SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
Fever DreamsHush now,and close your eyesagainst this vermillion sunset.You feel so much, too much:leave crescent moons on my skin,calm the anguished crimson heatof your own burning heart.This war shall end, my love;but what will you be,if not red?
AThere is birdsong andsun-drenched long limbs,sprawled across India green;wet hair haloes anda restless route scrawledup arms and over hands.There are blueberry smiles,feet upon dashboards,and city-light fireflies...(And,then there is you.Always, always you.)
Sky EyesDesert hands tell talesof a hundred arid summers, butyou are no longer as cloudless as they(there is a stormcreeping through blue, blue veins).But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,that grey cascade blurring againsteyelids and horizons;and suppress her misbegottendroplets, seeping into the soddenground underfootfor there is still sun in your sky eyes.
MetamorphosisYourhandstremblewith sudden,wary, butterflywing shiverstiny tremors thatwill keep rhythm with your quivering heart, only tolater, clandestine and yet nearly poetic, unravel you from the outside-in.
WinterbleederCurled around alpine legs and caughtwithin hollows and inclines of pale skin,she carries her endless winter always.It settles upon frosted shoulders andcaps heavy-lidded eyes, clinging close tothe darkness of each snow-flecked breath;lingering above cracked lips and theremnants of a long forgotten warmth.But darling, don't we deserve each other?(She'd been Spring's child before Winter's whispers.)
MelpomeneHear her sing of sun-kissed,heavy-lidded tragedies that rolloff her tongue as sweetly assugared violets and as naturallyas nightfall; but bruise the lungsof those who breathe them in.She is no poet's muse, butthese summer-drunk revellerswill never know better.
The BluesMy darling,ghost your fingers acrossthose black and white bones;then tear them outyou won't need themanymore.(There's no need for sheet music here,when we have your semibreve breaths.)My darling,that piano is as barren asthe one who sits before it,and doesn't play.
Memoir1.Vert velvet slippersand a mouthful of water –dragonflies flit by.2.Twin evergreen canessupport the elderly bridge;an unsteady crone.3.Citronella flame,illuminating fingers,out-bites mosquitos.
MoonMoonYou left the knife on the drainboard,bits of lettuce scattered like green rice.We should get married, you tell me,this house tight as a ring around us.In every room, sleep waits for me.Sometimes I wake sprawled on the wooden floornot remembering that I fell.Things blur, the copper panshanging on the wall swell in tight glowing bellieswoven rugs flow like rivers.At night, your face flowers into an open moon,filling our bed with lightThere is no place left to hide.
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,as lithe as your impermanence.and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,spoonholed piles of mexican brickwhere nothing ever touches down,nothing here alive receivesthe plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,the ugly wind that meets the mudline.[metaphors]1. a mottled fence2. and how these storms hold faceless teeththat slat their eyes through butter-woodthen purge their guts on wintered florets4. some freshly headless nativities,their polyethylene skirts upturnedfrom violent sacks5. and knowing i’m a soulessspeck i lick at what is manifest beneath your hair each poison taba colouracidfire or lake a brothel and religious studiesi know, i know you never meanto murderor completemebut do not say “live for yourself”.i’ve come online to see the godthat came before me.we are so poorly marriedlike bookend spines of Plath and Hughesup on the shelfare somehowsynon
Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,we were reckless;Childrenchasing firefliesin a field of mines.We traded kissesand carefree caressesfor shrapneland blackened skin.Short momentsstolen pawnedat the costof darker afternoons,the twilightof the dying season;We didn't ask,we never questionedthe interestof our expenditures.I shed my skinin the Autumn of youth,peeled backthe viscera andbared the bone --Rising up,a scarecrow of wormsand raw meat,amongst the stalksof reddened corn.Tonightshe clingsto dusty artifacts,shelved trinketsandwrinkled sheetsladen with memoriesof decaying potency;The wispsrising from the cooling wickwill never beas sweet aswhen the flameburned brightest.
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
the clockwork liari. we dusted dreams off people like the first snowflakes of the season. you'd take one and rest it on the center of your tongue because you hated the taste of ice cream and wanted to reset what cold tasted like to you.you taught me that the cold could be bitter, and so could people's dreams.you drank out of out-of-order wells because you believed they still worked and that the government was keeping it all to itself.i never realized how insane you made me before i wrote this all down.ii. i wished on the sun because i ran out of shooting stars.and just to spite me, you began wishing on raindrops because you believed that they were so many, one of them was bound to remember you.but we both ended up laughing hysterically with protruding knives on a bloodstained floor, didn't we?iii. i talked to clockwork towers and told them to lie because if they stopped for just a while, all the time in the world would seize.one human, two human
HazeCatching sunlight;golden silhouettesdrippingwith thetaste of summerlingering,heavy upon lips.
Paint the DreamsEvery night, on the insides of my eyelids,I paint the Universe with the ink set of imaginationAnd the charcoal sticks of memory,Then flip it upside down and the wrong way roundAnd let it snag into focus-On my sleeping synapses, the branches of the Inspiration Tree .In my ivory skull-box of random echoes, Every melody, every voice, is re-written and rescored,For a symphony of electricity, crisscrossing nerves ,And running down, like liquid lightningInto the ears of the dormant soul.Here, this is that part of my chaotic deskWhere I re-write physics to suit myself,Redesign monsters and angels to my own specificationsUntil the lines between them are blurred out of recognition.In this drawer, I keep my nightmaresUnder layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper, bound with laughterAnd interspersed with the dead bodies of silk butterfliesThis rack, here, holds the satin ribbons and velvet stringsOf the slipping, crackling madnesses that only come out when I callAnd t
BurialThe mud caked my fingernails.My hair slipped from inside my hood,blowing across my face.The wind shifted the leaves on the grounda collage of yellow, red, and brownand the earth crawled around me.The rain fell hardand the wet grass grabbed at my ankles.The hole I dug with my own two handswas between two trees where you and Iused to sit and talk about superheroes,videogames and high school bullies.I thought the location fit.I pulled from my coat pocketthe heart necklace you gave methe year before you said goodbyeand drove off, leaving skid markson the vacant street.I dropped my heart into the holeand buried it.As I walked away,the rain still pouring,I picked the mud from inside my fingernails.
Dragon BreathI want to tell youThat you shine,But I'm scared.I'm scaredThat you would shrivel,QuakeBreakUnder the pressureOf a compliment.Because I knowYou only live in rainstormsOf imperfection,But I've always thoughtYou were a dragonfly.Your breath is fireIn my waterlogged soul.
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn blueburied in her eyes. so much dead beauty,like an ocean without waves).she is fading and i cling to her,and in this tiny little momentbetween breathswe barely even exist.
narcissismA long time ago I saw you for the first timeI got interested in youI discovered youI grow up watching youYou were always with meI got attracted to youI liked youMy feelings growAnd I fell in love with youI never felt lonely thanks to youBut what should I do?You are just my reflection...
someone's octobermaybe tomorrowi will lace my fingers throughmy ribcage, orlay pennies in the hollow ofmy throat, just betweenthe collarbones(i carved my skeletonwith my bare hands, soleave a wishbone at my feet& let it break)maybe tomorrow i willleave myselfon the sidewalk, all skinned knees andscraped palms, and becomesomeone else entirely:i will unfold my eyesand linger behind them,warm as winter
For the both of us."I will do anything to make you happy" he said and I believed him.As you sat there with your dirty blond hair, covering your crooked smile and those piercing blue eyes ... I felt like I belonged right where I was.It's not possible for us to feel exultant for a long time, is it? And you truly couldn't make me better, no matter what you did and that's probably why you gave up in the end.You left me there, when I needed you the most.They always do ... don't they?You told me that it wouldn't change a thing, then why does everything feel so altered?I can still hear your laughter at night and feel your warmth finger caress my cheek.I still sleep in your arms every night (even though I don't know where you are). I wish I wanted you to go, but you are the only reminder I have of a time where I actually wanted to be alive.How can I possibly let you go, when you are the only reason why I stay?"You are the only one I have" he said and I believed him.And therefore I did ev
Don't Correct Me"Professor, the equation, its-""WHAT?!"".....nothing....."
clef(t)any violinistcould be a neurosurgeonboth possess a certaindexterity of hand,a delicacy with(and love for) theirinstruments,a joy in manipulating themto create formand beauty.both can calm nerves,break heartswith a swift and decidedtwitch of a finger.
I Need a CigaretteReally, I need one.I need a cigarette to roll you up, light you on fire--the same fire that kindled what was once a burning love. Never mind about the "lucky" one, you know, the one that when you first open a pack, you turn one of them upside down and then you use the upside down one last. I know you were never lucky to me.You were a one-time use, that I know. The same way a cigarette is to a smoker. So I suppose you're a heavy smoker. How many packs do you go through, I wonder? You light someone on fire, breathe in that combination of poison and menthol and you drag it into your lungs by opening your mouth and taking a gulp of air so the smoke rides down into your lungs. The smoke stays in your lungs for just a moment, and then you exhale. Before you know it, you're shoving the cherry into the ground and putting out the embers and ashes.So, was I just a cigarette to you? A cheap thrill before you saw a better brand coming along your way?Or are you a lonesome smoker, like me...?Ca
ExhaustionExhaustionI wake, swollen with noon heat.Half dressed, I stumble,elbows and toes catchingon the clawed feet of chairs,the blunt holes of open cupboards.I sometimes forget my name.In the kitchen, I pepper the riceinstead of salt. Black flecks surfacein the boiling water,sea turtles migrating.If I knew where you went,I would follow. But all you left behindwas an old sweater, an empty notebook,an exhaustion,complete and infiniteas the space around a closed fist.
FallingFallingThe body is weightless,bones hollow as flutes.They sing startled crescendosbeneath the world distant and harmless for once,a map of what was."Here lie monsters," they warned.Here lie creatures luminous, grotesque, incandescentbeyond anything you might know.Potentialities.
OdiumBlack and blue,skin and skywater down the drain,I sayas the red line of dawnbreaks over skeleton trees andthewindowpanesshake withyou.