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wounded Apr 2014
endlessly, again & again.
overflowing, a fountain
of heartache, desire.
words erupt like lava
from lips, soft as petals:

these words are beautiful.
simply said, elegantly whispered,
unassuming as snow.

they are as paper before ink.

it is only once we think
that they start to sting:
spider bites, bee stings,
a mosquito ******* blood
as a lover may suckle on your *******.

i do not need to be filled with warm coffee,
with soups, salads & sustenance,
with your tongue & your fingers.
i do not need to be fulfilled by anything
save your gaze:

a moonbeam that shatters my freckled skin.

i simply crave your words of adoration,
and your sleepy, contented smile.
wounded Feb 2014
call me in the empty of night
call me in the selective mutism of light
call me in the secrets of locked rooms
call me

call me in the candlelight of long soaks
call me in the freeze of your greatest scare
call me in the grace of your effortless achievement
call me

call me what you like, what you want to, need to
call me in the full stops of the dead ends that meet you
call me

call me in the eyes of a close friend
call me when you think you see the end
call me when you're ready to begin again
call me

call me in the woods of love's mystery
call me in the darkness of the wondering
call me from the cliff edge, blind to the sea
call me

call me in the eulogy of your youth
call me in the last words you're holding back; the truth
call me

call me in your favourite dress
call me unclothed
call me in the mirror
when the world looks over your shoulder
call me

call me in the photographs you left me
call me in the dream figures waiting to embrace
call me in the first line you wrote to me
call me

call me in the aching of the distance
call me in the bird short by starting pistols, raining feathers
call me in the ****** hands of trying
the frothing mouth of drowning
if you call me
i will listen
wounded Feb 2014
dream while life snores
skip the words for pictures
believe that every rise of a wave
will deliver you to the sky
think of her like that
when she says she's back in town
believe that every ride
will take you closer
to the exit
so much in fact
that you cut across
the oncoming traffic

fall while hills rise
cry all through the summer
ignore the warning signs
and write your own
while doing 90 in the fast lane
taking photos of the same setting sun
for the billionth time

follow your heart
into dark caves
destroy or devour
or test the resilience
of every good person
in your life
count every change of direction
as a diversion
from your future

but always do
what a don't do sign
person or poem
tells you to do
wounded Feb 2014
each morning brings nothing;
this is good. a gift often

in this quiet
i am neither here nor there;
dead, alive;
have never existed, never wanted
made movement whatsoever,
let alone
lifelong mistakes.

until it wakes, makes it move
and as if forgotten
in morning's thoughtless air;
how easily silence, like a ribbon,
slips from fingers, unspoken hope
to the floor.

and all of the everything, giant-high
as the space between blanket-lain bodies
and a starry vast sky,
is louder
than the knife of goodbye,
as fatefully simple
as the universe apart
by paper cut.
wounded Feb 2014
i had a dream we were holding hands in a blockbuster video store.

everything was made of wood.

i had a dream we drove across country
and stopped at a bridge to stare at the sky.

your hair was brown. your hair was draped over the passenger seat.

you held my hand again like you meant it.

i was a window for your fingers.

i was something else while you pointed at an airplane
and stretched your body to it.

you thought you’d never get so far.

i hung out in a mall parking lot while you became the stars.

when i woke up the longing still wasn’t gone.
wounded Feb 2014
you open your eyes and the next twenty-four hours
are building into a cluster of storm clouds above your head
and all day you are convinced tiny pellets of the coldest rain
are falling from the ceiling, the sky, from anywhere really
but the weather forecast proves you wrong
still, you know it is coming, looming in the distance
and you would sooner believe your heart as a mechanical machine
than deny the inevitable onslaught of the malevolent future.
the mirror is chanting of your insanity,
your eyes of your deterioration
and you aren’t blind, you know what they’re seeing
and you aren’t deaf, you hear what they’re saying
but you swear the world is melting all around you,
colors drooling and dissipating in a matter of seconds
and each inhale is a pinprick and with each exhale you are deflating
but nothing is noticeably different, not really, at least,
except today, all of your ghosts left their graves
and are standing on your doorstep, ringing the doorbell, incessantly,
and today, you are expected to spend quality time with them, face to face.
wounded Jan 2014
i speak to the night and she always speaks back
lending me whispers and words to rend my weaving thoughts
in that moment between dreaming and sleep;
the one that lasts a life age
near the precipice, the one that undesirably breaks you free
ever so slightly
and then suddenly (maybe)
rips you away from the world that melds the real
and unreal
the true and the false
the dream and those harsh undreamt realities
that exist in all times, but never seem real when you’re free of their clutches.
we are one, we are all connected
our synapses are linked, our electrons shared,
our every thought a memory,
shooting through space like lightning
and written in the stars on our darkest of days
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