It wasn't my first time drinking
But it was the first time the earth moved beneath my feet
The first time my head spun like a top and the ground made it harder To keep straight
Kings cup and mike's harder lemonade helped me achieve this Unwanted goal
Along with the memory of you

My feet slamming with every step and I try to think of you
I don't know why I do this to myself
Other than wanting to feel sorry for my being on a daily basis

But for the first time when your memory hit my head
It's like my mind put up a brick wall
Not letting you climb over it
No matter how hard you tried to jump over
No matter how hard I tried to pull you up
The wall got higher
And higher
Until I couldn't see you

And that's when I fell back
Through the fluffy clouds in my head
Into the bliss of my brain
And started thinking about those chicken nuggets in the freezer
As I mix some of that mango moscato with cheap illuminium cans

The sun's lining hits the grass

I lay on the couch
Remember how I couldn't even try to remember the pain
And liking it

It makes me start to wonder
If this unwanted goal is my savior from you
Or the devil for me

Sunday newspapers continue to gather fragile New England snow on the curbside,
a stomping ground for purgatory, the home for these roller-coaster thoughts.

i'm not much for small talk.
my clothes are always inside out and i'm raging losing battles with my steel-toed tear ducts-

steel, as
grunting is a masculine expression,
and so i'll lift weights,
but gain no strength, just aches of all of the intimacy that I've never allowed myself to emit or absorb.

a soggy sponge,
a rotten oak stump,
fallen leaves-
a childhood meal coming back up over the fists and the heaves.

counter-intuition,
the alcohol binds the seams;
tear ducts are dams
and everyone needs a method of additional reinforcement.

numbness and empty-mindedness aside, I'm
still a make-shift dumpster lover,
hardwired, disassociated hinge-sucker.

too sensitive to open the window blinds or morning newspaper,
there is still no muscle definition, only
liver damage.

Tepid Moscato and Brie On Melba Toast,
Sandpipers chasing the retreating surf,
Orange sun dawdling as a old
Man searching his lost memories,
Thick salty air caressing a lovers Loose curls
Flaccid waves reaching casually for
The Cerulean sky as their arms retire back to
Their sides.
Tepid Moscato and Brie On Melba Toast,
Another afternoon On the Coast
~AD~

A swig here
An intake there
All it takes
Is one more
Thought
To consume
My mind
And envelop
My heart

*******!
I'm tired of yo tendencies,
It's funny how quick-a-ly,
Ya best friend can become you're enemy,
I could only count on you for disappointment,
Drowning in your in your sorrows, hopin' I can make you buoyant,
With all the dudes that burned you I'm supposed to be ya ointment,
Dependent on me to be ya clairvoyant,
Help you with your problems the second, a text ends in a question,
And mine goes unreplied, every time, I'm neglected,
Then when I cut you out of my life, you contest it,
You're a self indulged user that's why I am steppin',
But I still got mixed feelins like a malloto,
I'll never let you know because of my bravado,
And the though of you got me chuggin' on Moscato,
'Till the bottle hollow,
And I forget ya name tomorrow,
Yet your attraction is an addiction I relapse in,
I'm conflicted 'cause this contradiction got me distracted,
Reminiscent on kissin' lips n satisfaction,
And then you flipped it like an improper fraction,
Oh, and ya know I hate math,
Delete ya out my fone like "***** ***** take that!"
Pretend ya someone I don't know like, "Chick stay back."
Feelins are like secrets so I keep 'em till my safe cracked,
And for you I opened up,
Tellin' each other things that are too deep to touch,
Don't know what I coulda done to keep you but,
If I ever see you, I'll run on pins and needles just,
To escape,
You're my problem so I get drunk to get away,
Then get high enough to look at you with disdain,
Knowin' no aquatic life can survive in your fish tank,
Playin' hopscotch with the line,
Between love and hate, I think I finally picked a side,
I said I'm playin' hopscotch with the line,
Between love and hate, I think I finally picked a side...

It is the color of love
The calmness of her hand in yours
It is the quietness
Of your empty house
It is the feeling of peace
when you down the pink Moscato
hoping it fixes your problems
Because the heat is gone
And you’re alone
It is the feeling of
Your alarm going off
Never shutting up
Always happening daily
It is a lapse in time
When you think time has stopped
When you wished
Time had stopped
And you wish you could sit there smelling the lavender flowers
And the heat making you feel
Just tired
But time continues and burst of slow
Calm winds hit you peacefully
It is the color of sadness
Because her hand is no longer there
Your bed, empty
Your pillow the endless clouds
The lavender fragment gone
Because you’ve stopped trying to imagine sunsets and how your life would be like with sight
You’ve given in
It is the color of darkness
The color of your life
But don’t fret
Because when your head hits the clouds
Our worlds are the same
For when you close your eyes
And they close theirs
Our worlds are the same
As the sunsets

From a tiny seed,
Cultivated on the vine.
You fed hedonistic need,
Turning grapes into wine.

Sun-ripened botanicals,
Coated with white snow,
Reactive chemicals,
Delicious moscato.

Metabolic complexity,
Antioxidant neveau,
Oxygenic activity,
Bubbly pinot grigio.

Crisp and refreshing,
Cheeks become sanguine.
Acidic and effervescing,
Behold, fruit into wine

1/17/2016

On my lips
On my tongue
In my veins
In my brain
Indulge tonight in a cheap moscato
Something sweet and intoxicating
Why do I keep wishing I had more...?

I searched for a feeling that made me feel like a million
Went to hell and back sometimes had to be a chameleon
But when my time to feel it I was rocky road ready
When I saw your hidden treasure i knew dinner was hot and ready
So I step into the abyss deep in your ocean for that buried treasure
When i cracked open your box i found ecstasy and pleasure
My land was ready for you to drop the bomb on it
Had my soldiers ready all protected just in case of crooked mission
You wanted me to Iraq you and sneak up from behind
But I'm cautious so what I give you is hard to find
My friends said I was fraternizing‎ with the enemy
But when your soldier is at attention with a dime piece ain't **** you can say to me

I cooked you dinner while your dessert on the menu
The funny is to me you used to cold like with the flu ha chu
Finger itching finger licking for a taste of that bubble yum
soon as you let me enter it became on and popping like some bubble gum
If you the enemy i surrender my flag to you
what you got is boss no suit and tie but loyal
moscato had me feeling like i hit the lotto
especially when you spread it like butter and show me what you used to ride my bike like Throttle

I'm going all in i hope my soldiers don't shoot quick
I hope she nasty and her intentions is to meet my kids
Round 4 still at war on that kitchen floor
Round  5 we park benched to the subway doors
i love your sweet nectar your bee hive has stung bee
No poison venom just love uncontrollably
I’m deep in your treasure giving you techniques to remember
My Love and Head Games will keep you saying"Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?"

Reasons why I am going to Europe:

I am going to Europe because I am nineteen— almost twenty— years old and, for some reason, I am expected to have my entire life planned and ready to go. I am expected to go to college, get a degree which will give me above-minimum wage pay, possibly meet a boy. Date this boy on and off (as well as a few others) during my early twenties, get drunk a few times, maybe do some drugs, marry someone when I turn twenty six. Have two kids. Pay my mortgage, plan to travel when I am older. Pay my student loans. Do yoga on the weekends.

No thank-you.

I am nineteen— almost twenty— years old, and for some reason, I have no idea what I want to do with myself. I went to college for a major in English with a teaching license— I hated it. I tried to **** myself three times. So here, I am, working at Food Lion, running around the woods, drinking Gin and blood orange juice on a Monday night, with no plan. And I am happy. I am going to Europe because what else would I be doing with myself? I am going to Europe because I want to wake up in a hostel with someone else’s shirt on, the smell of salt on my skin, and the taste of wine in my mouth

. I am going to Europe because I don’t want my greatest thrill in life to be going to Whole Foods one Saturday of the month to buy nice wine and a quality meat only to watch the travel channel and hope for places I will go to ‘someday’. I am going to Europe because why can’t ‘someday’ be today?


I am going to Europe because I may get lost in a market place, in a bottle of Absinthe, in the arms of an Italian man, in the bottom of a bottle of sweet Moscato, in a pub in Ireland, in the mouth of a french girl, in a German forest, and that will be alright. I am going to Europe because my feet itch, and my soul is thirsty. I am going to Europe because sometimes it feels like the world is only as big as your home-town, and that is only an illusion that needs to be cured.

I drowned the thought of you in my 11pm Sangria ritual to chase away the demons that plague my mind, that tell me I am not good enough for you. The bed we once shared now suffers from a cold spot from where you use to lay with me. We use to generate so much heat when our bodies touched that I thought we would become hotter than the sun. You use to tell me how beautiful I was; that I held my Moscato white wine with such great precaution not to spill it that you thought I was an angel carrying a soul to the hands of God. You knew my heart was delicate. After all, the very sight of me sent venom pulsing through your veins, sort of like you wanted to destroy my already-feeble bones. Your anger teased out shyness in me, and when you decided to lift your hand that one faithful night to smack me it sent me crawling on my hands and knees for forgiveness, just to see that we wouldn’t end up on the road my parents once were. You made tears swell up in my eyes when you were inside me, and soon I learned not to cry when you decided to plow my body, a land for the taking. Parts of me started dying, and soon I was nothing but an empty shell with dampened eyes. You took, and took, until you got furious at me that there was nothing left to take. Sometimes I still sit in the corners of my bedroom silent because you loved me most when you saw me there, your tiny little ghost just waiting for you to make her disappear. And on some nights when I was with you, disappearing didn’t seem all too bad- you use to scare me enough that I wished you had removed the love marks you left on my alabaster skin. What we had was toxic, and I was on life support just to get by the fact that I was nothing more than your special object. Day after wretched day you tortured me with ‘I love you’s’ and smacks across the face that caused blood to erode from my cheeks. My voice started to shake and yelps came through my mouth when you decided that my contorted body was a pleasure worth seeing, that my pain was the very essence of why you ever loved me to begin with. I can’t remember the first day you started to push me under, but I know that when you did you would never let me come up out of that black water for more than 3 seconds, just so I could get another gasp of air to last me a couple of more months. I will never regret the time you told me I was worth more than you, because maybe that was your healthy conscience talking. Maybe you could have loved me better. Maybe I could have listened more.

All I can say is that I will never forget the time you choked me hard enough that I couldn’t breathe; that you smacked my head so hard against our bedroom wall that the snap sent my brains splattering across what was now your floor.  

-ritual

conceptcollection

Emotions transcend from my brain

into the deep ocean waves

we are trine, we are one

like sweet moscato wine

emotions transcend from your eyes

like deep ocean waves, I'll float in you

I'll swim into your mind, connecting your body

and soul

I

You are not so far away
as before,
still in the same hemisphere,
but beyond
an hour on a train
you’ve flown,
hating, I know,
the thought and inevitable
fact, so I imagine
your wide eyes and cheeks pale,
wider, paler
as the engines change their roar
and the plane drops,
turns, floats, falls
through cushions of clouds
to bump and land
in light and colour
amidst a different spring.


II

The shutters drawn back
and the morning opens
on gnarled and twisted trees
set in a stone-strewn grove.
A working day before you,
and a cast of students
await your direction;
to play with making,
and being busy.
Like you I love
the business of learning
but struggle now with
the time is takes away;
time apart, time alone,
time with myself
without your presence
at the other end
of the studio table.



III

Upwards into the trees
the camera points,
and by the miracle
of mobile technology
a video captures
the lemon-yellow light
behind the olive trees
and in the foreground
its unmistakeable leaves.
Unmistakeable too
there’s the sound of your very breath,
a ground to the song of evening birds.
This inhalation I know,
as when sleepless in your bed
I wonder at the deepness of your slumber,
and the silent exhalation from your lips.


IV

Such a richness of lives and looks
come together at the dining table.
A perambulatory prosecco,
con cerignola e crostini
primes the sharing,
but when seated for
spigola del mare
scorza di arancio,
con timo e rosmarino,
it's tête à tête time,
until the Moscato d’Asti
arrives with the fracoli
e ricotta di picora to further fuel
more intimate questions and asides
only women (of a certain age) confide.
But in this Enchanted April
let Lottie be Alice who walks out
alone under the starry night
to say to herself (out loud)
‘the evening was lovely’.


V

My darling,
you have out figged me;
walking Paolo’s Poloma Gardens
beneath his many hundred trees.
I imagine Eve, when on her own,
could hardly leave alone
the texture and the shape of fig
recalling as it does what lies below
that gorgèd member
hard yet sweet  
to woman’s touch.
And Adam too,
when biting on the fig,
did in his tongue - taste
a semblance of love’s
deepest kiss when moving
toward pleasure’s
culmination and release.


VI

And so this the final day
of busy making,
walking in sunshine
weaving in shade,
the lizard and the olive press,
those plant-marked letters
pegged to dry, the sights
the smells, the sounds,
the thoughts . . .
How well your pictures
frame a happy time
whilst I, dear friend,
descend like Dante
where no pleasure lies
nor rest from worldly cares.
So chill and cold
this April has begun.
And I,
so lost without you
and your gentle,
guiding hand.

Once upon a time
There was no time
No me, no you, no rhythm, no rhyme
No bright days, only gloomed night
No good health, no strength to fight

Once upon a time
I imagined no time
Our nights sang sweet like Moscato grapes on a vine
Tangled in you i was like a ball of twine

Once upon a time
I ignored the time
******* because you werent mine
So this type of sun wont set to let love shine

Once upon a time
I won with time
Before my eyes, my heart, and my tongue went blind
So until the day my time meets her time
Ill be waiting for
Once upon a time

an old soulful glory hole
sits abandoned in a ****** gas station
bathroom
where you and I
once took ***** baths
on our way to Santa Barbara
drinking beer and wine in the back seat
of an old Honda sedan
our hands brushing
while passing a large bottle of Moscato
and tall cans of Bud Light
the glowing tip of your joint
illuminates your face
and it's perfect

Dolphins, black tights, sombrero,
The red lipstick stain on your napkin.
Dancing on the table, high in the navy blue air, bass grinding.
Shiny white teeth, swirls in your eyes, lines everywhere.
You pull those suspenders close to you.
Drinking that moscato in your right hand.
Pinkie up.
Nothing but a boss in that chair,
Turtles touch your feet,
Nothing but in your boxers that Saturday evening.
I really don't care what you smell like.
You remind me of careless unicorns in a dark party.
Growing, laughing, crying, singing in the shower.
Music bleeding through your body.
Sadness, tears, curled up in the warmth of the cool blankets.
This is what flies in my head, I throw it on a paper and call it poetry.

Before you left, you struggled.
Making me your endeavor.
Fed me wine & flattery.
You bid me goodbye.

You said you never use the phone.
Am I going to be waiting?
My ash tray is so packed now,
Hope thinned down by smoke.

I sat by the telephone
For the last time yesterday,
Drinking your red moscato.
I am done with you

i'd been saving
this cream colored
dress for you
with the silk lining
and lace flowers at the
hem,

instead i am brushing
pollen off my shoulders
knee deep in dandelions
pulling canada thistle
and sheperds purse

a black and white
filmstrip on the refrigerator
moving in stop motion
empty moscato
a blue flannel
and a half drunk
waterbottle still
on the right side
of my bed.

Seduction so smooth as lust takes over.
Sentiment has no place; they just want to stretch her.
Spreading out together like they’re on a stretcher,
no love, no romance, when they’re together.
They aren’t saints, but they love her holy water.
A scarlet fever burns within her.
Her lust insatiable and thirst everlasting;
a tempest storm of vehement luxuria and exhilarating ardor.
The zeal is unlimited, yet the love is lacking.
She sees crimson and the lines begin to blur.
At first, it was a rare, occasional thing,
now it’s all the time, changing desires of a personal fling.
I just pray that she prays while she’s down on her knees.
Her desire consumes her, as her life looks carmine,
she’s tongue and cheek with her tongue and cheeks.
Living a life of lechery as a little red corvette in the streets.
Her overactive ambition is amaranthine and not so amazing.
The redness has overtaken the blue,
she is now lost without a clue,
senseless with no one left to do,
while her ruddy heart doesn’t beat true.

Blended and aged to perfection
semi sweet or dry to taste
you pair well with any meal

We toast with you
and celebrate special occasions
when you get all bubbly

Rosé
Blush
Blanco
Burgundy
Chianti
Moscato
Reisling
Pinot Noir
Malbec
... just to new a few

My carafe breathes
with FERMENTED GRAPES
fill my Waterford crystal glass

Poured to perfection
I drink you in
you complete my day.

rejoice in wine
that you sweat out
while singing songs
out of tune with best friends
on unusually warm February nights
rejoice in the feeling of feeling alright
for once in a while
rejoice in laughter
that hurts after an hour
but you're finally smiling
about how much you love your friends
rejoice in solace
that you find in the strangest places
like the floor of your old dorm room
or the bottom of a bottle of moscato
you don't remember finishing but have videos of
rejoice in love
because you don't need a single other person
in bed, that way, to feel the same glow in your soul
rejoice in knowing that you're okay
rejoice in that concert hall when you lost it all
in your favorite song
you realized there you hadn't quite lost everything yet
rejoice in knowing what you've got left,
and love it

This rhythm echos through me
Vibes soothe my mind
Smooth lyrics
Leave me lost in time.
This beat moves through me
Moscato Fills my glass
As this feeling
Fills Me.
No Longer Feelings of Love
Tho I do Love
I am no longer in Love
I Love Her
Tho I also Love Her
She is either here nor there
When I need her she's never there
Tho, my feelings are always there
No one ever said love was fair
Well in Love love
Because
Other Love
Is Always Love
They keep me tight
Never letting Me Pop
Letting My Stitches Pop
They keep my screws tight
My marbles stay locked in placed
The Love my friends give is always tight

I only drink ferocious black coffee--
a silverback strong knuckle-sandwich  to the chest
because it screams at my throbbing heart like a drill sergeant.

I drink whisky because
because I enjoy the the burning taste
of sandpaper raking against the back of my throat.
And it gets me hammered the quickest.

Pizza for breakfast,
I'm eating champions of pineapple and bacon
with four different cheeses because *******.

The words I write are contrived reflections
trying to get by in a place I'm trying to convince myself I belong.

Cynicism glares with tired sunken eyes
at deja vu reiki songs,
but my hymnal is the bottom of a moscato,
and I sing louder when grey ghosts from the past
whisper lonely nightmares.

I need someone who wreaks of cannabis
A guy with moscato sitting on his lips
With the stress of nicotine on  his mind
And the threat of bankruptcy in his kiss
One who makes it snow when he sniffs
And lets me go when he finally quits

Words flow like wine,
From depths that rival the ocean's heart.
Colored shades of blue and red,
The hues of love and passion,
No longer unrequited, but-
Suppose the rainbow turns shades of grey,
And the sweet wine becomes ashes?
Suppose seas dry into mere lakes?
Suppose the love becomes indifference,
And the passion turns to lust and is all that remains?
Suppose our words run out or are written on a different page?

I was in love with another, once,
The yellow of the rainbow seemed like gold.
The wine that made us heady tasted like Moscato,
And our love burned urgent like a fire that never had a chance to hold.
It burned out, extinguished
By not a lake, but just a puddle,
And we were left two bodies, unconnected
By the faintest common thoughts, and our souls seemed strangers.
I then saw you, and rediscovered
What I'd forgotten long ago,
But suppose what brought us two together
Happens to us, with someones other?

in the end i always get left
it's always the same, no matter which boy it is
i use the photos we took together as coasters
and the old t shirts to soak up spilled moscato
i go out a little bit more and work a little bit less
then i write a poem
and do it all again

This is my story.
My first poem in months
and suddenly, I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems
that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
ini the back of my mind,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
But it's hard when I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
When it comes to food
less is no longer more,
and the scars that litter me are fading fast
but I'm standing still
While the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity
and exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
This is my story.
It's a written and re-written masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit with a glass of Moscato
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences,
and smudged words;
but I guess these things come of a story unfinished,
of a work in progress.

The thought of
A rod through my navel
Sent you spiraling
Into fits of rage

After we broke
Things off last summer
I cleaned my skin
And pierced away

Long wavy hair
Was my only choice
The single way
To be seen

Yet, I got the guts
To do it my way
Bravado voice;
Cutting it clean

Sweet red wine
Was a sin and a stain
"Tainted words"
Your complaint

Declared what was mine
With moscato and champagne
Flew with the birds -
Absent restraint

Ink was for
Drawing on paper
For processed trees -
Not porcelain skin

Claimed my pores
As lavish wallpaper
My own decree
You've deemed a sin

Take time to know yourself
Find out about your life

Sit in the den and stay silent
Quiet.

You do not know
Who I am.

I am a Prophet he would say
And you’re mine

I'm all yours
But not whenever you want me
I'd reply

Taking dark selfies in a temple
Creepy rituals with the cult of the Tempili Orientis
Studying Bible names
His social script became mine
When I felt like I was losing my mind
a scripture
That repeats itself in mystic fables
Façades of King Solomon
persecuted by his existence

The script:

I take orders from pastors, aliens, angels, bible thumpers, avengers, excuses from sickness, while he spoke of the devil, talking for hours about ******* to thelema, bouts of depression
He was nowhere to be found.

Behind closed screen doors and
phone calls gone raw

The Elimination of Alive
Took over
Spoke of necrophilia
Casting spells by saying
‘that's hot’
“I miss you” but only ever saw me 1x3

To risk my need and call it yours
When you’re out $125, starving for a hit, no love or affection, beaten to a pulp, and emotionally marred
‘It’s hard to heal’

When his real fam goes by
A man named Sam
He would go with him everywhere
A false son
Playing the part

A spitting image of the dark
Left in a pool
of hypocrisy

This was nowhere.

Off the grid
Forever lost inside a universe
that fails so many.
Not everything can be saved.

He was born into modern day slavery
An absent mother and father
Trying so hard to make it
Money is all he wanted to make
And lost it with his words

Addiction
Tunnel vision
The drug is the delusion
that craves and prayers
Can’t afford

And yet how peculiar that I looked at everybody like they have 3 eyes blind
Feeling like I wanted to leave my body sometimes...

The lost souls out there
That got suckled in

She must know he said.


His script continued:

I am already gone
I had love somewhere  
but impossible to keep
I'm so expired

You're a clown
I told her

But when I look in the mirror
All I see is the loneliness of a dead man buying and selling a dream that can only be found
In a man who is not me.

Begging for bread
The last drop of
pink moscato burns the roof of my mouth

Hot chocolate
Ice cold
And my emotions
Buried in mould
for over a decade
I’m Schizotypal
When I speak to her

I say I miss her but these suicidal thoughts
of death still tempt me
That's why I need Angels to protect me

Projecting who I believe I am
A rich one Flaming
A Rosicrucian Cross on my chest
Throbbing panting for salvation

“I am in the middle of nowhere losing everything that could have ever made me”.  

He was other people.
And that is it’s own Hell