Road SideI want to have an impactthat lasts longer than the lifeof those petrol seeped flowersplaced ad memoriam at the road side.Let my memory last longerthan the roses.
Aslant a brookSongbirds tumbled from her earsand swept down the cliff-edges in her hairto swoop away and out - out of the wayof the turbulence of her drowning -they skipped across the ripples in the lakeand dodged the mountainous willow leaves,cuttling out of dodge, as Ophelia wept.The nest dissolved, feathers strewnlike starlight to halo her descentinto the swamps of happy mouthslaughing and clapping waterinto happy tide and tidings that ring outand clamour until stuck fast in muddy death,Lap-lap-lapping applause, as Ophelia slept.
Hope Dies At LastMoths; fluttering ghosts of dreams long gone dead and passed – and past. They ache for the love of light but their blind groping for the truth Burns them.In the end, all moths die as Icarus – as infantile projections of our innocence as hope too, dies at last.
Unwilling AwakenessThe sea never falls asleepit shuffles, half drowningin its own unspent dreams,trying desperately to stay afloatits glittering eyes reflecting starsas it shudders and groansunder the weight of another day,as the sun turns to treacleand spreads itself thinlyacross its ridge-d-back.It tumbles and trips over,clumsy in its deprivation state,and tosses its limbs, its head,over and again. It stays awake.It can't afford to dream of raindrumming upon its lonely doorto accompany it for eternity,No. The sea can never fall asleep.
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds likeclenching your jawuntil a crack shoots downinto the nerve endings.The crunch of bonesplitting and separatingand shearing painup into the naive skull,that hoped for something elseto penetrate the malaisecreated by fooling yourselfwith love, with money,with smilesand words.It sounds like biting your tongue -and that flab of meatchunking onto the carpetand violating your chinwith its copperstench syrup,that stains everybodythe same flavour of red -This is what 2.37 am tastes like.Like the only warmth is fromthat cyaniatic bouillabaissecreated by swallowing yourself:your blood, and teeth,and tears,and words.
GangrenousThe bloated tongue full of heliumthat escapes the ephemeral and lifts up, skyward –is stuck in a congealed throatdraped with the closed curtains of bile and bloodsouping a dam across her vocal chords. No more words.The hair is brushed, later, out of its nooseloopsuntil it is straight and lies flush with the velvet,in a box only just big enough to bury the dreams of a lifelived without painbubbling out of the now dead lips with each breath.Skin soft turns hard – in the way that all girls do as they agebut she does not age.She couples only with the wooden box, painted falsely white,that covers her body and face.It is the concealer, the mascara, the war paint never worn.The chemicals of her unusually sewn-together body,combine in a way geneticists cannot explainto exude the only smell it can. Of her –but it is not the familiar any longer. Not the smell of milk and dust.Now, the acids boil together, to purge her of her pain.The familiarity of her fades
Moving OnAll I can tell you isI haven't gotten farwalking throughtwenty years of yesterday.
Quiet TimeAll is quiet now, all I hear are the rosesas they flex their expensive limbsout to graciously acknowledge the night-time.Some nights they shiver in the August howlsbut tonight that wind slumbers tightly,jammed hard between body bags and toe tagsand whistling a faint reminder of its witness.We prayed for thunder, but it is late arriving,so we begin without its cover - and we digand digand dig.Until finally the hole is expansive enoughthat it may contain all the residuals of Her;a fingernail, a tooth, a lump of bone, of carbonand the hair still squirming out of her head.We flip her into the grave with ease:how much lighter bodies are without organs!Arm protests, hand stuck grotesquely uprightcalling for our attention, our assistance perhaps.Not Humerus, you joked, folding it in - and we dugand dugand dug.‘til naught was left of her but her ladybug-red shoeswhich somehow crept onto your own two feet.We had not needed to kill her, yourself and I,but once the
BriefLife is full of fireworks;a brief moment of artimitating the stars -They are not stars.Stars are born, they burn,they die.Fireworks are merelypromises made andnot kept.When a fleeting timeof light and beautypretendsthat the darkness is not so.
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,lilac air-fresheners,the half cup ofpeppermint ice creamthat’s beensitting in your freezerfor weeks, and cat litter.He won’t eat anymore,but there arepiles and pilesof dirty dishessitting in the sink.He’s slowlydisintegratingbefore your eyes.You can wrapyour whole selfaround his tiny bonesnow.You can hold himlike he used to hold youall those years ago.And you are angry.You try to findsomeone,or somethingto blame.You hate doctors,and you hateNovember now.November meansbirthdays, diagnoses,chemo treatments,and realization.You have to force yourselfto stop crying,every day.This is the one personwho’s always had faithin you.He’s read every poemand hoarded every awardyou ever won.You ignore statistics,because rosesthey alwayssmell nicer.
The Day The World Went AwayThe world went awaywild and untetheredfrom now-loose neurons -Oh how it flewfor that blind momentbefore the lacework brokeand flung serotoninagainst baroque wallpaper.
A Rainy Night on 17thGlitter on every surface.I hate the damp way it shines& reminds me of those pretty thingsthat break your heart sometimes.It convolutes my fingerprintsas I lay them on your door,you'll never know that I was hereor what I came here for.It'll shimmer 'til it rains again,then wash down to the groundbut even if I was six feet awayyou wouldn't know I'd been around.The rain purifies this sufferingand washes me clean of crimes& reminds me of those pretty thingsthat break your heart sometimes.
The BarricadeThe spine is a jealous loverthat clutches its spindly armsaround the lungsin a fierce cage of boneto protect the tendernessburied beneath,where it can’t be seen(by love)It embraces our organswith a possessivenessof the heartbut even this shadowfriendlooking out for uscannot fully barricadeagainst splinters(from love).With the huskof aorta and veinthere is a knotthat can be undonewith the grazing of a smile.Even the spinewill bend under the weight(of love).
Shame on MeI thoughtthat I could think my wayout of a brain defect.That I could unlearnthe way my neurons fireand the synapses wincewhen someone raises their voice their hand.I thoughtthat when he told me to trustthat it could be true.That I could learnthe way that vocal chords moanand groan, and growl.When someone tells me to believe to be myselfI thoughtthat might mean they meant it.
The PlaylistA group of us lying on the floorin a too-small apartmentthat can’t hold a fraction of our disorderssyndromes and symptomstucked under the kitchen sinkand in between self help booksand in the pages of love poetryonly half meant.A group of us lying on the floorwishing we could see the stars.but thats not how the architecturehas been set up for uswe have to live our lives blinkeredfrom the celestialbut at least we have each other.A group of us lying on the floorletting music replace our immune systemsnot caring if a misspent lyric saves us,not caring if a dropped note kills uswe don’t care about anything but the floor,these walls, these chains,that sound so familiar in an acoustic’s voice.A group of us lying on the floorcaring about nothing but the ceilingthats blocking out the light.
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutterI have failed you,for you were not forgedto be so insubstantial as thatYou were writto be an epic fableof endurance,of endings ignored,of outlasting your bodythrough the sheer willof a writers starving heartpumping geniumthrough a broken, bowedbut bravely abiding bodythat fights the soulto comprehend Beauty.
I've ForgottenWhen she diedI tied a knot in my stomachso I would rememberbut I've been so busytrying to remember her dyingI forgot how to forget.I've forgottenhow to let go -and the doctors saidthey would cut me openand snip her outa blade between the bowsand she,and the pain, would be gonebut I've forgottenhow to let go -and I still don't want to.
Still Still (YouTube Link Included)See me perform this hereThe boy I liketold me that everything in the universeis made of stars.He described them eating themselves,the iron corrupting the heart,the spat out destitution of a would-be sun;I could relate.I went home and wrote‘You are the ephemeral glitter in the eye of a manic universe –and I am the debris clogging the arteries of stars as theydie’.That’s the difference between us.In the world of evenings as poetry –he is the star studded sky.His heart is the rocking moon that generously shares its sun with us.He is the moment when you realise that you livein the space between brilliance and beauty,and you still matter.As for me,in that same evening,I am a lake.I reflect a reflection.I refract a resurrection of a sungone down.I can only see the sun through smokeand mirrors,and my heart is so drowned in anxietythat no warmth will ever go right through me.So I look at the bo
.a sign reads:idle hands wanted
Poetry,you’re atemperamental bitchthat moans when I go.You comparealcoholto happiness.You creepfrom throats& boneslike somehungry monster.But Poetry,languagewas inventedfor you.You awokea rhythmbetween myfingertipsthat stilltauntsme.You’re either avital organ,or blood.However, Poetry,are you cheaperthan the womenin the empty spacesof my life-or the secretsI writebetween my thighs?Poetry,I am Fifty Shadesof girl.Why should I feed you?Do you knowwhat to dowith my bodywhen you are merelyink stained fingerssoaked in passing& the feversconjuredwithin burning stars?I didn’t think so.
you're just a question marki met you so long agobut back then our bodies were made of metaland nowadays they’re made of the blades ofgrass and dirt settlingunderneath my fingernails.my fingers are having a hard timereaching the keys andmy organs are shaking mostly because i haven’teaten in two days but alsobecause i’m worried about the things you're doing to yourself.we didn’t meet very long ago at all but it feels like forever agoand you say you don’t know methat you don’t know anyonebut baby you're turning into a skeleton and i’m peeling back my skinto try and reach my bones, just like you.i hope you're happy,i’m covering the hard wood floors nowthe bits and pieces splattered.they are calling it a suicide but i’m calling ita way to see my brain andjust how dark it has become, and honestlyi don’t want you to try and see about your’s.i’m mourning the loss of my heart and wish you weren’t either -you’re gone
For Two BoysI have imaginedhow your hands would feelplaying my piano key spineand my cello-curved hips,and how your lips would feelbetween the plateau of my shoulderand the slope of my neck—I hate myself for it.I can mouth all of his stories,read all of his expressions,and tell you all of his favorites,as if he is the languageI have spent years studying.I don’t even knowyour father’s nameor your favorite season,and some girl could havethe lines in your hands,freckles on your face,and baritone of your voicememorized and playingon repeat in her mind.Even though our class swearsthat we’re madly in love,I have not once wonderedwhat flavor his lips carryor how his body would feelpressed firmly against mine.I don’t even deserve youin my wildest fantasiesif she knows you like I knowShakespeare’s sonnetsand Plath’s poetry.Sometimes I’m afraidthat when he catches my eyefrom across the crowded class,it’s because he wan
Sundiveri.When I was six a phoenixtried to drown me.Underwater I grabbed for fire.Like Icarus, I was reachingtowards the sun.I hope he still hasbald spots. I hope he stillcradles searing scars.He was death,I was the bird.ii.My uncle knows plastic-wrapped soaps as wellas he knows fine wines.If he drinks enough,he thinks it’s love-carved names rubbingthe silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 dayssweating, ship black againstsea. Like it had been peeledfrom amber tongues.iii.On my fifteenth birthday, the boywith stars on his fists and Saturn’srings in his eyes told me I was pretty.It was the first timeanyone had said so. I learnedhow to hold my breath,how to apply foundation,how to crywithout bleeding tardown my cheeks,and how to wear my bonesquieter.iv.He says he does it for the money.He says you have to come up slowlyor else something inside of you will explode.I didn’t understand what he meantuntil I realized my throat was stillsomewhere in hi
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up ofsalt and stone and piecesof driftwood he found carved withhearts and letters of teenage boys'and girls' names. he wasmore than his chicken leg bones andsagging skin, and the neighborhoodkids thought he was theghost of ol' samson, but he was justninety-eight and pushing it.jonah was a man who likedto wear his mother's curtains as clothesand used moth-eaten tableclothsas blankets during the chilly nights.he had this kind of gleam in hisold, dull gray eyes. he thought he'dbuild himself a boat andset it on the ocean and maybe he wouldfind someone out there.jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.the neighborhood wives thatbrought him home-cooked dishes in bigpans to eat always told himthat he was no longer sane.but jonah said that sometimessanity had less to do with the mind andmore to do with the people.and on a warm tuesday,he draped his mother's old tableclotharound his shoulders and bundled up in a curtain, left h
( 4/03/2014 )Oh,little godless girlyou talk likethe rootsof your powerhouseare showing throughyour teeth—you’re no nymph,or autotrophbreathing &surviving offyour own carbondioxide.It’s been 64 hours50 minutes, &33 secondssince this whole thingstarted& you’re already fallingapart.You left your skillesstonguein the waste basketby the bed,your limbsspread &weepingin the alley.You are your ownflailing masterpiece& by definitionyour work deservesno title.
TenuousHope clings tocrooked cartilageeven as you use miseryto bleach your bones -you dismiss the shadowsand sleep to the lullaby of the sunrise.
you're a subliminal messagei can list every nicknameyou've ever called me as ifthey were members of my family and ican recall every time you’ve eversang in my ear during class. i knowhow many times we’ve snuck away from our friends --not because of any particular reason,your heart just ached, longedfor that familiar sense of me.or at least, i hope.because you seem to feel the skin ofevery other girl and you seemto always be able to keep ona conversation with them,it's just impossible to feel anything towardsme and impossible to notmake me feelsomething. anything at alland everything at once.or maybe you just don't knowwhatto feel towards me, maybe yourmind is as much of a jigsawpuzzle as mine is and allyou’re doing is trying to piece itall back together.i just wish we were able to help each other.you told me thursday on the trainthat you wanted to be normal.that you thought he was perfectand you were anything but.but darling you continually failto see that in my
Questionssparrowchild;lay downin the vestibuleof bracken and bargainingand in your swan songtell me the truth -why does a sparrowchildcry?
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