8

Up

I can hear the gust of blowing wind
outside this
musty window,
and move myself to another
space in time.
Cheers, roses, moonlight.

I can smell a warm breeze and
feel my mother’s
weathered palm on my
own soft cheek.
Held in comfort.

The heat carousing over my
back
it reminds me of
the way a pair of eyes
wash over me, making me
feel miniscule, making me
forget.

Strong winds, light breezes,
opalescent linens hanging in the
teasing sun;
It’s my happiest place
but when
I open my mouth into a wretched smile
but
nothing escapes except for
a withdrawn, rattling sigh.


The Great Wave

(You are) burned on the back of my eyelids, gusts of fire whipping waspishly all over the strands of my hair, raking hot coals with my fingers;
No new love allowed in here, nothing allowed but withering, withering, withering…
To die is to live (?) To die is not to vanish but to be in everything;
I see myself in the crying children, so unknowing but still so tired;
in a bleary-eyed mother’s steadfast march;
a stooped old man who no longer has anyone to tell his past glories to.
Feel the inflammation of all your glands; close in on yourself and burn.
When did we lose all this freedom? 
When did man cease to stride with the sun on their shoulders, a gleam in their smirk?
A quiet roar, a raging calm,
a crevice in the ocean, a gaping crater in this valve.
Weld the anchor to yourself, relish the burn of your lungs, 
absorb the salt water,
rest! Rest! Rest!


Permanence

Falling hard and rapidly, there is
often a sick enticement
where you can’t seem to stop
this ever flowing ebb
of darting danger and excitement.
It courses through your veins as
you feel vitality brimming, warm, like
ethereal light, 
but
if you really sit still and reflect
on the animosity of it all,
there can never be a fall where
a steady catch awaits.
A leap into the night;
A landing in skeletal hands;
gaps, searing cold, pale fire.
So instead, your gamble away at
your emotions, toying
with the idea that someday
you will feel perfect contentment
in the pit of your soul and
until then,
we’ll grasp at straws, trying to hold
on to glittering stars, pixie fumes,
fairy dust.
A vain attempt to keep a conscience
from being seeped of all its
permanence.


lust rust stardust

a canvas is stretched over a skeleton, and life is breathed into it.
"this is my creation," she says proudly.
the sun and the moon all rise for you, baby. the stars twinkle in the reflection of my eyes, all for you.
baby, i made all this, for you to see, to enjoy.
why? why because you deserve it. because i made it and i needed someone to love it.
let me paint on you, you need help. you don’t know what you’re doing.
i can hold you up, you need me to hold you down. can’t you see?
why isn’t it responding? where did it go? please, let my baby stay.
please don’t fade into the inky night, please don’t leave me here all alone.
you are my creation, you cannot undo yourself.

this is not my design; stay here.


illusory calm

drench yourself in a 
thousand knives,
and they will drag across
your skin.
submerge a limb in
bubbling, frothing ink,
writhing across the page
trying to squeeze out your
story.
black and red; your words.

can you hear the bells ringing? 
the choir boys chirping?
concrete blocks settle like 
electric nodes, always 
threatening to choke at
the tip of your tongue.
segue from one tragedy to
the next, feeding off of ghouls,
hell-cats, satan’s hoof.

and one day the songs will fall
silent, no longer howling your requiem,
all will be still. a calm, hooded woman
will motion you forward, your sore
shoulders finally spiked with wings,
snapdragons sprout from out of your torso.
you sail into the stars only to
explode. 


Flaws

I am a conceptual experiment composed of blood, hair, and mucus, and the beholder is only myself. Everyone else walks idly by, seeing nothing but last night’s decomposing dinner.
I was crafted by a selfless person who projected that somewhere else and not onto me.


a spotless mind

so happy, so happy, I chant to myself,
so happy, so happy, so happy.
it could always be worse, a stern voice will say,
you could be uglier. raped. murdered.
Oh?
and again,
so happy, so happy,
so happy,
it’s morphine of the harshest kind; there
are no studies on it, no papers on its properties,
no treatment for when it gets out of hand.
smiles!
smiles! plastered, no meaning,
no hands to hold.
so happy, so happy, so happy,
acidic laughter rings in my ears.
this quiet room feels like a barred cage, but it’s just me,
there is no room. just cameras, flashing, crying,
so happy, so happy!
beer, heroin, poppies, lilies, eggs, mothers, seahorses,
so happy, i’m happy, 
i’m happy.


🗻

To the vast, empty plains of tomorrow, where neither you nor I matter.
To where my cracked veins and sore thumbs will find a balm, where a whole soul is possible once more.
A visage that is cleared of past charges, a new body that is soft, embodies warmth, evokes passion.
Why can’t I find this now? Where does it go? How does it continue to elude me?
I seek a self where there is no more doubt, but no more narcissism, where I can completely unmask myself and look back, seeing fresh, running water, happiness, empathy, joy.
Feathers rustle at my feet, where dead birds lie, cawing no more, this silence ringing like church bells, a place of worship and hope where I refuse to step foot in.


🚭

when I write love poems, words of longing, they never pertain to anyone particular, not in this world, but a figment of my imagination, perhaps the heat I felt for a lover in a past life.


Someday Soon

Adore you;
lacerations on my throat.
Kiss you;
sores on my back.
Hold you;
burns on my breasts.
Bury you;
skin flakes off,
(“thank you for the blinding white light”).
A new shell.