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.
UntitledGlide through the heavens
in hopes to evade
the crimson wings
that holds you down.
When will you shut the pearly gates
and walk away?
When will you cut the crying chains
that paint you grey?
είναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγής
που αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.
Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
Like a vagabond.
At a four-way
street, past any signs
that I comprehend.
If I had I had it my way,
I would cruise on the highway
and never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousands
of tongues i could
memorize; new words
for love tucked between
teeth often biting
my chapsticked lips
could learn to bow to
grammar laws in
i could master writing
symphonies in syntax,
spend hours penning
volumes in languages
of longing and love,
but i'll never find a
phrase that fits you
the way your body fit
to mine, back bent.
i'll never find a name
for how our lips tucked
together, for my hands
in your hair, for the
rapture in your eyes.
adolescenceWe look up into the sky
and see the stars as millions
of possibilities for us to wrap our hands
around and try, picking and choosing
our favorite constellations like apples
in the fruit aisle of a grocery store.
We talk about our dreams
of leaving this town
far behind and far away,
but we don’t talk about how
leaving home means leaving each other
and each constellation we wrap our hands
around propels us into completely different
directions. We want to hold on to each other
as much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,
but we can’t have both,
and that scares us.
We look up into the sky
and see how big the galaxy is
even when we can’t see 90% of it
and we are suddenly aware of how
small we actually are, barely grains of sand,
barely specks of dust, barely here at all.
We stop looking up and look
down at our feet shuffling,
worried and afraid for each other
because we barely sleep and failing
a class means failing high school,
failing to get into the dream college,
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.
Sooner or later,
It'll mess with your head;
You'll be taking a shower, or
Lying in bed
When the "inspiration"
Hits you hard
And when you miss the bus and first hour
You have to use the
"I over-slept" card.
It'll have you thinking
At every point of the day;
Twisting words and making rhymes
Prodding until the language sways
To your fingertips
Lower case letters nip
In hopes that you'll use them
Abuse them until you are at
They will mock you until
You simply can't think;
The words swirling around,
They will push you to the brink
Of complete denial,
Of absolute insanity;
"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, I
Feel fine" are the words you
Have to beat.
You will not care how people
React to what you say;
What do they know of
What we do everyday?
You think that to yourself,
As a way to not seek help
In the comfort of real
Love and not the fake kind
You write of.
You will lie and you will
Cheat and scoff and say
For all your most
Important words are
What Rape Can't Tell YouHe parrots the word, over and over until it sticks
Like the bruises on schoolchildren's hands, when they realize purple hurts more than red
While others mourn the translation lost in between
The definition he wrote
And what they want to scream to the world.
All you know is a word,
The hell hidden beneath it is nothing
But the trace of a memory that doesn't belong
To you, and you're so glad it isn't yours
Because then that pain can just be a word,
A beautiful illusion of pretend-this-doesn't-happen and
You deserve prettier words, better words, you think
Ones that stay silent, can be hidden across a page
Victimless and longer than the four letters they warn you about
You don't know how that word is strung
Or why they tie chords around their wrists
In protest, why the memories they drag are drugged and
Filthy with the crimes that can't be forgiven
You don't know how that syllable can hurt,
What it can do
You don't see the gashes in their organs
Or the fissures tha
EmbersHer hair was orange
and glowed in the fire
turning black and ash
not a single moment later
the scissors were cold
The embers were
glowing just the same
hungry for her tresses
the royal red burned
yet no burn was left
Her hair was short
uneven with amber roots
outgrowing the dye
showing her natural shade
mom and dad took the scissors away
Orange locks tickle her neck
fire cannot fight fire
mom and dad breathe easier
she does not touch the scissors
though she always looks
She is eighteen
leaving home is a blessing
her hair bundled in a hat
she does not like to see it
the brightness keeps her up at night
The hairdresser mourns her hair
more than she ever does
as it falls limply to the ground
the locks have lost their hue
she smiles as they fall
It is easier to tell people she is happy
now her hair is gone
orange roots don't show on a shaved head
she stands proudly now
she doesn't keep scis