I keep the shower window open
In 20 degree weather
There’s somethin’ about feeling
The freeze and burn together
Fusing two halves,
Fueling one desire
Steam pries at pores, like
Needle nose pliers
Winter exploits wounds
Haughty exhales through
Diamond ****** wrist cutters
Cherry brandy drain water
Licking ankles purple
Branding Frost’s musings
As my final verse
Fire, ice — whichever comes first
Duality be ******,
I favor efficiency
I’ll marvel as *******
At the sadist who takes me
But know that, once
Is all I can endure
And of this, I am sure
Cutters aren’t weak
They’re the cream of the crop
Nothing can get you down
You’re already keeping yourself there.
When you cut, the emotions die
There’s no need to laugh or cry
Not a single thing matters
It’s better that way sometimes
To feel nothing at all
Past tense title.
Perhaps I should say used to
The world is a pattern
In my eyes.
Bigheads full of water,
And tongues that’s tied.
The world is a pattern,
And I can’t keep up with it.
Everything is the same,
It’s like looking at black and white swirls with
My mind is confused,
And my heart is just screaming.
My *** is over boiled with hot water that’s
The steam blurs my eyes
From those filthy lies
That I deceive,
Is fulfilled to take away my needs,
Leaving me skinless with
I pray to God to keep the
But something always seems to
Happened my way.
What can I do?
Where can I start?
I begin to lose my memory
That’s why I have it written
On a chart.
My heartless soul,
Filled with black blood,
Red eyes, and
I see the cross hidden.
I see it in the background
Blended in with a few others,
But I’m not focused
Because I’m ducking and dodging
My life consist on abuse,
And bad temper that fuse.
I’m like a snotty nose kid,
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion.
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain.
The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
Maybe he too had toured Roman buildings in Spain as I am doing now.
It was like camp
But I spent the first night
On a thin plastic mattress with ****** sheets freezing
Instead of encircling a campfire
Singing cowboy songs of the West
And little dogs
My first activity was not making a bow and arrow or a target but instead I was
sitting after breakfast
on a concrete bench
in the Sun
Trying to fill myself with that allusive happiness.
That was my plan.
On the next occasion in the open
I did not get a compass
nor a map
but I sat with a table of girls
And spoke up without being asked
They started to show off their pale pinkish arms
I was at the cutters’ table
Layers upon layers of
Rippling Scar tissue
at the elbows in particular
It is thick.
Bleeding and healing
To be sliced open again
For crusting over.
They were cheerful
Despite hallucinations and panic attacks,
Lost children or tomorrow
Scuttling along a murky seabed that did not want them but
Here’s a cigarette
I did not make a sundial or find my canoe
Or make shoes out of leaves
but let the morning sun stick around
while the smoke issuing from their chatty mouths pinched my nose
I would take their smoking breaks with them.
I claimed two for myself and once lit,
slyly handed them over
As I listened to the chatter and laughed
I feel a faint yellow heat
From up over there.
We didn’t at first hover around each other
Talking about nothing like high school
Girls with braces and dorky pajamas
Or bend over from the top bunk to say
one more thing before lights out
At first I never added more than a informed observation about lipgloss or
a roll over the eyes over the next dumbbell talking about nothing that existed
But I was tolerated
And as their numbers diminished
only to be refreshed again
my comfort grew
I made “friends”
We laughed and co-conspired
Over pills, soda and what’s that on your tray?
There were movies on the tv
But no westerns
With horses trekking through the tall grasses
Smoke arising in the distance
Imitating a life that we were imitating as well
Yes we were!
Just a slightly different tale about
Endless treks and wandering
On the weekends
The rules relaxed and the counselors,
Had there been any,
Would have been preoccupied with private intrigues and how to make pineapple cocktails
And we, left to our own devises,
Would saunter in and around each other
Braiding hair and reading magazines.
There was a telephone.
When it was time to get into the car to go back home by way of the freeway
I didn’t have a hat that I had painted myself with only three colors
or a blue ribbon for starting fires
We all said our good-byes
Even the mean one called me by my name
And we shot off like the explosive plumes of fireworks
into a dimming sky.
Tomb of council in the march of waits
Castle in the tourist populate
Nothing’s here to mitigate
Told you once
Go unto the night
Then you hide
Granting syllables in the sky
Scrimmaging inside the mark of parts
Thinking as the waiter counts the scars
Stooping down to be aligned
To be all brand new
Standing there till you cannot choose how to lose
Limerence like a band of thieves
Thorn of whistle cutters like an ambulance
Sing to mark the eye where the ribbon can sigh and cry
— The End —