hunt, give chase, for sport and for the thrill;
But heed me well, my bonded words are graven,
Open no doors to death, nor test his skill:
Death hunts you like the beast you thought to best,
Though chase be long, be sure he will not rest.

Part 6.

*Arcadia has but one proposition,
Be glad of heart, her realm cannot be broken;
But of your hand she makes a supposition,
You wear it still, a lovers gifted token:
All bonded vows should break upon her border,
That yours did not has brought her some disorder!

Though day and night swing endless through the sky,
No time shall pass within this hallowed glade;
Where once you stood, forever shall you lie,
One breath between a life and bitter shade:
Arcadia can open up her door
And with a breath, release you evermore!

Return to life, return to love's embrace,
Return to sickness, death and poverty;
Go now and lose all knowledge of this place,
Be troubled not by wistful memory;
This path once trod can never be unstarted.
Be warned: no path returns here once departed!

Here then your quest continues with a choice,
Remain within Arcadia's golden land;
Or live a mortal life and then rejoice
To greet your death when taken by his hand:
One breath to choose, one solitary breath,
Immortal life or yet a mortal death."

There is a void outside my window.
Pitch cascading into itself.
No. I am mistaken.
It is just night.
Someone was knocking on my door at some point.
Nipah. Nipah.
Nevermind.
A curious hollow groan runs through the house.
Perhaps a tap is being turned.
Hiss.
A moth catches in a stream. Wet dust clambers for existence, affirmed in the moment of death.
Sometimes it escapes.
There is a glow.
A streetlamp lights up the void, strong enough to reveal a small part of the world, but too weak to remove the grain. The noise of existence.
Blood rushes through vessels. Neurons fire.
Silence is merely the body experiencing itself. The self subverted into the other.
Oh. I have slept through the day.
A train rumbles in the distance, sonorous and bleak.
A bird cries out into the void.
Nothing responds.
A miasma blankets the city.
The choke of lack.

Mist today is effervescent
It lurks during the morn
This marks the end of renewal
And slowly tucks green to sleep

The Mist softly heralds in
A painted landscape
And the smell of falling blades

The straw now bowed
To the slight sent of cold
As the Mist clambers up and down
To bed in the deepest valleys

Finally blanketing
And settling on the landscape

Intrepidly neglected, of my lessened reasoning, I am dissected, of my insurrection, from the blessed beens of yesteryear's glints, dancing, parading, and burning, in layers, stages, and fazes, fading, and melting, the plastic faces into the smelting heap, that has come so far, just to inspire me.

Always.

Always you unto me, spiraling, indefinitely into the deep, where ceased is the times, with bloodied hands, and laugh lines, laughing one last time, while glancing toward my watch, under setting suns, and rising stars, smiling faces, and in tearful goodbyes, i realise

The sky's limitlessness

And in all the glory, and all the bliss, the eloquent stories, and the gentle drifts, my imagination uplifts, in wisps of gentleness, where i submit to reason.

Bless-ed be, the one who garners to my support, from a vortex of euphoric antidotes, of mindless quotes, and animated emotes, pulsed, from straight faces, and lost hope.

Ill tell the truth, you can go with nope, in whispered breaths of gun smoke, lathered in lith-dope.

Just trying to cope with the flow, until i crash upon the shores of nevermore, and, explore these holes in my soul intent, ascending from the contempt of bent perspectives, and twisted concepts, letting the blood of the peasant from my arms of harmony, trembling blankly to sleep.

To you a *****, to me tranquility, as i sink, into the world i knew, so that it may be seen, casing the well being, of all the things, and pixelated dreams, from a thieves keep.

Deep, down, below me, in obscurity, i seep, through the soil of my turmoil, until my hand reaches out, from beyond my doubts, and clambers from the shadows, outside of myself.

I am born, of mud, of muck, of the stuff, you're afraid of, and all i bare is love, love to shrug the shams astray, vacating the placation, and dichotomies, unifying light, into one me, shining in the rainy streets, of my deletion

Until my completion
Completely
Erases me.

Slumbering sunlight clambers through
The window in the morning,
Casting a perfect silhouette of a smiling you
On my half awake eyes.

A faint whiff of last night
In the recesses of your eyes
Enthralls me just as I try in vain
To wake up from heaven with you.

The caffeinated aroma of a kiss
Dyes the fabric of the day
As the smoke of my dreams recede
Into beautiful nothingness.

With a playful smile and
A flick of your hips, you help me
Get through the day, safe in the knowledge
That you'll be there when darkness comes.

a 'good' poem crumbles in your mouth. it doesn't
tell you, chiding, "this is how i should taste" -
instead decomposes into the loam of ages.
no single flavour is the same
to every person.

a 'good' poem forces open the jaw,
climbing in. it begs no hospitality -
it needs none. and as it clambers on your tongue
(trying to avoid incisors), only taste
keeps you chewing, rolling gobs of words over molars,
wondering when before you've felt them
without knowing.

sustaining life sustains a string of
otherwise insubstantial little letters no better
than ideograms, clicks and chirps
all ones and zeros, really.
we embroider and tack up that
which our minds give meaning to.

Not mine in sleep,
In depths too deep.
He smiles closed eye,
with stretching love,
hand down covered chest,
unseen like dream,
under cover protected.

Back to me now,
in horizontal bow.
Mirrored actions,
from dream to me,
moaning to be free,
from sleep breathing shallow,
but still tightly under.

He doesn't smile like that at me.

Who does he see,
when he is with dream,
wandering through endless.
Fighting off monsters,
******* relentless.
It is the redhead-
**** of his dream,
demon of mine.
Voice betrayed.
You said her name,
in lustful wont.
You're ******* her.
You're ******* her?
breathing her name,
as sleep becomes distant,
dream moves away.
He looks my way,
and clambers on top.
007 him has more skill
more attractive women
but I will do, oh, already the spill,
sticky and wet,
not broken a sweat.
She laughs behind
my unseeing eyes,
licking his love off her fingers.
She has him every night now,
like he has her most mornings.
Instead of me.

'Look everybody, look at his eye!'
I look, at his face,
his contrived, forlorn expression.
Yet the class sees only the bruising.

'We don't hurt each other like this,
do we?' She looks at me.
Fire clambers up my neck,
****** my chin and
gathers, finally,
in the ***** of my cheeks,
where it blazes.

The mouth-shaped bruise
on my arm tingles,
teeth marks still ******.
I roll down my sleeve,
too proud
to be considered a grass.

Later, she wants to talk,
but I can't for crying.
And I hate when she tells me,
'Just don't do it again.'

Slumbering sunlight clambers through
The window in the morning,
Casting a perfect silhouette of a smiling you
On my half awake eyes.

A faint whiff of last night
In the recesses of your eyes
Enthralls me just as I try in vain
To wake up from heaven with you.

The caffeinated aroma of a kiss
Dyes the fabric of the day
As the smoke of my dreams recede
Into beautiful nothingness.

With a playful smile and
A flick of your hips, you help me
Get through the day, safe in the knowledge
That you'll be there when darkness comes.

I know the eternity of midnight
where the days don't light the days and the night
stays tight against my wrinkling skin,and the only way out is the way you got in,but you can't find the way and you're lost,
so you stay.

And midnight never ends,this eternity wends its way slowly to your core,clambers clumsily in through each and every pore,and though you try to reach the sun,for some the sun will never come and here you stay,
Crumpled, where the night becomes the only way to live,
crumpled, where the night feeds on you,so you give,and
pleading silently for this eternity to end,
for one brief moment to pretend things will work out, but doubt assails you and you flail wildly,
childlike,sadly stuck
so you sit and **** your thumbs until eternity makes up its mind and comes,
whenever that may be.

You attract...
Silly little girl giggles with admiration and the "oh you're so funnies".
I can't be a silly whip of half meaning amusement.
I'm not that girl.
I can't be...

You don't want admiration.
No, you do want it but you don't need it.
You need someone who will look at you when she laughs and means it.
You need someone who's going to sit down across from you on some chaotic night,
A night where nothing about the day made sense
And you're still swirling in a fog of your own perspective.
That's when you'll need this woman.

A conversation that clambers up slow,
Like steadying yourself after a carnival ride.
You'll trigger a vulnerable ***** by a wayward comment.
That's when it will happen.
Blindsided be ruthless honesty.
A sharp cut through the bravado *******...

She'll take that loop and jump in head first,
Feet landing solid on your insecurities.
One by one all of the hidden thoughts about yourself will come to life.
Every one of your self loathing fears and regretted actions.
All the ever present flaws you hold in your hands will be taken and laid out...

One uncomfortable, excruciating reminder at a time.
Every quirk you hate,
Every past stumble into a wall,
Every stitch in the side of your pride will be brought to light.

Presented back to you through new eyes.
Picking and dissecting and analyzing,
Whatever it was or is,
That makes the ground you walk upon gravel filled.
All your shame and remorse could be embellished;
Projector like against the writing on the walls.
Things you wish to hide or fix would be emblazoned like a gaudy pin on your shirt.

Your inner mind dwellings, torn down to petty pieces at your feet.
All of this would be blown back into the mask you try to wear that's a size to big.
Once the pulling and scrapping of every bit of shadow feelings and impressions you have been harboring deep inside are collected...
Covering the table,
Strewn in no particular order.

This woman will pick it all up in a sweeping display.
Fluttering around in waves of bouncy escape.
She'll gather every last part and fold her hands.
Then slide them into her pockets that have remained unfilled on purpose.
That's where, the last however many hours, will stay.
Budded up tight and inside somewhere safe for you .

You'll look at the empty table.
Maybe with uplifted eyes.
You'll look back at the cause of this character dismembering.
And see that her eyes have never wavered.

I hope when you get that moment...
That moment that you can just sense is a profound thing.
I hope you feel real acceptance,
Real faith,
Real love.



*© NDHK

Sitting in class, looking around,
I feel a little man climbing up my face by hair.
He has on tiny sharp shoes
And they dig into my skin
I wince as he clambers up my cheek
He rests only for a moment
Thinking.
He gets fistfuls of my eyelashes
Tugs & tugs & tugs
I feel the weight of him &
My eye closes gratefully
He moves to the other
Making a mirror action
And it's all gone from there
Now he dances in my dream
He might have climbed
Into my ear while I wasn’t looking

Stranger to myself
I wander through the maze of my thoughts
Star gazing upon a Milky Way of past promises and torn trust
Dreams scattered and lost upon winter's wistful winds.
And do you realize you are the best part of my mind?
A light warming the inner crevices and cavities of old sorrows, sore and exhausted from chewing away the years.
A heart to hold onto when mine is crawling away in agony,
Bursting at its seams, it groans
Too full of the world to be inside me.
Guide me when my eyes have turned inward to search for my wandering heart
It's in my stomach,
Pounding and wriggling, a mountain of worms eating my organs, swarming out my ears, too many to be contained.
Carry me when my legs complain that my heart is too heavy and go on strike,
They fold together quietly like the blanket at the end of my childhood bed.
Lend me your mouth when my body succumbs and refuses to get up.
Kiss me until you blow my heart to smithereens,
Kiss me until the worms come out in admiration to watch our lips writhe and twist,
Kiss me till my heart jumps back together and clambers back into my chest,
Kiss me till my eyes return, till I lift my weary head and collapse into your love for me.
Remind me of the flowers last spring.
The wildflowers after our cold dark winter.
Kiss my forehead and teach my legs to wrap around your hips again and again till we pound away the past
And my heart rejoices at being given a new perspective.
Remind my hands how to caress your cheeks,  
My fingers are numb and frightened of hurting you
But they long to catch hold of your smile and hold onto its warmth forever.
You know me for what I am,
But I am a stranger to myself.
My body is searching for its parts, taking inventory of its functions.
And my mind is missing,
I lost it amidst a most busy crowd of no one.
I haven't found it since.
And do you know that you were the best part of my mind?

o, good lord of the streets
where a phantasmagoric sensurround

banishes the scream of youth –

a carburetor snarl taken
   as unction of name. was it

your name that you whispered to my ear,
   him dearth in the quietus.

first to go is grace,
  what soon follows is bravery. a makeshift moon
of course, hanging by the earlobe of

her; I’ve been wanting to bite to break skin
   her truly frightened symmetry
of a  storm which is an  onus of  pain -

o, good lord
     help me weave way later
     when I’m down on my contrabass.
Scout Albano tonight’s a dark
   expanse of    regret

resonating a deep and hollow throb.
    women on flay, cigars in mouths chucked
like busy streets on a noontime sun, the soot clambers
   the billboards and their frozen, extant smiles

      wring out the poison and drain:
    we have no imposed god, an announcement to ear
  shot into the flay of the bone that persistently
      aches - like some unreal drumming of squalors.
            
         we are ruined with echoes of many names that haunt us
  with their gaping mouths
              in   frightful  angles,    but

when we’re drunk, Marc,
   this will all be over.

Her muzzle shuffles, nudges, clambers

Through the blades of brown, dead grass

Her hairy, boney chin and wet, charcoal nose

Absorbing every sharp point and rough side

She lounges, rolling, crumbling to her belly

Massive, fur coat bleeding hose water

Massive, fur paws grinding out the ground

Elegant, almond eyes waning into black slits

She groans, a low, manly groan

And closes her eyes

The grass is rough, but her fur is thick and

The fall wind soon soothes her into slumber.

There are far too many things which need to be done, and they are no closer to being done, not one bit. The dishes downstairs lay stacked upon the work surface in the kitchen, crumbs gather on the floor and dust accumulates on the carpet which has not been walked on by a foot other than my own in almost 3 weeks. The windows need cleaning as the sunlight can no longer find its way into the room I currently seek my refuge in, and it is a pitiful thing to have to watch as the sun clambers desperately in an attempt to claw it's way through to me. The notebooks littering my desk are all but half-full, with its paper coffee stained as mugs of rotting liquid gather beside them, one by one. There is a rather distinct stink of mouldering books, as my taste for fine reading has become belittled and seemingly extinct as of these recent days.

There are far too many things which need to be done, such as clambering my way out of this hell-hole and seeking a refuge in something other than the room in which I have imprisoned myself in. There are far too many things which need to be done, in terms of escaping and finding a way to crawl to you, even though you reside in a place which is out of my reach.

clambers thus far, the
small-clawed creature inside of
me now; in dreams said
she misses me, but dreams
are just that. classical
case. eyes untouched. gaze
unmet. notions uniformly
forgotten, or forgetting, at
least. the sun rises, the sun
rises oh, am i warm or just
asleep?

A fierce tug awakens me from drunken stupor
My sheets tumble off the edge of the bed
He’s come, once again, for His meal

It is my sworn duty to tend to Him and his arcane needs
a result of purchasing Alveus Manor, my current home
Strangely, it has been many decades since
Yet, I do not age but for my mind

To maintain a sense of control on things, I ponder
Many hours have been spent toiling in reflection
forgotten lovers, forgotten names
They mean precious little now

There is a singular memory that screeches loudest
some deal sealed with incantations and blood
scars adorn my wrists in confirmation
This memory is certainly true

I set the bowl out near the darkest part of my manor
From the floor, a trapdoor creaks upwards
I see the sharp glint of some child’s eyes
They dart around on an elderly face

He snatches the bowl with pale claws and blinks expectantly
It is then that I remember the burning whims of my duty
With a dagger and a prayer, my wrist spurts
Red nutrition cakes into the container

Prize in hand, He scurries back underneath the floor
sounds of primal content slither along the walls
He clambers back up with satisfaction
I am to be rewarded

He holds the bowl as if praising Old Gods across our universe
Elixir jets past teeth that resemble those of an infant
Creamy white substance settles in the bowl
It seems the result of melted moons

I do as I have done since first moving into this cursed place
I drink the ghostly elixir without any extrinsic cause
He flashes blood-stained teeth and hobbles away
Instantly, my eyes brighten and my skin tightens

My name has long been struck from history as well
My purpose remains free of doubt or suspicion
I return to bed in morbid anticipation
Drifting into madness, I fall asleep

A fierce tug awakens me from drunken stupor
My sheets tumble off the edge of the bed
He’s come, once again, for his meal

and it is certain, as certain as wisps of hope and grey smoky prayers can be

that although distance clambers before us, the moon as i see it is the same for you

the days and the nights and the schedules – to hell with them

for all i know we are breathing together, we are inhaling and exhaling as one

two bodies, as one in our mind’s eye

and i cannot help but to feel over every pore what it feels like when your hand flattens against my neck

it burns through my skin even as i sit here, eyes closed to a bright sphere which passed your vision hours earlier

i shudder as the sweet burn runs through me like honey straight from the jar

sugar travels fast and far, on the backs of trillions of ants like stars splayed across the earth

and the earth is just a canvas where we paint our struggles

though i hum at the bursting sparkles above many atmospheres

they do not keep an account of the way your tongue creeps past your lips and onto mine

only the earth knows the way our gaits come together and our bodies exist at the same level

stretched out between us, from one son’s antennae to another’s

the Queen entertains stories of those eyes that i miss, thick black crescents soft against my face

things immeasurable, things untold, things i do not own

you only share these with me but my access to the feelings they leave behind is limitless

the distances i would travel for you to remind me of what i already know, is something the moon understands

despite all else

it is heavy and slow but it always returns, waiting for the inevitable yet dynamic

if you tell me tomorrow what i want to hear today, i’ll get your message on time

just whisper it with those rosy lips of yours and my ears will open their arms to you

better yet, scream you love me into the quiet night sky and the sun will vibrate, causing the moon to chuckle

the ants will find me first

i sit here and i echo

i love you i love you i need you i’m with you i crave you every breath

until we breathe no longer i’ll say it and i’ll listen

we only speak it in breaths apart

i want those words, oh how i need to hear them in person

and i’ll swim oceans and levitate just to hear you again

tell me what i already know

i’m listening with my lungs

——-

Sorcery in her veins she drifts into the luminescence of fairy lights,
Her heart does not beat to the rhythm of her footsteps,
But she does not care,
No one's around.
She flings her flip flops and begins to sway,
She trips a little on the idea of 'herself'
but remembers she is dancing with no one around -
No one that cares.
Her hair gets fiery maroon as the fairy lights disperse through those messy locks.
She clambers on the insides of robust memories,
That shoot and decline
with frequencies of music; the frequencies within.
She is her own creation - no one to stop, no one to judge,
No one to spill the beans, no one to capture attention.
Her shadows now form unimaginable silhouettes on the walls,
Silhouettes of all the girls she is; all the women she can be.
With a shimmer of fairy lights her dreamy figures glimmer in the wake of her eyes,
She needs no one!
She has herself and them,
And the fairy lights and a heart that does not beat to the rhythm of her footsteps..
Believe me, there is no place better to be -
For a darkened heart, silence gleams.

and all who help him
up.

yet he goes down again,
clambers up.
repeating.

we help him.

in this place, we all help
each other.

he is from blaenau.

sbm.

she doesn’t know what she really wants

but she feels it making its way up

through the valleys of her emotions

over the mountaintops of her soul

past the guards of her heart

her answers clambers and climbs through her being

working to finish their journey on the moon of her mind

to land there

one giant leap for her

she waits until the sunshine of life’s answers

explode into existence

over the horizon of that moon

tearing up the fear and the foolishness

she had to suffer through

the growth she had to grow through

the pain she had to hurt through

the smiles she had to fake through

to find that something that makes the smile real

that reminds her with her alarm

“get up today, babe. you won’t regret it”

the answer

the something that makes her

ask for an extra hour each day

the eyes that promise to be there

while she sleeps and on to the morning

the mouth that speaks words to build her up

and keep her up

so the answer waits to come out

the answer to what she’s been asking for

since she was in her nightgown

at her bedside

asking for her prince

asking for her true love

and boy, she will find true love in you.


9-30-18

she awakes.
her ballerina toes are poised, her nose is scrunched -
she is – what’s the word – alive.
her powder fingertips crease mechanically like a hydraulic press.
she has a beating chest with the calibration of cast iron.
her feet can climb Mount Olympus and higher.
she is limber.
she is – what’s the word – living.
her name is –
her skin has the swirl of a gleaming cantilever.
her head teeters.
she is speechless.
her lips are soft, her hands touch her face like it is a monument,
like she is a strawman.
is she a –
her spine has a curve, she can bend into geometric shapes, her arms are straight
but they encircle her.
galatea.
he whispers her name to her.
or maybe he names her.  
she can choose a name herself, maybe.
she is – what’s the word – a woman.
her hair can swim through the air, her curls have strands that brush her cheeks
and her cheeks can color in the blank space left behind
by words.
galatea, she whispers.
her tongue clambers in her mouth, for some purchase,
for some worthy noise.
she searches herself for a – what’s the word – idea.
you are mine, galatea, he says. i made you.
do not be afraid. i will bathe you, dress you, anoint you.
i will worship you, and i will save you.
he caresses her hand.
her palms are dry as sandpaper.
she is – what’s the word –
her eyes have the shutter frequency of a lens.
she bends.
she is awake.
she does not remember a before.
she does not remember a maker.
she hasn’t yet made any mistakes.
her name is galatea
but she is no longer milk-white.
he says, you are my wife.
she says, i am alive.
he says, i gave you life.
she says, yes, you are right.
you gave me life,
and i won’t return it
because you gave it,
because it’s mine.

Look inside me
See nothing? Look deeper
Hding under my beating heart,
Just behind the shimmering silver skin of my soul
A foul entity sits on a pile of dirt
One eye half gone, the other not quite whole
His skin a foul purple, reeking of lost things
This cursed creature sits and twiddles his thumbs
He watches through my eyes as I smile and I cry
And just when I think that he has crumbled away,
He suddenly climbs up my spine
And clambers into my head to play
He plays with shadows, he plays with light
He dissolves the clarity of wrong and right
He toys with puppets, all connected to my limbs
And as he plays he whispers
“No pain, no gain, precious heart,
You must break before joy you meet
This game I play is a practiced art
A game that you cannot hope to beat.”
And he giggles, and he shows me
All these ways that I could die
I could jump and try to fly
I could wear a necklace of rope
I could choke on broken hope
The silver shimmers in my hand
Promising a much better land
But in the reflection I see a new face
And my heart begins to race
For the face is not mine, but instead
my soul mate, who would shatter if I were dead
This tricky beast living under my throat,
He can dance and he can gloat
But no matter how many needles
he buries under my pale, scarred skin
I will always find my love again.

*And this is what will save me.