white rock exploded into perfect form
primary colours washing
the need to stay
the quiet is a heart beat
muted for a mother's
the is of a
a camera empties itself
as of faces
is your face
mask painted downi am not waiting
(i was never waiting for a coffin
procession, as they awaited
coffers opening, gleaming)
i disregard my blood;
imagine grimalkins warming
their crooked fingers
punctuating their gripes:
my mother suffered.
in turn, as i
when the day comes
there will be no thanks;
he will be happy
to have less
she will be happy
to have her breath given back
say we carry our memories with us
is just a large
handle on a hole
expressing your love
with a store-bought
mask, with plastic
painted tears streaking
down does not
endear me to you
(your love is a fictional entity birthed into an effigy
you burn cigarette holes into)
no, i will
i feel my capacity
battering my face
like an unlikely prediction
lets goRelentless as an ocean eroding
the creases of my cliff face
tidal waves of you
crash along my boundary stones
the push and pull of blue:
emotions white wash
i don't think the ground will keep
beneath me and i'll plunge
the push and pull of you
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting)
(are you waiting for an sos on the sand?)
arent said - WhenThere will not be any words when the time comes. Emotions will circle back on themselves like the snake eating its own tail: an endless cycle. Existing, not existing, consuming itself into oblivion, only to expel, excrete, create itself again. Constantly extinguishing, constantly setting alight.
I let the ink melt away the words I write on my naked flesh. Lick my finger again, rub out my emotions. I wrote them; childishly hoping they would find you. Like the words I say quietly in empty rooms, in empty expanses on other continents, hoping the wind will carry my thoughts to you.
I wanted to tell you, but being the coward I am, I don't know when I will. And if it will matter, then.
Words lose their meaning when they aren't said. When the receiver, the reader, the listener is never in attendance. Having never been invited, they have never had a chance to RSVP the event, to ever be allowed to show up.
(Meaningless: When not followed by action.)
In time, you'll completely forget about me. M
daily - like waterI come back to you unwillingly it seems. Walk back down these streets I've forgotten to walk along. They say it is never easy going back. I don't agree so much; I think it's so easy that this is what makes it so hard.
Where do you go on those days where all you need to do is walk? Hoping to find yourself in the brickwork of old stable buildings, do you ever look up just to see if the sky still exists, up there?
Maybe it only happens to those who look too intently at their own shoes, mistaking this for politeness I wasted too many years staring at worn leather. Maybe it wasn't very polite of me to say goodbye as I did, but politenesses are always so easily forgotten, I think I just wanted to stand out a little this time.
I assured you I would call every day, this became every week in practice it meant once a month if you were lucky and I remembered. I like that, luck and my memory being related. Maybe I should remember to be lucky next time.
This tea tastes the way you
home-boundi catch little insects with my fingers
it makes me feel so powerful
and having become god in your eyes, also -
take your sorrys with me,
shuffle through turnstiles,
take the line closest to the door.
i speak erratic, tongue sore
explaining away this
he said it was "very zen"
to undo, unravel,
of course i cringed.
having had your breath taken
you have the gall
to ask for
the city. Burnt outA violet tag catches my attention as the metal moves towards the city. Burnt out buildings sit comfortably silent in the fenced in wastes of grass; I wonder if anyone lives in there, knowing where all the holes are, sleeping between empty bottles and filth.
People shuffle around inside themselves, volleying thoughts in tiny spaces; a child tells his mother he would rather stand. A forever exists when I close my eyes, pinch the space between my eyebrows; breathe in deep into a sigh. It's black there, confused and consoling, but then one speck appears, and another, conjuring coloured hallucinations to dance along my lids, telling me to open up again.
Floodgates releasing, bodies sprawling, clustering in front of each booted step. I head for the stairs and take three each stride, hoping to exit quickly, escape the undertow. Advertising excrement greets me like a dementia patient, hoary, useless make-up, insisting I'm a naughty girl: I should visit more often. Bypassi
imagine my surpriseI c
Forget my interjectionsI walked around the cobbled streets wondering about you. Thinking I had important decisions I had to be making, come January. Comforted all around by another month of frolicking on another continent, I wished the world smaller so I could take you by the hand and show you all the broken stonework on the buildings I have fallen in love with.
So I bought my bread and cried in the neon-light because the feeling of being isolated and free at the same time corrupted my soul so brilliantly that I had to let my eyes record the moment silver. I don't know if you would lift your head and look at the same things that make me stop the flow of pedestrians, but maybe we could swap notes and get a crowd of really angry people behind us.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,
but you don't always understand my answers.
You meet me in the night,
but I'm not a bird of darkness.
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14
I'll tattoo you with a poison quill
all the venom I will spill
So all the misery you imbued
will permanently stick to you.
I cannot find any time
when you did not feed me lines.
So I will etch on you all the
pain inside my skin
until the message sinks right in.
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
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