I took a telescope to the sky
and saw no life.
I saw stars and planets,
And our own isolation
Our view bright
Through glassThis is permanence,
This empty room.
No vibrancy here
but the adamant beat of my heart,
And the blue sizzle of my mind.
The deep breaths before me.
And the sensation of glass
touching my fingertips,
sending chills up curved spines -
kissing pale hairs on the back of necks.
Gently and quietly
I passed my hand through the glass,
And stepped from the room
into clear, cold water.
Vase with thistlesAn alabaster infant lay down in nettles,
gripped them tightly in fat little fists,
and said they tickle.
picked them from the roots and called the nettles
roses, a vase lined with thistles
placed on the windowsill to sit
and wait in grey light,
for the alabaster's stings to fade,
their spikes to dull,
their leaves to brown.
Pale FishPale fish seen through blue window paine,
Behind net curtains, touching the glass,
Leaving behind prints and breath,
Drawings in condensation,
A face with a smile,
because the beams don't penetrate through the double glazing.
Daisies which don't grow inside.
And the playing children seen through the blue,
Who laugh at, not with,
Until until, pale fish, she drowned.
'Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.'
Flipped and flopped.
Wasn't found for weeks.
A DeathI think things matter less,
When you get older,
But the small things mean more,
The kiss in the evening,
And the smile in the morning,
And the endless endless nothing,
The waiting until the end,
I'll choose the font on my gravestone,
And pick my slice of soil,
My upturned grass,
My coffin, made of willow,
At least the details,
I can control,
If not the odds and ends.
If I planned it all,
The days after my last,
I still won't know what to say,
In the last moment,
Feel I ought to,
Or should I go in silence,
An unsettling silence,
And no wasted words,
Just a blurred line,
And a flower I didn't see by the bed.
Thank you all the same.
Like ghosts at cockcrowA thick glass lens held against light,
To bleach out grey tones and burn ants
around ant hills and under leaves,
pinned down under beams,
which they never deserved, but got,
which we, desperately, need.
It's hard to make love
And call it fucking,
Or fuck and call it love,
When you hear ambulances and babies crying.
When anything could be happening
other side of the wall.
They can take your touch and make it theirs,
underline its commonness,
make you feel like animals behind
which apes forgo and poets blubber,
through bookstores and tears.
Not so much disappointed,
but out of ideas
of how to dress it up in bows
into something more eloquent
and more bright
than a beautifully grey
and done life.
Like ghosts at cockcrow,
We're an imagined noise,
That makes a man wake in his bed,
Not knowing why,
And drifts easily back into sleep,
Shrugging off their nerves for a creak
and the croaks of old pipes.
Caught on a nailOf nature, our function to function,
To stop and drift,
Easily passed and grey.
As vague as dreams and fleeting fancies
Vaporous, hazy existence,
Diaphanous and weightless.
My body passes as easily and quickly,
as delicately as the blood in me,
unnoticed, it's as soft as shadows,
weak and easily damaged -
fine silk caught on a nail,
a fragile sense
that one is never secure.
A shock to the egotistical state,
Bone and muscle blocking my mind from yours.
Light and tenuous,
thin as hollow bird bones,
their downy feathers.
And it's comforting.
As a species barely here,
It instils an uneasy calm.
it makes me squirm.
it makes me soft and still
like tired eyes closing,
like lying down to sleep.
I may be dirtI may be dirt.
There may be better dirt.
More fertile and soft to touch.
To tread over carpets and stamp into doormats
To cover knees and leave hands grubby
mucky pups in darker dirt
to keep them dirty for days.
You're still in this dirt, in this pile,
shovelled and dug for things to grow,
daisies raised from dust with pink tips on clean white.
for love-me-love-me-nots, forget-me-forget-me-nots,
and stems without flowers
To arrange in small vases on window sills
And leave until March, through 'til April,
when it rains and rains.
So when there's sun, it glitters.
The dirt which made grass which made daises
glitters in April under dew.
before it's yellow
parched and done.
After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,
Kept simple, plain and white,
Comfortable and worn soft
so it runs smooth
and tickles the hairs on the back of hands,
arms and necks.
for dry mouths,
and lightly curled fingers
relaxed on pillows,
or fingernail palm fists.
the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,
diamonds making jigsaws.
For words read slowly
Brazen and barefaced.
Through ivy and mazes,
Through a veiled, romantic glaze.
Through all the bullshit.
To leave them anxious,
listening with eyes closed,
so they feel
For the anticlimax finish.
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.
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
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.
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
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing:
i. one way to wake to dawnhalf the time i never
wake - i lie half-sleeping under
stars made of the flash of headlights on oil spills
and smell the gasoline-stench of
dreams as they try to breach the breakwater
of my eyes.
insomniac, they say, and i just
listen, half-alive -
scientists wonder why we need sleep and i can only say,
we don't. sleeping leads to dreaming
and not a single soul needs that
kind of disappointment, anymore.
but sometimes i find myself
into sleep, disjointed, falling through the rabbit
holes found in zeroes of one o'clock, two -
and as i wake to
shimmering sunlight shining through the
blinds, across the walls, i find it's worth it (just
this once) to watch and learn