Through glassThis is permanence,This empty room.No vibrancy herebut the adamant beat of my heart,And the blue sizzle of my mind.The deep breaths before me.And the sensation of glasstouching my fingertips,sending chills up curved spines -kissing pale hairs on the back of necks.Gently and quietlyI passed my hand through the glass,And stepped from the roominto 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 nettlesroses, a vase lined with thistlesplaced on the windowsill to sitand 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,A sunbecause 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,Really,Or should I go in silence,An unsettling silence,No closure,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 antsaround ant hills and under leaves,pinned down under beams,which they never deserved, but got,which we, desperately, need.It's hard to make loveAnd call it fucking,Or fuck and call it love,When you hear ambulances and babies crying.When anything could be happeningother side of the wall.They can take your touch and make it theirs,underline its commonness,make you feel like animals behindcomplimentary wordswhich apes forgo and poets blubber,through bookstores and tears.Not so much disappointed,but out of ideasof how to dress it up in bowsand embellishinto something more eloquentand more brightthan a beautifully greyand 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 creakand 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 fanciesVaporous, 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 sensethat 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.Uncomfortably -it makes me squirm.Comfortably it makes me soft and stilllike 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 doormatsTo cover knees and leave hands grubbymucky pups in darker dirtto 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 flowersTo arrange in small vases on window sillsAnd 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 daisesglitters in April under dew.before it's yellowparched and done.After it's mud around toes.
Diamonds making jigsawsTo see bones under skin,Kept simple, plain and white,Comfortable and worn softso it runs smoothand tickles the hairs on the back of hands,arms and necks.for dry mouths,and lightly curled fingersrelaxed on pillows,or fingernail palm fists.the insignificant details, the cracks on skin,diamonds making jigsaws.For words read slowlyBrazen 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 every word.For the anticlimax finish.
Circled like oceansBeating,slowly, calmly,heard the rain and the windsaw dust and breath,and shadows on a white ceiling.My heart beat heavy then, and now,different cause,blood circled like oceanslike seashell noisebeating.
Differences1.Someone once told meThat my mind was poisonedBy the white man.That I was already deadTo my people.2.I don't believe a human beingIs inherently evilOr wishes harm on someone.3.The beauty of being a puzzle pieceIs that we're equally importantBut remain different.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever 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 roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand 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.
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14I'll tattoo you with a poison quillall the venom I will spillSo all the misery you imbuedwill permanently stick to you.I cannot find any timewhen you did not feed me lines.So I will etch on you all thepain inside my skinuntil the message sinks right in.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)Genesis: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 sayingsurvive yourself like you've survived me;saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,always,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
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
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 jobthe thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.and the taste of power on the morning wind, a wet newspaperwith the headlines of a presidential divorce.there is power in the young eagle hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.i know one thing:
But desolateI took a telescope to the skyand saw no life.No message,no god.I saw stars and planets,All empty,And our own isolation Our view bright but desolate.