We are watching the clouds
bandage an incarnadine sky,

we are practicing our best knots,
weaving an army of tourniquets,

we are slow-dancing
barefoot on the edge
of a razor.

We are watching
a demolition derby
in the driving rain,

the smell of motor oil
mixing with gasoline,

the hard melancholy
of dying machines.

We are waltzing from room to room,
smearing our names on the floor,

we are keeping time to slow music,
bleeding out behind closed doors.

You say that you love me, ooh that sounds nice,
vibrates so good it makes my atoms splice.
My superstrings, my god how you make me,
plucked you once and you shake me, shake me.
Matter of fact, my matters exotic,
darkening dreams to birthe a new narcotic.
Struggling deep to borne a newage ******,
strumming to sleep with that **** melodic.
Tourniquets bleed but you know that I fought it,
theoretically, it's right but it's not it.

Enter softly, she spoke to me, twisted like fungi on a tree trunk. For every spot of desert there's an ounce of ocean to fit inside it. Our tunnels will meet someday I told her. Do not be afraid reading this, doom can be sweet as a garden or smelly like an eye ******.

My abdomen is creased with age and tourniquets. Every time...I tie myself to a lamp post and wait for my Master to come with the next direction. I eat sugar cubes, carrots, and stand eight feet- so dive with me. I am a Pisces. I have been built to swim and suffer intolerable cruelties. Break me with your hand, your closed fist, a strap of leather, a bagful of flour. I am not the valor of   your toothbrush or table cloth. I do not follow the sunset home, instead I fly over the bayou, scouting for sandpipers in the low tide.

Looking at the telephone for you to appear, playing the songs of you in my head. I hear you, I remember the airports, the MCA, the head holding, and the longing. In place of reality, I choose your colors boldly and stuff them tightly into my left lapel and chest breast pocket. You are superior evidence that I exist.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

In a quasimodo feat of not only myself but my inner sanctums. I’m in a shelter. A secluded shelter far from mankind. The bells rich **** spreads across a cold Philidelphia. I hide from the tourniquets of our kingdom. Hordes of documented secrets filibustering the excutivies of a blood famished nation. Where could a turning point conspire? Not here. Not there. No where vast of what only we know. How many times have you performed German heischen styles upon what has happened? Dialect informative, all lauguages and ethinicities could tell you. Corruption. Progestational hormones of all man and woman get the gist of secrecy, but why inquire it onworth still. Atomic bombs whiping out ten times the population of our fragile pathetic planet.

An ice rendered telescope at zero gravity with the script filled micro chips of new findings amongst our universe. This was an immediate spawn of hope towards who we are. At least for the sake of another life form, they would configure an easier derogatory and denigrating outlook of a human lifestyle. Maybe they could relate, maybe they would have emmerged in trade as our ancestors of the past 1,000 years and before had. With us, it would have been magnificent for the future to come. This era though, the only significance we know collides with a destruction of a super-catastrophic function that has been reformed thus grouwan. Grouwan, the origin of grow, growing or to increase in size, building up just as the magmata composes its liquid matter within the Earth’s crust into lava. Igneous rocks now form. Reaching the Alps. Frozen, a complete opposite of what they were once spawned from.

Still intact, an ice rendered telescope photographing galaxies not seen by a naked eye. They called it, “The Orbiting Gaurdian”, while we remained demonic and caught in ignorant reality conflicts. In small groups spread across the lands, combined as one, we are still undeniably small. I built this shelter with my own two hands knowing what would come, I wanted to overcome. Philidelpia was still so cold, very odd, quite eerie for a patriot New England city. Rot, Weib, und Blau. Rodt, Hvitt, og blatt. Shiro aka to ao. From Germany, to Norway, to the super advanced technologic Japan, they all recognize red, white, and blue. Maybe we are a leading nation, but who honestly gives a ****. All nation’s combined, worlds away, a lone planet of democracy. Darkness. The abcense of light above me, directly. No two-dimensional representation of an outline of any body form. No cutout or configurational drawing with a sun glimmering backrounded setting. We are inkligs with no hint of suggestion in the sea of blackness above. If you could have gone so far back in time though, you would have found a blackned quality on the most transparent and pellucid of days.

I race through my brain waves wondering if this concealment was completely ignorant. Was it full of extreme folly? Asininity? Ineptitude? I pondered the synonyms of stupidity. I was ravished to wonder if my last thoughts would be a mind race of the lacking self-esteem I hold. Sudden deaf struck. I no longer heard shrills of humanity above. I was deprived of my sense of hearing. Intimidated to look upward, I could not manage being deprived of sight as well.

What were those dangling seconds that I could not hear?

Were they little fragments of time that I could not notice near?

They stabbed at the back of my skull to leave this sheltered hole.

I find humor in how my poetry is merely past time entries that mean nothing. They once had been published, but now at the least, they did not mean a thing. I wish them to burn long and hard, fighting. Hardback covers and dusty library shelves vanishing in this dark mess of a world.

Pain, sharp municiple pain casted into my skin. Into my lungs, my contaminated, sickened lungs that had ciggarettes by the thousands over the years. I had started as a child. A stubborn twelve year old child wanting to experience any drug my hands could get a hold of. I did too, I don’t regret it, and I dont feel remorse from my actions and those many high nights when I could not walk or stand. I felt weary, weak, helpless and finished. My eyes, my mind, my pulse, my body, my so called soul, asleep or dead?

a brief confession:
until now,
i have written my best friend into a storybook heroine, untouchable
and our friendship one of puzzle pieces falling in place perfectly
i love her beyond words
and love makes you romanticize everything
but i want to show the truth
because incredibly, it is even more brilliant

sure, we have the happy story of meeting in summer camp, bonding over crafts and a shared love of books
and in most ways, what we have is simple and pure and obvious
but in all honesty, our true bond was not born in beauty or the sunlight
it was born ******, fighting, and dangling by its umbilical cord over a bottomless abyss

see, we were first stitched together in battle
opposite sides of a wound that drained us of tears and dark poetry
emptying pens stolen from a slate-eyed boy whose skin never seemed to be fully closed
we were surgery in a brightly lit, white-walled classroom
taking turns as his dialysis machine
until one day, we finally looked up
and realized he was stealing all our oxygen

on the homefront we were dissection victims,
perfectly preserved insides laid out for the world to see
so that no one would think to look for the secrets hidden beneath our sharp tongues
we were ***** donor and receptor,
and she gave me bone-marrow strength
in return for my rib-cage to cradle her overworked heart
both of us breathing heavily from the same pair of tired lungs

we were bandages on each other's wrists,
painfully tight tourniquets to keep our souls from leaking out with the blood
we were interlocked fingers between our deathbeds
and silence on either end of the telephone
too afraid to speak the truth aloud
but even more afraid of hanging up
instead letting our quietness drown out the silence

other times, we were barely contained sobs in a 2am voicemail

we were long periods of no contact
passive-aggressive silence
bottled anger that was too heavy to carry for long
over reasons we no longer remember

yes,
our connection was held together by bruised knuckles, scarred skin
but though it was often ugly and rough and messy
it also saved my life

A dying girl
hung her head over
a carpet covered in
crumpled clothes
hastily stripped off and
tossed aside.

Her bed sheets once held
tourniquets and flecks of
splattered blood
that dawn turned to Braille
spelling slow defeat
beneath her bruising skin.

Nine months passed since then.
Those ties cut,
new blood flowed freely through
her ravaged veins.
She knelt beside her bed,
the mattress cloaked in clean sheets.

She shaved away her tangled hair
as if to free the knots from her stomach,
to free from her skull
the ache, the craze,
the hushed torment of
loving ******.

She sliced and slipped
and nicked and bled
to crack her shell of a body until
a soul slipped out
or anything remotely human
but nothing ever did.

She caught herself
moving in a mirror,
body bags beneath her eyes,
a ghostly girl
a stolen soul
a blank mask
a hood of bone.

Every morning
I wake up in a city
that feels a little more familiar
each time my eyelids bloom daffodils
on a fire escape horizon.
Maybe I’m in love with a Newness
that begins to feel like Home.
Maybe I dream dumpsters
in Flatbush
or shoot Harlem
into my forearms.
Use telephone wires as tourniquets.
Maybe this girl I’ve been seeing has traces
of Paradise in her bloodstream.
                                          

                                           And then I have to remember this city is home to
                                           Pizza Rat, and bedbugs in the metro benches,
                                           and **** Holly Golightly,
                                           she never had to take the F train.


But maybe
she and I can share some unspoken reality,
and I’ll walk down 5th Ave. one day
holding my lover’s hand
as the sun turns sidewalks silver
and we’ll decide to grab a
croissant.

many sunrises have past and finally
the demons have found their rest such that
I can once again appreciate-

the shattered glass, blood red wine
MDMA on the patio
You, before you broke into a thousand pieces
Brilliant sunrises
forgotten revelry
All those naked people we never really knew
Tearing at ourselves
Beauty, purple like bruises  
Black out curtains
gnashing teeth
nail torn skin
Losing you, finding myself
All before the appetizers arrived


At 99, my grandmother told me the only regrets she had
were the things she never did

she would have loved all the tourniquets and lace

We endure to strive see better things
Upon golden horizons
Though awe strikingly gray clouds
Obscure our precious sun's light.

I watch an ocean fill the gaps of the earth
Without a sound
We move past and no one breaks their gaze from their own lives,
And goals of material gain.

I watch an ocean
Integral
Intended
Full of depth too great for a man's mind...
We need not know
How vast a wonder
No grasp to attain
Just to observe
Breathe amazed sighs,
Gaze up towards full skies,
Ask to see through His eyes...
It is a wish of mine.

Canyons of water,
Buildings of waves
Architecture of sound and of depths
Too great
for my mind.

I fall away, fall apart, into the waves I drift,
and I may drown,
To hear you say
A word.

Daughter.

Alive.

With the gale of a storm in my soul I rise above and feel held together!
You have stitched my open scars,
Tied your hands as tourniquets to my outpouring blood,
Realigned my broken bones,
And whispered to my heart a message I could not hear or understand-
At once, it beat.

You are my source of equanimity.
My eyes see new things,
Because of You.

And because of all my healing
I now know how
The world will come to see You
And believe You.

My home is always in Your presence,
and I've risen from so many mountains of ashes,
Each time,
A touch
Brighter.

this is hell because I say it is.
I'm goin to die inside of it
now you cant stop me cuz the tourniquets,
not your hands upon.
mine it is.

safe treasure to lie on
I stay here in the masking tape
taped up against it.
holding close till death's quiescence
escape is impossible
the collapse of body is
take in step
depth torn from ones ***** creates humans.
we cream humans out of our windpipes
through the words we hate the words we love and the words we ingest creating years long relationships that **** ourselves and our partners and our health and happiness
all for you little miscreants
we sound bite

death falls upon head bands
death holds its hand waist span for creeping death on our limits of bands measure expanding fissure on my backs expanse of nerves
they torture true \

every day with every move
these kids spill their hate
I gave them from the feelings
I felt they inherited with every song that I soothed them with
I hate this
I **** and peel my skin I slip my slime I steal life from every hoove I walk around the animals life
I slave a forth from my head
I tithe this tax
I slurp it all up to invigorate from the death I
feel I **** my self.

death to the dishonor I have done myself

have I grown true humans, ill never let
my self, off of the hook that if shoved in my pelt,
will I lose all the worth and the building I've dealt,
to the structure the skeleton of this tower I've built.

till it crumbles,

till its stagnant.

I’ve been bleeding
black and blue bubbles
through extruded cartridges.
Leaving doilies soiled
on your dressed tables
without placing a touch.
Trying to donate gifts
from my darkening life
to a priceless recipient.
Pushing your peace away
with each bubble blown
onto ink-smeared surfaces.
My mental misfires
cause my life line
to tangle and retreat.
I’ve tormented my threshold
with a shattered appendage
that over extended its reach.
As I twist tourniquets,
I represent one unconditioned
for appreciating being love in truth.
Please, reset my uneven mending
and apply an encouraged healing
by molding me in wrappings of you.

Tourniquets turn to roses and bleed through the sky,
All the rain turns to oceans of death, I know why.
All the deities are dead, and you'll ask how I know,
You and I, we both killed them with nothing to show.

Violins make the screeching of banshees this time,
Try to speak, but the words never come out in rhyme.
Yes, we tried, but the music, it died in our sleep,
Still it vibrates, and yet, it is buried too deep.

Marionettes cut their strings and they turn back on us,
All the morals and meaning were drowned in our lust.
Dreams lost out to seduction, our hearts turned to stone,
I'm surrounded by monsters, but feel so alone.

In your cup in the morning, just what will you see?
Is it something to bind you or something to set you free?
All the stars have collapsed right in front of my eyes,
I can see them up close and their fire is lies.

Need a pulse, or a heartbeat to show you're still  here,
Take my hand, we can wade through the greed and the fear.
Though it's faint, I can sense there's a pinprick of light,
One last chance, let's escape from perpetual night.

If resident evil taught me anything,
It's that tourniquets stop the bleeding,
But herbs do all the healing.
Though it doesn't stop the feelings.
Everyone's paranoid, and always scheming,
As if zombies are out creeping,
Around corners and through ceilings.
Strategically placing pawns,
Laying bait, and setting traps
Until you're left feeling numb,
To the world and all its crap.
They'll beat you when you're down,
Or even if you're in the clouds,
And once you're on the ground,
Gravity slowly ***** you in,
Until you're breathing dirt,
And you're soiled by your sin.
Wishing for a sign,
To help you clear your mind,
Because you realized, it kind of tickles when you hurt,
And you'd believe all the lies, if it helped you to survive.

So where the zombies at, and can I bring my gat?
'Cause my finger has been itching, though all I do is scratch.
Revealing skin tissue, that would rather hug a trigger,
My strength isn't the issue, only worrying about ammo misuse,
And if it's you, I figure, a knife can end it quicker.
Straight to the stem, that held your mind in.

My beautiful rotting barbie,
I'll worship you,
Like that Jesus zombie.

-SLuR

Depuis qu'Adam, ce cruel homme,
A perdu son fameux jardin,
Où sa femme, autour d'une pomme,
Gambadait sans vertugadin,
Je ne crois pas que sur la terre
Il soit un lieu d'arbres planté
Plus célébré, plus visité,
Mieux fait, plus joli, mieux hanté,
Mieux exercé dans l'art de plaire,
Plus examiné, plus vanté,
Plus décrit, plus lu, plus chanté,
Que l'ennuyeux parc de Versailles.
Ô dieux ! ô bergers ! ô rocailles !
Vieux Satyres, Termes grognons,
Vieux petits ifs en rangs d'oignons,
Ô bassins, quinconces, charmilles !
Boulingrins pleins de majesté,
Où les dimanches, tout l'été,
Bâillent tant d'honnêtes familles !
Fantômes d'empereurs romains,
Pâles nymphes inanimées
Qui tendez aux passants les mains,
Par des jets d'eau tout enrhumées !
Tourniquets d'aimables buissons,
Bosquets tondus où les fauvettes
Cherchent en pleurant leurs chansons,
Où les dieux font tant de façons
Pour vivre à sec dans leurs cuvettes !
Ô marronniers ! n'ayez pas peur ;
Que votre feuillage immobile,
Me sachant versificateur,
N'en demeure pas moins tranquille.
Non, j'en jure par Apollon
Et par tout le sacré vallon,
Par vous, Naïades ébréchées,
Sur trois cailloux si mal couchées,
Par vous, vieux maîtres de ballets,
Faunes dansant sur la verdure,
Par toi-même, auguste palais,
Qu'on n'habite plus qu'en peinture,
Par Neptune, sa fourche au poing,
Non, je ne vous décrirai point.
Je sais trop ce qui vous chagrine ;
De Phoebus je vois les effets :
Ce sont les vers qu'on vous a faits
Qui vous donnent si triste mine.
Tant de sonnets, de madrigaux,
Tant de ballades, de rondeaux,
Où l'on célébrait vos merveilles,
Vous ont assourdi les oreilles,
Et l'on voit bien que vous dormez
Pour avoir été trop rimés.

En ces lieux où l'ennui repose,
Par respect aussi j'ai dormi.
Ce n'était, je crois, qu'à demi :
Je rêvais à quelque autre chose.
Mais vous souvient-il, mon ami,
De ces marches de marbre rose,
En allant à la pièce d'eau
Du côté de l'Orangerie,
À gauche, en sortant du château ?
C'était par là, je le parie,
Que venait le roi sans pareil,
Le soir, au coucher du soleil,
Voir dans la forêt, en silence,
Le jour s'enfuir et se cacher
(Si toutefois en sa présence
Le soleil osait se coucher).
Que ces trois marches sont jolies !
Combien ce marbre est noble et doux !
Maudit soit du ciel, disions-nous,
Le pied qui les aurait salies !
N'est-il pas vrai ? Souvenez-vous.
- Avec quel charme est nuancée
Cette dalle à moitié cassée !
Voyez-vous ces veines d'azur,
Légères, fines et polies,
Courant, sous les roses pâlies,
Dans la blancheur d'un marbre pur ?
Tel, dans le sein robuste et dur
De la Diane chasseresse,
Devait courir un sang divin ;
Telle, et plus froide, est une main
Qui me menait naguère en laisse.
N'allez pas, du reste, oublier
Que ces marches dont j'ai mémoire
Ne sont pas dans cet escalier
Toujours désert et plein de gloire,
Où ce roi, qui n'attendait pas,
Attendit un jour, pas à pas,
Condé, lassé par la victoire.
Elles sont près d'un vase blanc,
Proprement fait et fort galant.
Est-il moderne ? est-il antique ?
D'autres que moi savent cela ;
Mais j'aime assez à le voir là,
Étant sûr qu'il n'est point gothique.
C'est un bon vase, un bon voisin ;
Je le crois volontiers cousin
De mes marches couleur de rose ;
Il les abrite avec fierté.
Ô mon Dieu ! dans si peu de chose
Que de grâce et que de beauté !

Dites-nous, marches gracieuses,
Les rois, les princes, les prélats,
Et les marquis à grands fracas,
Et les belles ambitieuses,
Dont vous avez compté les pas ;
Celles-là surtout, j'imagine,
En vous touchant ne pesaient pas.
Lorsque le velours ou l'hermine
Frôlaient vos contours délicats,
Laquelle était la plus légère ?
Est-ce la reine Montespan ?
Est-ce Hortense avec un roman,
Maintenon avec son bréviaire,
Ou Fontange avec son ruban ?
Beau marbre, as-tu vu la Vallière ?
De Parabère ou de Sabran
Laquelle savait mieux te plaire ?
Entre Sabran et Parabère
Le Régent même, après souper,
Chavirait jusqu'à s'y tromper.
As-tu vu le puissant Voltaire,
Ce grand frondeur des préjugés,
Avocat des gens mal jugés,
Du Christ ce terrible adversaire,
Bedeau du temple de Cythère,
Présentant à la Pompadour
Sa vieille eau bénite de cour ?
As-tu vu, comme à l'ermitage,
La rondelette Dubarry
Courir, en buvant du laitage,
Pieds nus, sur le gazon fleuri ?
Marches qui savez notre histoire,
Aux jours pompeux de votre gloire,
Quel heureux monde en ces bosquets !
Que de grands seigneurs, de laquais,
Que de duchesses, de caillettes,
De talons rouges, de paillettes,
Que de soupirs et de caquets,
Que de plumets et de calottes,
De falbalas et de culottes,
Que de poudre sous ces berceaux,
Que de gens, sans compter les sots !
Règne auguste de la perruque,
Le bourgeois qui te méconnaît
Mérite sur sa plate nuque
D'avoir un éternel bonnet.
Et toi, siècle à l'humeur badine,
Siècle tout couvert d'amidon,
Ceux qui méprisent ta farine
Sont en horreur à Cupidon !...
Est-ce ton avis, marbre rose ?
Malgré moi, pourtant, je suppose
Que le hasard qui t'a mis là
Ne t'avait pas fait pour cela.
Aux pays où le soleil brille,
Près d'un temple grec ou latin,
Les beaux pieds d'une jeune fille,
Sentant la bruyère et le thym,
En te frappant de leurs sandales,
Auraient mieux réjoui tes dalles
Qu'une pantoufle de satin.
Est-ce d'ailleurs pour cet usage
Que la nature avait formé
Ton bloc jadis vierge et sauvage
Que le génie eût animé ?
Lorsque la pioche et la truelle
T'ont scellé dans ce parc boueux,
En t'y plantant malgré les dieux,
Mansard insultait Praxitèle.
Oui, si tes flancs devaient s'ouvrir,
Il fallait en faire sortir
Quelque divinité nouvelle.
Quand sur toi leur scie a grincé,
Les tailleurs de pierre ont blessé
Quelque Vénus dormant encore,
Et la pourpre qui te colore
Te vient du sang qu'elle a versé.

Est-il donc vrai que toute chose
Puisse être ainsi foulée aux pieds,
Le rocher où l'aigle se pose,
Comme la feuille de la rose
Qui tombe et meurt dans nos sentiers ?
Est-ce que la commune mère,
Une fois son oeuvre accompli,
Au hasard livre la matière,
Comme la pensée à l'oubli ?
Est-ce que la tourmente amère
Jette la perle au lapidaire
Pour qu'il l'écrase sans façon ?
Est-ce que l'absurde vulgaire
Peut tout déshonorer sur terre
Au gré d'un cuistre ou d'un maçon ?

He would beat her up for the last time
It wouldn’t be hard to provoke him
The usual wrong word did it most days

Why do you make me do this
What is wrong with you
Forgive me

She would enjoy this one
The very last one

Bought you flowers
You know I love you

Do you

What the hell does that mean
What the hell

The drug would temporarily paralyse him
Enough time for her needs
He punched with his right fist
She cut off his arm
The odd kick with his right
She cut off his leg
He came round screaming
How you doing babe
You in pain
Don’t worry, it’ll pass

Ambulance, get me an ambulance

Say the word

Please, please

No, not that word
The other word, I love you, that one

I love you, ambulance, please please

Babe, why did you make me do this, forgive me
Just going to take the tourniquets  off
I’ll put them up here
If you get them, be quick
Remember to release them every fifteen minutes
Oh, one more thing
Love you babe.

We see our fathers as Gods,
Our mothers as tourniquets
Knotted at the scathings
Our Gods have given us.
Are we gifted or are we at fault?

Bad news, just a fake on the take.
Taking gear, smoking ****,
Almost black,never white.
Never right.
Just a fake man, an always on the take man,

Feeding the fire with poison,
Leaving no choices,
Angels with voices.
Mainlines with needles.
Collecting stars, from heaven sent,

Believing all his words were honestly meant.
Trapped,tripped, something slipped.
Her name was Dignity
Tangled tourniquets,

She don't wanna play, okay.
But she will cos he's her thrill.
He's blown her heart up, like a rubber balloon
Silver sliver spoon man.
It burst, it hurts.
***** *******.
Eyelid twitches.
Making messy moments,

Nothing more then memory fodder.
Shot her up the final time, she kissed the stars hello
(c) Livvi

Can you stop this heart from bleeding
Staunch the flow of my being
My tourniquets are fire engine red
Turning to shades darker than crimson—she’s dead

He would beat her up for the last time
It wouldn’t be hard to provoke him
The usual wrong word did it most days

Why do you make me do this
What is wrong with you
Forgive me

She would enjoy this one
The very last one

Bought you flowers
You know I love you

Do you

What the hell does that mean
What the hell

The drug would temporarily paralyse him
Enough time for her needs
He punched with his right fist
She cut off his arm
The odd kick with his right
She cut off his leg
He came round screaming
How you doing babe
You in pain
Don’t worry, it’ll pass

Ambulance, get me an ambulance

Say the word

Please, please

No, not that word
The other word, I love you, that one

I love you, ambulance, please please

Babe, why did you make me do this, forgive me
Just going to take the tourniquets  off
I’ll put them up here
If you get them, be quick
Remember to release them every fifteen minutes
Oh, one more thing
Love you babe.

as we go surely confident through
the words coursing like platelets
filled with oxygen and iron
into the open turn red turn flowing
denying death with our tourniquets
of bandaged words our mangled verbs
stopping that flow flowing on
for one last second to call
out our virulence as the light dims
our strength ebbs
and our calls echo

The flesh of your words are gangrene
Sloughing at the tips
Their inflection an infection
Necrosis apocalypse
Swelling reds and gorging purples
Lack of bloods life flow
Putrid rotting letters
Thrombosis runs the show
Losing membrane integrity
Their fetid smell does waft
Forced fed through the senses
Until we subjugate
I can tell by the smell
Under the perfume
The only thing that they will do
Is lure us to our tombs
So keep your words and parlor tricks
I see them clear as day
Countless ways to contaminate
And weaken all your prey
It's time to tie the tourniquets
At the shoulders and the thighs
The time is now to amputate
This toxicology of lies

may the sunshine
find its way into your heart
clearing the debris
leaving its light
in the holes
that were empty
with blackness
birthing new life
into old wounds
forgotten but not released
from the cage it sits
nursing cuts and bruises
tourniquets wrapped around
like lolly wrappers
tightly
the bleeding stops
the skin begins the
repairing process
the heart pumps
the light into the body
from head to toe
attaching itself to every
fiber of this being
the harshness vacates itself
leeches no longer *******
the pureness of innocence
the small amount that she still retains
taken was everything else
except sanity
she kept that
despite all of the insanity
she was immersed in
of others, not her own

You told me once that everyone
has a heart that

bleeds

yet, if you’re lucky,
you will find arms that wrap around you

acting like tourniquets

to stem the flow, so that you do not bleed

to death

her serenading song
echoes out of Africa

bound for the supermassive singularity
that stabilizes our hearthfire galaxy

a hungry-hearted vision quest
embarked upon

midnight whispers
shared

like satin laces untied
and falling

bare human skin
delicately balanced upon
the sturdiness of geology

entangled quantum edges
caressed with the bullet hole
magnificence

cosmic boasting
of fingertips touching

entropy quelled
in the electromagnetism
of the inherent silkiness
of touch and release

epic cycles of common sense
disregarded

pretty alien machine eyes
stalking prey

in the full light
of a ferocious star

the transparent
kiss of new beginnings

fogging scintillating
soul-windows

until we emerge
crescendoed with stolen breath

splattered into giddy blots
of abstract art

the mystery of love
throttling unrepentantly
in the ******* half darkness

yet in truth I have only
the weakness of haphazard humanity
itching between my toes

so I bow deeply to
the magic of you
which somehow still

splashes us both
with liquid nitrogen embraces
that writhe ecstatically
against the cruelly delineated
boundaries of time's arrow

shattering us into slowness personified
time's children caught mid-air

reveling in the blessing
of their twin heavy stares

oh sky top diamond spark shimmer
how do you fuel love's infinite body ballet?

here I hear the heavens speaking
with mouthfuls of desire
that are somehow not desire

and if only I had more than words for you
brutally carved from the quivering lips

but I am merely a poet marionette
marooned to this asteroid
of sensitivity and outrage

a lone figure shrinking in the distance
as the sound of each plaintive step
hangs like a fruit juicy with longing

and the regenerative shadow
of your beautiful spirit

look how it stretches taller and taller
with each tick of the clock

see the way the kaleidoscope
of your desire

shifts all existence
into fresh perspective

this
at least

is real

this
at least

can never
be taken away

because I love you
and I am broken

the stars and your kiss
are tourniquets

so see the reflection
of yourself in my eyes

before we disappear
as if we were never
here at all