you want the good first, and the bad second?
never mind, you're going to get
the bad first...

so there i was,
sitting in the street, outside a pub,
sipping a cool drench
of heineken pint, probably
the best beer in the world
(i'd agree with the carlsberg ad.,
but then it's featherweight
at 3.8%... so dear dane?
probably no... stick with
shakespeare... you *******
umlaut wannabe (ø) diphtong)...
so i was sitting there
with some dutch-bewilderment,
a local...
  out pops a skinny kenyan
and starts ******* in front of us...
sure, he's ******* against
the dumpster,
  but the dutch-bewilderment
glaces at me and his eyes
are already saying to me:
worth a knife or a stick,
to clobber the ******* down,
i've lost the desire to drink
my beer...
         centre of amsterdam,
i was wackoed out of the pub
by sheer: huh?!
     i admit, not all stories are bad,
the other time, i was sharing
a hostel room with two germans,
who decided to waste
a mushroom experience while
watching *american dad...
while me and this egyptian
architecture student hit the town...
i was drinking, he was
smoking,
   then i took a **** at one of his
"special moment" rollies...
and then he said,
   put these on (headphones),
listen to this music...
the music? le trio joubran,
the song? masar...
     i was drinking throughout
the day... but one **** of
the rollie, and the music?
            **** me, the dam bursts...
i was sitting there,
in one of the cafes,
  mouth open, eyes closed,
one or two dutch girls looking,
my egyptian companion said...
     it must have been akin
to someone shooting up ******...
with my eyes closed i must have
been looking at god,
  or a diamond, or into a kaleidoscope;
gravity fused itself with my genitals...
i was dragged into my seat...
  and couldn't move,
eyes closed, mouth agape,
      monged out of my nuts,
which by this moment in chronological
order, was beyond the chance to orbit
saturn and take a selfie...
  the holy trinity of an excess
of *****, some marijuana,
   and music you've never heard
before, suggested by a stranger...
last thing i remember was walking
through the streets of amsterdam,
laughing my head off...

when i consider reviving memories
of cities i usually have several
version to mind...
the first amsterdam i went to was so:
.............................
........................
...............................
a boring trip, i bought two pipes,
a classical pipe, and this asian pipe...
the second amsterdam?
         was this the amsterdam where
i visited a *****?
can't remember...
  amsterdam no. 3?
             i think that's the amsterdam
account i just gave...
    never mind the minor thrill
of "smuggling" a few grams of hash
through the airport,
  in a biscuit can...
                a bit like plagiarising
that sociology essay, just inviting
the thesaurus to change the sentence
structure at university...
for the thrill, not for the grade...
  evidently a.i. isn't familiar with
the thesaurus cheat mode...
  **** me...got a first in that essay,
and managed to beat the computers;
oh yeah, smuggled the hash in...
it wasn't a lot, barely an 8th of an ounce,
fact of the matter is, i did it;
that being said,
  i have no romance with amsterdam,
i just miss paris...
      i'm never going back,
the memories are too precious...
              that hostel... duck something,
drowning duck? drunk duck?
    i can't remember...
   i'm never going back to paris,
the memories are too precious,
and the current affairs are too painful
to make that city a beacon of light
once more...
   we showered in the outside,
and we made courgette pasta with onions
garlic, bacon and cream...
    but that was 2005 or so.
       for some reason, i never had the sort
of affection for amsterdam,
            great for smoking,
great for drinking,
   great for not feeling guilty about
window-shopping prostitutes:
   with that victorian-feminism attitude
of the brits...
     hey! you're cutting the chivalry costs
of paying for the meal: back to basics...
  stochholm? over-priced...
      you'd probably become intoxicated
quicker, having downed a bottle of *****
you bought at the airport,
  and then drinking your own ****,
than you would, while drinking at the swedes'
americana experiment with pseudo-prohibition
tactics...
    how are you going to keep warm?
fat ain't furr... but sure as ****,
alcohol numbs the biting cold,
    no matter how you think about it
in describing it as a placebo effect...
                    it still warms the poles
in the outdoors, esp. when a person dies
in winter, and they have their stypa /
   wake drinking session in the graveyard.

i just can't forget that look of disgust
from the dutch guy sitting next to me,
drinking his beer,
   without our shared canvas, of an african
******* in the street, against
a dust-bin;

as borat would have said...
                     *mmm das nnnnnnniiiiiiice.

anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking.  i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic.  these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide.  now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect.  the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.

depression:  this is a gray day.  i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania.  so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.  

anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through.  i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low.  i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.  
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.  
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.

self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time.  i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.

addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.  
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.

all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?

Undefeated. Undisputed. 12 wins, 0 losses. A perfect 12-0 record.  
You’re the crowd’s favorite as Vegas odds are in your favor.
Through the years of being in this game, you can almost get used to the fame.
“This fight’s going to be an easy one” – you assured your Coach.
You enter the octagon and see her warming up. Then you hear Bruce Buffer laying out the ground rules.
You’re excited – but nervous.
You feel the pressure of having to live up to everyone’s expectations. From your coach to the little ******* the other side of the world rooting for you.
You thought it was going to be another landslide victory.

Barely 2 minutes in and you feel scared.
Suddenly, you feel a numbing pain on your chin. It was a left hook.
As you fall face first, you feel nothing. Your unconscious body lays flat on the octagon floor.
Lights out.

Moments later you wake up to the sound of the fans cheering in the octagon.
A left hook was all it took for your dream of retiring undefeated to come crashing down.
For the first time, it wasn’t your arm that was raised by Herb Dean.
For the first time, you heard the words, “….and the new Featherweight champion”
You don't let it sink in at first but you can only hold back for too long before you realize that you lost.
You stood up, wiped the sweat off of your forehead, removed your gloves and marched out.
Suddenly you feel this weird feeling of embarrassment.
"So this is how it feels to lose?" you said to yourself.

You found a chair, sat down and composed yourself.
You’re still in one piece, which is a good thing but you know that fact cannot compensate for the emotional disorientation you felt.
Broken bones really do heal faster than injured egos.
Maybe your loss was a way of knocking some sense into you.
Winning is not everything, the same way that losing is not.
Sometimes you need to experience defeat in order to appreciate how satisfying every victory is.
As a fan, I know it's going to be hard to bounce back from this loss.
But you're going to be okay, champ. You always do.

I'm spitting teeth onto the pavement.
Cracked grin cracked across my mouth
like your fist as it splits my lip again.
And again.
And again.
Ribs splitting from the laugh
that is echoing across the bricks
laid psuedo-symetrically like our
best-made plans.

In this corner weighing in at 115 pounds
we have the hopeless romantic.
All featherweight and bones.
All martyrish and faithful.

The quake of oblivious control,
aimlessly sends me spiraling.
I feel a break in the tumble,
Realizing the forged signatures from
Those who seek calculated risks.
I am only a human,
With this life thrown at me in a hurry.
Stars march & chant.
Revisiting the nights shallow freedom.
Displaying cuts of bleeding light,
A treasure to those who see its dance.
I have come far for a drink,
Of essence.
The book, we share on the darkest gravel,
Having featherweight ambitions.
The mornings betray my dreaming.
My flaws accept the rituals.
Whatever will, I have left,
Becomes a map.
A velvet initiation, to wonder again.
To seek the ways of life,
That many call disappointing,
& Pointless.
For it is I, who sees a ribbon on true beauty.
Each day following a thread to a lake.
Following the sequenced whispers,
Telling me, I am Moonchild,
Giver; of redemption.

My words spill out like mice
hiding in the cupboards and in the bread

Each ******* is crumbled
and humbled by gnawing
The tables are dusted with
delicate clawing

The marring is whispered
in squeaking silent sound
Impossible to see but
they are rife across the ground

In bed they find the warmth
in the goose down and the cotton
now sullied small diseases
will soon go washed forgotten

Trapping tactics once tried and true
seems wasted on these careful few
Snapping empty in the dark
no silent stealing will squeeze them stark

Each dream they waltz across the screen
like small and spying rolicking ribbons
Through the snowy evergreens and wanton queens
yet waking finds that they aren't fiction

To tame them in time
is what must be
So no more is cradled
by their incredulous creed

Now that they have all run of the house
From the floorboards to the flue
My fighting is futile against this furred Faust
For in my great battles, my life they've consumed

My motions through doors
now move with great heed
over my rasped wooden floors
of naked tails and featherweight feet

Each morning they find
themselves feeling bold
and swim like sirens
through my cereal bowl

At noon when I read
they shred and they gnaw
so I can no longer see
one word without a paw

In my evening bath
they sport small diving bells
As I dry myself off
from my towel I shake twelve

They admire in the mirror
and prance piano pirouettes
they've failed to adhere
to give respect to any threat

One day a magic made it though
to the edges of my mind
to cut short this ever frothing flow
and put my ******* bind

Then slowly, slowly, one by one
they folded flew and fell
I'd hardly hope this trial was done
but it all continued well

One night when they were scarce and few
only the faintest furred remained
I wonderfully slept sound and anew
Haunted dreams I no longer detained

The lonely left began to nestle in
an exodus through the sheets and bed
each whisker scraped soft on skin
and climbed back inside my head

i; anchor
you; featherweight
she; shore

the anchor at your neck
incessant
a drawn bow trembling
at the core
a heavy love
you once wrapped your arms around
i told you from the start
where i'm coming from
and how i am
i gave you all disclaimers
i can be a head full of maladies
and you've not enough hands

the featherweight has so much to lose
two heartbreaks in one year
could snap the best in half
but you'll always snap back
you build with your heart
you build every plan
you're even with discipline
you're sleeping alone tonight

the shore stays
even if still
it's known
please keep away
i'm so tired of drowning

A Featherweight mind takes a long draw of a fragment of time cut out exclusively for the purpose of observance

There are delicate fingerprints elegantly marked vertically along his forearm

In case of insurgency, please start here

Dread mixed with a sense of urgency

For what purpose were those fingerprints placed

If not for the eventual laceration

better than an autobiographer, a chronicler... when you die you'll find me among Bulgarian prostitutes sneezing good luck when your try to reinvented the airs surrounding the English monarch taking a **** into her crown... i know there's this thing concerned with tattoos and peacocks, but established peacocking, passed from generation to generation is just silly; animal plateaus with what man calls democracy - survives as long as the majority is kept asexual and the few engage in the acts of fleshy gymnasiums.

i like nights like these, no poems, no scaffold, nothing
to get to grips with... the last day of the Olympics turns out
to be boring... father talking about Irish Nazis
with that ironic motto of *Abreit Macht Frei
like a singalong - working Sundays,
the Irish **** thinks he has Romanians
under his belt he can goose-strut
toward a failed project... you rarely hear
of construction industry's blunt racism...
but it's there, and they dare call it
the enlightening Europe...
no wonder Islam is attacking former colonial
nations, makes the argument speedy
and solidified... it does **** me off..
you watch these anti-Chinese poets
labour words: but at the same time say
things like: depeche mode's 'words are
unnecessary, words like violence,
words are unnecessary, they can only do harm',
not the poets, those who practice poetry
and try to keep the status quo...
i hope the Irish sinking in the frozen
waters of Titanic met their hamster angels,
i really do... not man enough as a featherweight
to box against a Klitschko, fair enough...
but mind you: words are everything,
this stance to avoid the meaning of words
is not s much anti-biblical (in the beginning was
word, and with god was destined to reside) -
later man came along, and recognising that
certain pieces of information were implanted
in words he decided the stuffing was too much...
better do a Christina Aguilera -
words can't hurt, can't infringe -
so we're basically backing up to the utility of
sign language, or punches...
back in the monkey haven... so much for the theory
of evolution... are you saying we shouldn't be using
words? that's basically what you're saying...
keep it simple... keep it ~friendly....
ensure the idea persists, but that language doesn't...
we were never going to agree,
neither was William the Conqueror with Saxon swine...
i know a schwab when i sehen one...
a stick has two ends... edition of being struck over
the head... edition of being hit in the ******* another...
but i just like days, when there's nothing meaningful in my head...
it's all helium giggles at that point...
going to the supermarket to buy whiskey
two white ****** and a dozen black hyenas march in
with me... **** small? not really... well, the ultimate
freedoms, i'm scuffling speedy Gonzales (next thing
on the censor's list of forbidding acquisition of control),
it's just fun to watch and fun to watch
looking at the stereotype skinheads...
words like violence, break the silence -
words... mm, in general i call that perfected coordination,
Moses and Prometheus, in ideogram of Egyptian
stole the meaning, later translated into skeleton Hebrew...
no prince talks the language of slaves...
no point kissing rosy Christ's backside right now...
i just want them to attempt their **** with success,
i just hate living out a life as an ensured ******* for
their safeties... it gets boring when they fail...
so you get my bearing... Nazis in England on
construction site... mainly Irish Nazis...
taboo or as some would call it: no ***** to attack
their former colonial masters... so attack the
colonisers... **** first... the head comes second...
oh the moaning and groaning of women...
**** ahoy! the men are expendable.
2 white ****** and a dozen hyenas running into
the supermarket after an **** to buy red bull
energy drinks... prancing around the city centre with
wild pride... an alcoholic rat scuttles past with
the words: what the **** are these clowns on about?
you think these girls will be able to raise a family
for their shortcut attempt at impersonal ******?
they're charity shop material... i'm not imposing
a Hijab... just saying...
what a lovely feeling, what gratification after
visiting a *******... moments like these are
just there, i'm hardly fighting for the English rose...
more like fighting over a Scottish thistle...
prostitutes are great tools when looking at society...
you get baptised in their waters lubricated without
any social cohesive reaction... that's the greatness
of prostitutes... you feel nothing when such examples
propose themselves to be viewed...
prostitutes are the greatest anaesthetic providers...
you can or don't have to believe me...
i'd rather be in their company, the fullest spectacle
of transparency... because it's not really the freedom
women and men encounter, i'm in full of support of that...
**** as much and as many as you want...
the problem is bound to Satan... the original fruit
constantly evolves with the evolution of the godhead...
i thought it was about *******... but given this
spectacle... it's actually more about LIES...
lies create spies and governments, they also create
false moral physiques... they're so ******* horrid
that you end up wanting to watch your girlfriend
**** a hundred ***** than to hear her say
that she's a nun... scout's honour... lies are worse
than the acts... everyone wants to be free, un-caged,
and that's the respect derivative...
but being lied to is out of the question...
lying should be in the old testament decalogue -
more important than ****... that's why the power
resides with prostitutes for man's encompassing
some sort of sanity... there are no lies...
there's just obvious promiscuity... those little
Christian boys can gag in their confession booths in
Churches... when you stop lying and feel no guilt
and no need for being redeemed from sins (extended into
crimes, denotative as merely lies) becomes obsolete,
even in Brazilian slums... you see those little
gnomes feeding trivial experiences of threesomes
and ****** the exotica that is simply a bunch of lies;
their exotica is bound to a family meal...
a shared meal... watch them lining up in their
cars at the McDonald drive-through...
or eating alone to a solitary confession...
once you spot them, you're like: what the **** are priests for?
i've just spotted a confession! they're sitting
slouched in some cheesy fast-food conveyor belt
trying to re-enact their tales of the Amazonian rain-forest
escapades for that much more of "exotica".

your hair, is the grass that interconnects the world-- I am he as you are he, and he is we, and we are all together. I wish I could plant myself in your head and grow like your blonde roots (as you have planted yourself in my heart, and claimed your property), like golden rod. like golden rod, like dandelion, like daffodil, like sunflower.
your mind, is the collective thought and poetic compilation of every beautiful phrase ever remembered, written, felt, or forgotten. you are the deep thinkers of our generation, of our past, of our tomorrow. your mind induces a dreamlike coma-- I'm begging to be free of-- tose.
I forgot how to breath around you.
and on the seventh day, god created the terrain that is your face; sloping, folding, curving, freckled plains. carved out of the most precious and delicate porcelain, curving in all the perfect places-- high peaked cheeks, roaming down your nose, my feet leave sun peppered kisses.
I travel down to your full, shapely lips. warm and lively, they taunt me; I want to taste your strawberry kiss.
your chin curves taut over your featherweight bones.
I can't control myself when I reach your neck-- salivating over your creamy skin-- it's ungodly and irresistible (oh god, I want her).
your shoulders, something that I've traced over and over again. I've memorized your every visible curve.
she dips in all the right places.
my breath catches in my throat when I come to your unexplored crevices. every single particle-- I want to feel her soaked in sweat, I want to touch your softest skin.
"lupdub lupdub lupdub." your heart is pounding through your chest. we become one.
grasping frantically at your tiny waist, pulling them, pulling you, into me. I'm begging you to close the space between us-- the distance is killing me, my heart is slowing, my mind is deteriorating without you; I think this is what death feels like.
molding me into you, I bruise your body and you batter my heart. teeth grazing over your love. let me trace your body with something other than my hands. I'm tired of pretending this doesn't hurt.
believe me when I tell you that the desire to hear the panting of your shallow breaths in my ear is unbearable.
I may not be flawless, but I promise to try harder than all the rest.
dragging my lower lip over your sweet skin I draw in a deep breath--
lacing my hands through your hair I whisper in your ear,
"I lo-"
--crashshatterbreak everything is being ripped away oh god where did the time go what did I do wrong how could you leave why don't you need me who is that what isshedoingwhyissheholdingyourhandwhyisshekissingyourneckohgodohgo­dohgodohgod--
-st you."

in my once apathetically empty chest, i now hold her broken heart, and as all concerns for the phobia of psychiatry, the one phobia psychiatrists have with regards to their patients is when a patient expresses empathy for others; ‘discharged!’ and they do so with a fidgety eye.

in the windy roads of rise park, an affluent scrape of
essex grime, a man alone, walked
impromptu bob dylan command to use the ballerina
footprint for a bit,
well, so he walked and thought about throwing pepper
at his shadow in anticipation of jungian shadow concept
detachment from orthodox cognition down the road
from descartes... oddly enough the ‘throw pepper at your
shadow and see shadow detachment in a convulsion of a sneeze’
didn’t happen... happy me... happy shadow...
so you see where this is going, it’s going by way of -
            *what is lucifer
            an emperor with no clothes
            no skin, no flesh, no heart
            an emperor!
                                   (jack spicer, my vocabulary did this to me).
well not really, it’s going into psychiatric theory,
esp. after the ending of this zombie princess in a psychiatric
hospital with arabic music snipping off further director’s cut
assertion for revision in the film: side effects.
got me peeling an apple that film did, better than gone girl
i thought, but enough of that:
isn’t this oddity welcome to be written?
if i use a blank page as a metaphor of an attentive “soul doctor”
in secular society, i.e. a psychiatrist / not a shaman e.g.
no woo woo ha bah ha bah ha bah take this naturally growing plant
and dance naked around a fire... i’m using it not as that
but as a patient, because upon return i’m looking at a blank page...
and i use that as me, who’s listening to the reverse of mirror realities
is impregnated with by an almost anonymous voice within
the framework of patient-doctor confidentiality...
but like i said, i had a theory on top of this... no i didn’t...
oh yes, i had: so in the talk of spectrums,
with dementia being as much deconstructive as constructive,
what about the spectrum of depression?
‘well, you’re right to point that out,
deconstructive dementia is a condition that affects older people,
they have a well known and established self,
so when dementia takes to the elders
the self is deconstructed and people stop
recognising a familiar face,
but the thing about dementia praecox
is that it’s not deconstructive but constructive,
it’s not really about dogma of the anti-psychiatry movement
envisioned about whether this self is true or false,
the optimism is that it’s constructive, and that’s positive,
because deconstruction is negatively attributed in
casual vocabulary.’
so what about depression, and how it’s akin to that, as i was saying?
‘ let’s say modern society is filled with professions that are
all about pencil pushing and photocopying the amazon
to assure the antarctic it will be filled with 2-d trees,
what sort of physical exertion is there in those professions
of skyscrapers and cubicles?
very little... depression in older people who have already
established themselves in these professions have very little
physical strain, not like the roofer or all builders in general,
there has to be compensation, an obstruction,
depression is like the strained muscles of carrying a gas bottle
that weighs 25kg... or rolling it across the roof slanted
weighing in at 75kg... or carrying a heavy roll of felt or
one of those tar doughnuts (permaquic / hydrotech),
so imagine if there was no depression, would these featherweight
commuters to the office spontaneously turn to aether,
loose limbs and turn into soul matter, moving through walls?
they have less physically straining professions,
and because of this there is the phenomenon of depression,
it affects a lot of people because a lot of people have never
used the scythe in a field of wheat, so they use antiperspirant
to loose the armpit blotches in air-conditioned rooms,
it had to come, this en masse depression...
but you know what i despair about? the spectrum of depression praecox,
it’s not a phenomenon in children, it’s a noumenon study
that requires a kantian investigation, it’s totally bewildering...
i can understand depression in older people
who do not have strenuous physical jobs...
but what if some of these kids only have a project of being plumbers
and not office workers?! what then,
they won’t be allowed the luxury of depressive obstruction
while fixing plughole wormholes of ****,
they won’t have the luxury of a desk job feeling “low”
but actually having felt too much ease before the low, which
inevitably came because of the ease.’

I am all about thoughts and words
Have been so all my life
Words ,being a recent find

A promise to my thoughts, I will word them all
To keep or break it , am yet to decide

The thoughts featherweight, upwards they fly
Words earth bound , gravity they can’t defy

The thoughts ,In silence they live
In words they die , To live another life

I wait for my love
To return
To me
Like a boomerang
Tied with string.
I look for my love
To find a home
In another heart
Close to me.
And while I wait
And look
And dream
I revel in invisible
Featherweight caresses
And smile at the sweetness
Filling my ears
My mind
My soul.

i want
big, doe eyes
     that you can't take seriously
even when i'm yelling at you
          face red, voice scratchy
at 3am
                      to leave.

i want
soft, wispy hair
       that you'd twirl round and round
telling me you *love me, i'm your baby &
                     eyes red, voice low
at 3am
                           i'd tell you the same.

i want
a nose only fit for pleasance
        that'd allow me to enjoy the roses
you brought to apologize for coming home late
                               hair up, voice hushed
at 3am
                            and not the alcohol on your breath.

i want
featherweight skin
        so when you pull me by your side
there is only a thin layer of cells between our hearts
                            noses turned, voices unheard
at 3am
                               i hug you closer.

i want
a burning ambition to make things work
        that would keep this alive
whatever this may be
                    skin tight, voices livid
at 3am
                    waking up the neighbors.

i want
to be 80 pounds again
         so you would carry me back
when i fall asleep in the car, hand clasped with yours
                             mind on hold, your sweet lullaby
at 3am
                                sending me back to sleep.

oh,
         i'm not trying to be perfect
i just want you to stick around a little longer
                      deep down
i know i can change
                      but the problem is you

i wish i could plant myself in your heart as deeply as you have planted yourself in my head. around you, the possibility of my breathing being normal is less than zero percent.
you make me forget how to inhale anything other than your scent.
i've forgotten how to exhale anything other than your warmth.
you are a creation molded from god's hands himself; his fingers created the sloping landscape that is your nose, your dipping cheekbones, the curve of your lips that expose so much happiness that i can almost see the breathtaking sunflowers growing out from the cracks of your skin.
you were made out of the most fragile porcelain taken from the insides of the most precious Egyptian tombs, your hair painted with the melted gold from the kings and queens themselves.
folding, curving skin.
i can run for miles through this field of ever growing sunflowers, my bare, naked feet leaving a trail of warm kisses as i dive into the flowers and roll, my bare body enveloped in flowers that exert warmth into me.
then there's your lips. (i could go on and on for hours about those lips)
they taunt me with every word that spills out, your cheeks vibrating from the passion you place upon your words. you are warm and lively, nothing more and absolutely nothing less.
your neck vibrates with the passion of your exuberant words and i can't control myself, kissing every inch of your godly body until i reach the featherweight skin that stretches taut over your marked collarbones (marked by me; permanently)
you are more than irresistible and i find myself salivating as i rub my hands over your warm shoulders again and again, caressing them with the intentions of memorizing every curve, every dip of your skin.
i can feel my heart beat beat beating in my chest, striving to rip out and cling to the unexplored crevices of the depths of your body, but i keep it in place as i touch the sweet ungodly shell that we call your body.
soaked in sweat and letting out tiny gasps i cannot find the strength to keep away from your every moment of existence, frantically digging my fingertips into your perfectly molded waist and pulling you closerclosercloser pulling you into me into me.
i bite at your skin with unexplained love (i cant tell you just how strong yet, i cant find it in  me) and you bruise me with the intentions of making me feel every pleasure known to man, with the intentions of making me feel like a queen. the desire is inexplicably killing me because my fingers don't fit into the raw insides of your body and i want them to, i want to feel every crack, every crevice on the inside and the outside of your delicate beauty.
i may not be perfect but ill lace my fingers through your hair and ill put my lips to the sweet skin that is just beneath your ear and ill whisper over and over again in tiny gasping breaths just how much i love you. i love you. i love you.

They’re the kinds
That blow in
Like summer heat
And settle in the dust
The bad news blues
Mamma warned you about
The gunslinger’s smile
Daddy didn’t trust
Humid touches
And featherweight footsteps
‘Til the wind carries them
To the next town.

She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.

Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.

That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.

We can sense it.

Something deplorable
is about to happen--
we can no longer stop the ranks
of housebroken infidels
from migrating into the wild
they have never encountered
beyond photo and film.

It's coming out! The stampede
of hairy-legged pheromones
we could once browbeat
into prepubescent shame
with the speed of a smack
upon the tender noggin!

It takes courage to enjoy
the canned campfire stories
we passed off as ageless doctrine.

How they once recoiled, squirming
like slugs thrown in a salt mine!

Now the writhing is self-inflicted,
the sweat off their brows no longer
cold, damp beads but now welcome
lubrication that slithers down
their lecherous masses of flesh!

Despite our most dogmatic toiling,
the iron shroud has revealed itself
as a featherweight curtain within a few tugs.

Anyone else feel the walls shake to and fro?
Why does the water in that glass ripple so?
Has it arrived already? The end of our reign
as dictators of the prevailing value system?

Fetch thee the community smelling salts!
Too late! The young and vulnerable
have already begun to trample!
Push the powder out of your wigs
to blind yourself from the carnage!

*The Age of Inhibition has screeched
and skidded into its evil twin's Renaissance.
Big time sensuality has straddled the saddle,
too busy racing avenues to declare victory.

Occasionally, fashion shows start late because the designer is still working on the collection. There are some persnickety types out there who would happily keep tinkering until it’s markdown time.

Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli decided they would throw in the towel whenever they felt each item in their spring collection was finished just enough to reveal the beauty of the craftsmanship at the heart of a couture house like Valentino. They explained that they had borrowed the concept from the “Unfinished: Thoughts Left Visible” exhibition at the Met Breuer in New York, which showcased some 500 years of paintings still in progress.

The highfalutin’ explanation had one searching for examples beyond the brogues with exposed staples and undyed edges they plucked off a table backstage. But apart from a bit of sagging lining here and a few dangling threads there, here was a collection with that familiar Valentino polish.

The camouflage coats and military-influenced ensembles had a sense of deja vu, too, albeit with more irregular splotches and ruff-hewn embroideries. What felt newer were the monochromatic ensembles, layers of featherweight coats and zippered shirt jackets tucked into tapered trousers. They came in Army green, a deep blue or black — the latter peppered with silver grommets — and were chic from start to finish.Read more at: www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-canberra

You’re a bitter sweet after taste
Of what was,
And never again will be
I’m unsteady and staggering on the words you never said,
You never said
But I’ll drink to you.

Because I want to feel
Featherweight,
You’re a fermenting chaos
And I cannot digest you quick enough,
I cannot digest you
Why do I drink?

You’re a craving
Debauchery,
My guiltiest pleasure
What’s moderation when I’m with you?
When I’m with you
I want to drink with you.

There will be no burden of time
Ignorance,
So incredibly blissful
We’ll forget we live miles apart,
We live miles apart
So I drink

This isn’t something you just live with. You don’t wake up every morning and think, ‘I won’t eat for the day, and that’s okay.’ And when you plunge your fingers down your throat after every meal the scars that form on your knuckles remind you that you can’t even think for yourself anymore.

It is total loss of control.

Your heart is in the wrong place, the inside of your head a minefield.

but at least you’re empty, the voice says.


But the truth is, you’re just afraid. You’re so ******* afraid of what will become of you if you let that meal sit in your stomach.

Get rid of the weight so you won’t sink, you’ve got to be a featherweight to float on these tides.

The other girls don’t matter, the magazines and billboards, the unkind words written on the bathroom stall; fat. pig. ugly. ****. They don’t matter either, what’s in your head has nothing to do with the outside world, it’s all a matter of what you want, what you can’t see in yourself.

But let me tell you this;
if happiness was a number on the scale,
if joy came in a diet pill, if collarbones and rib cages
could fix the constant ache inside your chest,
if you could purge away your sins, if you could
just lose five more pounds and be happy,
you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

Things would be so simple again.
But things are not.

And I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so ******* sorry that you hurt. I’m sorry that you’re insides twist and your head shouts those angry words at you when you’re sad.

Always sad.

But you are beautiful, my dear,
and I can’t help you **** yourself,
I don’t want you to feel this torment that I know all too well.

The last thing I want
in the whole entire world,
is to see you, be like me.

- S.G.

Tripping over his feet like so many shoelaces he danced clumsily
Calloused hands holding loosely onto the featherweight of my neglected body
Breath
alcohol tainted and stained with years of nicotine inhalation
raises goose flesh on the whole of my being
My vision is doubling
the dogeared books decorating the walls of his room
pristine white candles glowing hot and soft on the altar
wine glasses silently radiating with a deep maroon
He spins me slowly round
I imagine I look like the ceramic dancer
inside a music box
Inside a fantasy world all my own
My head is getting dizzy from the alcohol from the smokes from the movement
and I stumble
Everything round me slows to an unsure crawl as the world shifts horizontally
Hands grasp the air as my feet pinwheel
Flowing fabric floats away from my body
an angel falling
Mouth opens and a soft gasp is allowed
This happens within the seemingly unending seconds
between leaving the relative and drunken safety of his arms and
Cracking my skull upon the altar adorned in so much white flame
Everything stills and again
There is silence
I do not
hear his screams as my heartbeat matches that of a hymnal I used to sing in church and
I overflow with the memory
As my blood pools beautifully
Complimenting the darkness of the wine stained crystal
I imagine
The altar had been built for me
The corners of books folded to please my eye
The drinks the music the melancholy all exist for
My epilogue
My epitaph
My eternity

what does she look like alone in the dark?
standing there holding her fragile body up for sale?
how quickly does her breath emit when she's searching for a glimpse of light in her life that doesn't reek loneliness?
steel and skin, steel and skin, nightmares keep her contained like a hunter keeps a deer.

i see you with my eyes, sinking deeper into yourself, and i can't do anything but stand there with laughter in the back of my throat you're not her.

she is my medicine. she keeps me sane. she keeps me from the steel and skin nightmares that used to rip me apart like the jaws of a shark would've.
the jaws of a shark. shark can be violent. they say there are many fish in the sea, but did you know a shark is also a fish? a fish who has teeth that dig into me with every word spoken; that cause blood to rush to the surface.
her mind is the collective thought and poetic combination of every angelic word combined.
ungodly, her skin dips in all of the right places, and as our chests mold together, our quick pit pattering heart beats become one.
when i find the breath to say i need her as im pressing my lips to her featherweight collarbones and were falling asleep sewn together at the seams, don't tell me everything doesn't feel right don't tell me.
the unexplored crevices of her body, oh ive memorized every path down and every path up.  every particle of her im pulling into me and i wont leave a single inch left untouched by the softest skin on my body.
the panting of her shallow breaths in my ear are more than unbearable but when i tell her she's perfect she tells me i lie but i couldn't ever lie to her, not in a million years.
she batters my body and i need her and im not lying.
i didn't mean to rip everything away from you i didn't mean to break your heart you didnt even know me im so fazed and- ohgodohgodohgod i cant even find it within me to use the correct punctuation i cant even find it within me to capitalize my words i never meant to harm you i didnt want you breaking at my fingertips-
Her. She's a mind altering drug and she keeps coming back into my veins, ripping at me with teeth that graze over my love. She's dousing my heart in gasoline and promising me she won't let me near another match, another lighter. She's promising safety. She is safety. The stars point in your direction, they say "she gives us our light, she gives us the inspiration to keep shining for you. She wants us to shine for you."
It's ******* selfish of me to pray (let alone pray to a God I don't even believe exists) that she'll never be happy with anyone who isn't me.
She's everything I don't deserve, but everything that keeps the blood pumping throughout my veins, and one day if the blood in my veins stops pumping I hope she's at my side to chase away the demons that are trying to climb inside of me.
ohgodohgodohgod all i need is her and i'm whole.

Featherweight games with a remote control
Racing chickens, i'm on a roll
Tongue twisting exercises across your body
Hold the head, saddle up my pony
Riding hell-bent for leather.

Thirty-minute thermotherapy
Look below, winter came early
Rewrite the Snow White with a giant dwarf
Underground mining, drill a hole of glory
Gather up your wood in the morning.

Wagon attached, touring highways and byways
This is where the rubber meets the road
Heels in mud, reeled under my heavy load
Slightly painful in the rear
Fear not, i'll oil the wheels.

Chills down your spine
Muscles twitching excessively
Something warm to drink and a lullaby
Soothing voices that help me sleep
Louder sounds as i travel further.

Another girl in the back moving with a nice rack
Gives me her helping hand, empties my sack
Keeps me company until we're out of country
Only asks for a little bit of money.

She lands,
leaving only dampened hands--
Evidence of her stay

Spending her most memorable time
urging a  barefooted girl to rip off
the itchy black dress stained
with sweat and graveyard soil.

Such a sour cliché
introducing me to
June, my only
heartbreak.

Tomato plants bent in half
weighted with ripened fruit,
swollen large enough to
split its skin,
steaming in the overgrown garden.
She laughs like warm rain at the way the fruit
and I hang--

suspended. Growing heavier
in the humid heat of yet
another smeared dusk.
Eerie breezes slide through the leaves,
my messy hair collecting her
featherweight secrets--

bringing still faced realizations that
it's easier to hear June whisper
"There is only one thing you can be sure of,"
than to empty the shallow oxygen stream
from my tributary mouth
back into her swallowing sea.

Tides rolling in and rolling out.
"Only one thing to which everyone agrees."

The thing about June is,
you can’t decline the annual walk.
The thing she’s hiding is
a tall ledge in a pink haze
through a field of wild strawberries.
Letting me fall with silent excuses,
I am too heavy, and she
too light--

*"The thing is, everyone will die."

Oozing hot summer roads, I
crawl across to help others
get where they're going.

The Son's of Liberty
would be hella proud of me,
no eagles were harmed in this tar
and featherweight bout between
ground and pressure wait now,
tectonic water,
drowned in pleasure,
no *****, just essence of.

A girl broken up by her main mans
in Pangea grandeur.
          oceans shrivel into marshes,
warming up to global standards
          crows nibble in the darkness
with earthly manners, clamoring
casting slander on the dead,
        covering graves.

Hitting nails on the head
lawns get shred in both ways
speculation,
scalped naivete,
          roads paved
through heat delirium,
          post haste,
bringing blurred horizons
in the afternoon haze.

fly her to far-off skies —
miles and miles
away from piercing storms and tears;
send her to a new place,
embraced in a safe space
away from the pain that wildly sears;
lull her to sleep
and wipe away her silent weeps;
let the weariness disappear —
dispel, dispel all unnecessary fears.

Losing myself in a field of graying burlap flecked with glowing screens
And the sound of fingers clacking like a thousand jabs in a featherweight bout
Dropped me down
From some old memory;
A fading dream of something
Else where I knew how to breathe
And the sun set slowly
Enough to see all its colors.
No one was taking pictures.

Looking at watches, computers, even donuts
And feeling fine.
Guilt forgotten
Like so many other things I don’t know why
I remembered in the first place.

A thousand things make me smile.
I am unsurprised but unentitled.

I start to dial my phone
But smash it on the ground,
Then turn and run some way I never knew
Sprinting and jogging, but not
Furious, or spiteful, or ashamed.
No complication or destination guiding my strides.

I just guide myself to a voice
I hope to never hear through a telephone again,
But only next to me
As I roll out of uninterrupted sleep,
Amazed that I was not the first to wake.

I laugh without walls, restrictions, or censorship,
Then collapse asleep again,
Reveling in my newfound power.

I wake up whenever
I cook and eat
As simple as that
No numbers, or pains, or seething shame
Just the savoring of coffee steam and buttered bread;
The pride of feeling full.

I step out onto some ledge where I see the ocean
And smell it
And could touch it if I wanted to

As if to break apart the swirling salt air,
I yell
With no subtext
Or direction,
No ceiling or floor, anger or doubt,
Just a pure burst of volume
To hear the echo telling me I’m alive.

A life
Chopped clean of all the measures, walls, and shadows I ever built.
I destroy a life’s work
And am overjoyed.

featherweight

with more heat than light
more feast, than a violence
we found a clamour


together

drunk tank, we tackled
battered at one and the other
we mashed in pleasing


years

we dedicated
fractured time manufactured
sot saturated


employed

misfunctional us
trussed ; brace pinned neat by the heels
whatever be, come


glitched

the floor-riding fits
upturned, revealing sickness
now observed and prone


hold hands

treated far apart
separate medical cots
in damage we bed