"malformation" poems
i tried to eat my whole heart raw once.
but i could not stomach it. could not stomach the noxious ventricles down my throat, could not swallow the bollus of unfleshly pink carnage.
so i broke it into pieces and i blamed you instead, because it seemed easier to say you broke me than to say that i ever loved you.
i.
this is how you broke me :
whenever i thought of you ******* her i would think of dying inside.
dying is a blessing.
dying is the movie that i am too young to watch but too old to resist. dying is divinity, it is paradisical death in slow motion, an entity mushrooming in between the eyes of a decaying rabbit. it is tears being ****** back into the eyes of a small girl, legs apart, ***** ripped, the fruitlessness of futility bleeding out like saliva from a mouth. dying is being idle, dying is being able to think without questioning existence, dying is a moth, paled by smoke.
it is that tuesday night i promised myself i would never write again
if all i wrote was about you.
ii.
this is how i broke myself :
whenever i thought of you dying inside her, i would think of *******
******* is a blessing.
******* is the reason an orchid can sing without a stigma. ******* is the malformation of your tongue when you say " i hate myself, because i hate you, but i hate you more. ". ******* is about three blocks away from love. ******* and love are probably secret **** buddies. ******* is saying you love her. ******* is saying you love me. ******* is that heart-shaped bruise that you left on my wrist, that tuesday night you ***** me and called it love. ******* is telling me i am not her.
this disposition of 'her', the realisation she plays a better 'her', than i play 'her', the realisation that she stole 'her' from me, when'her' was a dream both of us could hope to fake.
iii.
why people are kept broken:
you once told me, while ashing out a cigarette on my neck,
"it is better to stay broken so nothing else can ever break you again."
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
Longing for clouds in shallow ground.
To go back to the place i was found.
The whispers of wind crossing my breath.
In every instant I can see the clocks turn.
Have i come to myself to learn?
In these times of cloudy days iv learned to frown.
Become a clown...
Cover my face...
Live in secret....
In a nightmarish place.
Its all i can do to survive in this space
There is no grace in this empty place
No space.....
No space at all....
In this empty place.
Looking back threw the pages I awaken the memory.
I live in my thoughts in an enigmatic place.
Not clear where the others are.
Its all i can do to survive in this...
There is no space in this empty place.
No space....
No space at all....
In this empty space.
In dream my reality is delusion...
In walking my delusions are dream.
So cold of dreams I welcome to finally fill.
The chill has become so sharp I cant take this part.
Its all i can do to survive in this.....
There is no space in this empty place.
No space.......
No space at all......
In this empty space.
Have i come to myself to learn?
I have to face.......
that someone else needs to fill that space.
No space......
No space......
In the empty space.
Not clear where the others are..... I have left that place.
Left that place......
Left that place....
That painful place.
Clouds in shallow grounds.
*Living with Chiari Malformation, Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (EDS) and Dysautonomia
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
There's been a miscommunication
Between my heart and my mind
Electrical impulses at every synapse
Scream your name in adoration
In every neuron they will find
That there has been a collapse
It's caused by my love for you
All that I know to be true
Is that there has been a malformation
A terrible replication of some kind
The one that courses violently perhaps
It fills my mind with all this information
To all else I've gone blind
A neural take over that I can't surpass
Because my body knows that I love you
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
He stands solidly still, a malformation
Rush hour commuters about him whirl
Arrival or departure in subway station?
Intrans intelligence, subconscious swirl
Isolated, his mind in most violent hurl
Facing whole extent of impertinent data
Comatose commuter suffers info slow-mode
Wife, boss, kids all part in sub-matter
Too much for one brain to devour, decode
Cell phones, microchips, transistor’s overload
Components lack tactile connection
Wavelengths of broadcasts, meltdown occurs
Keeping too connected, causing mind ejection
No app for that on tablet to refer
Now stuck in commuter rut with no transfers
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
God slips from
tongue as phlegm
from lung post-
cigarette
back to back
reel to reel
sitting *** to heel
palm to palm
praying
I've spent paychecks
laying pavement
into bedsheets
bearing teeth
biting holes into
free time
me time
with myself
waiting
twenty one years
stacking unread
newspaper new with
news not bothering
with digestion
to treat the text
as words on paper
************
transfiguration
sight unseen the
sight of me in
chapel pacing through
Peter as though
for penance
God is meant
a friend to
comfort but
recently its
felt dishonest
a masquerade
a malformation
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
Love is not the scrawl of notes
left on the bedside, whilst
the alarm clock suffers to clouts
and rings, awakening her.
Neither is love the aperture
between silhouettes
as they embrace so readily
against the walls. Some clinch
of absence, the antiptosis
of the you and I.
Love is not the spaces between
the ‘I miss you’s’ and the
‘here we are once more’s.’
Neither is love the separation
between our wants and needs,
to the disparities in the world.
It is not the defiance of obligation,
nor some holy rest-house
to the ills of the modern world.
Love is not some shared novel,
a story born out over a communal
conjecture of where humanity shall
rest upon the end of everything.
Neither is love the offering of a rose,
or any other bouquet of severed
life, strangled for the nourishment
of her; the justification of your
placement in her life. These are just
condescending gestures,
weak offerings to the Lord
of all you claim to be divine.
Love is not a life to be feasted upon,
nor is it the self-satisfied glance
in the mirror, as you finally decide
on your definition of ‘I’.
Neither is love this malformation
of words, this attempt of veritas,
this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled
longing, longing, longing for
some great hand to deliver life
upon my doorstep, upon our’s.
Love is simply the eternal rite
of Gaia; the motes of existence
that tumble with great devotion
and all-cause to their eventual demise,
their inevitable return
to the spiral that created them.
Love is the spaces between my breath,
between your’s.
Those pockets of meditation,
and the realisation of union
between all that was,
and ever will be.
Love is the acknowledgement
of power between us. Our previous
lives, blades of grass wilting together
under the footfalls of the now-trees,
the now-governors of our lives.
Love is in the ‘I know you’s’
and the ‘what would I do
without you’s’ that we have so struggled
to forsake in the day-to-day
tumble of our lives.
And to this, I say, that love is
these spaces that you may
no longer occupy. The barren stretches
of grey matter that no being either
mortal or otherwise,
could ever reclaim.
Love is the birth of bespoke experience,
and the knowledge
that nothing can erase us
from the archives of
everything that should ever matter.
Love is us.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
I’ve filled all of the balloons
with cigarette smoke instead of helium,
just like you asked,
and when the children come crawling,
peeling themselves from pavement,
we’ll take needle-points to latex
reshape their tracheas into factories
Soon our home will brim with smoke rings,
I'll place a finger to them
only to ruin the perfection produced by small lips
Thumbs are to erasers as tears are to pencils
I swear to you I try to keep within the stencil
but saltwater weeping, shallow breath, and tobacco smoke
don’t seem to stay within the lines as well as I’d hoped
If I had another way I’d draw terrible pictures,
stick them to the fridge and insist “mom, take it with ya”
I’ve been ripping out dictionary pages and
nailing them to various foreheads,
yowling, “we need knowledge, we need verbal expression!”
Though, I don’t believe I’ve made much progression
because a woman turned to me today with a
business suit on her back and a chewed up heart at her feet
She fastened a note to the top of her skull that read:
“ignorance is bliss” then she waited for a car to bind her to the street
DDD (3/14/2013)
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
I'm not ideal—I am irritation.
The words are steel with implication,
Bite my heel for malformation.
I am not real—I am animation.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
We seek love because in love we are validated in our perfect flaws and exactitude of malformation and in love we are given reason not to hate ourselves for the things we see are wrong but cannot change even if we spent a millenia in an instant or infinite instants in eternity struggling to shake off the shackles of our humanity which is both our captor and liberator in this,
life,
yes we recognize its importance in allowing us to be but we spend the congregation of moments we are given in that holy being damning it, for it also makes us imperfect and in our imperfections is the capacity to do harm unto the world which we love so much,
and so,
we equate these imperfections with evil and seek to expunge them with all our might of will and all our cleverness of wit and all our screaming and pounding and passion of
soul,
but it is all in vain for these things which we despise so greatly are joined at the sutures with our very being and hence have many good but troubled lambs of the internal apocalypse chosen to end that being for sake of ending that malformation, though they know this is wrong, but it is the only solution in trying to remove the weight of one’s existence and hence the weight of existence from one’s mind and so they sleep easily,
unbreathing,
unknowing,
and having completely cleansed the burden of themselves from this immaculate and gorgeous universe which they love so, but they are also
unloved.
And it is in love that we are validated, both in our perfect flaws and exactitude of malformation,
it is in love that our weight on the world is not lifted, no, but counterbalanced and nullified,
and in that way,
we are set free.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
my spine was assembled clumsily and with an erratic precision of a hand that knows the premeditation of everything
the swarm came in the shape of an air conditioner
it's the characterizations of overgrown lawns and memory foam on the side of the curb
like going to the laundromat instead of church on Sunday
I've said this before, repetition lives inside the brain that continues to step over it's own feet
foot slowly inching towards my mouth
i could kiss you with my ankle if you would
the air conditioner buzzes all night like i did that night that i couldn't find the entrance in a place that i wanted to leave
take me home in a Chinese take-out box
i'll sit in the back of your fridge until you forget
i'll grow my own colony, mold malformation on the creases where the warmth should be
Sweaty container and you throw me out before Monday's pickup trash along with the expired mustard and mayonnaise
oh the missed opportunity, the dedication i could have gone to have given you a stomach ache that leaves you at three in the morning dry heaving your memories
that electric buzz stays until it's unwelcome and still it persists
so the bees have started to congregate, digress and drink the synthetic honeysuckle it spits
they take off, wings of woolly yellow into a breath that i consume by lungfuls
i don't know where they're going but that's okay because they keep coming back
and it's the permanence of something so flighty that calms the hum
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
I am drunk within the brand new light of morning,
This cigarette sends spirals to my head,
All I have come to do is now forgiven,
And all I’ve meant to do is an outcome all the same.
I should be sleeping now in the yellow sun-lit alleys.
The growling pigeons are my hostile call to sleep,
But all I can think about in this division,
Is how daylight is but the malformation of dreams.
So what time I lay my head, it doesn’t matter.
No, all that matters is the cycle of the sun;
All that has come to pass will remain in the Earth and
In the soil that becomes purchased into land.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
I said I would leave him
if he started to treat me well.
I don't need another
pastoral scene of not my savior.
Mind hurts of the souls malformation.
Every soul.
They call it psychological
but I call it a formality; super easy.
Like, yes sir, your car is ready.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC