supressed sunshineand i hope to shinelike the sun at midnightsurprisesurprise
biblei am tryingto bethe mirror of your messageyet i find myself sickunder the weight of your books
psychiatristhow long can you crywithout a reason why
i am writing to Nightnightin shining armourcome through my doorwaygenerating organic mechanismsi touch you until you bleed sunshinesqueals and sighs
nitelight theatreshadow puppetsdanceand devour each other
Manifestations of Multiplicitya double life isdozens of false tales spilta thousand lies spread
Citizen Satisfactioni heard nothing is ever promisedland before beginningfrom sea to shining seizemanifest destiny today another dayin another shapefreedom it fits butnot around the hipsyou keep waving that flagin my face screamingone size fits allbut i feel it wearing thinand you are stretchingmore than a guarantee
No spaceship to the other placewish i could fly not quite like supermanmore like them girls from salemsalve on gills like hoodoo menafter sun-doneset off in the big river's mudno one would miss me
whateverand so whatif i do not playbuy the rulesand what if i buythe rights of foolswhat if i am?full of exclamations and lol'syet i reject contractionsso what if i ama compilation of contradictionsand my bonus track a conundrumi rock steadywith the rhythm of the oceanso compose me an infinite playlistfull of siren hymnsand i will wreck like a broken recordplaying my peace over and over
A Short Love StoryI counted your teethwhen you died,all twenty-eight of them,because it gave me more timethan counting your toesand fingers (and thumbs),or just looking at your faceand telling the coroner:he's the one.
CathieSalt-and-pepper hair contrasts sharply with the crisp, starched pillow;bone-thin arms resemble bed rails--tears in my arms, the morphine drip in your vein.My inner rage refutes your calm acceptance.You ask if we are waiting for you to die: no.We are waiting for a miracle,we are waiting for you to heal--We are waiting for something that will not happen.We are stretching for something that is out of reach.We are holding onto our obsolete hopes, the small fragments of our livesso closely, we cannot see the bigger pictureof eternity.In a paradox, God is calling you clearly,but we can't seem to hear His voice--only the silence ringing in our earsas the monitor stopsyour breathing ceasesyour face un-creases--and, for the first time in years,you run Home.
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
tencourage must be a dominant trait,for how else could you handle a pin-pulled grenadewith such delicacy and patience?
PurposeI don't know what causedyour eyes to droopor the bottle of sleeping pills we had in the cabinetto disappear.Or do I know what caused the man whokilled his wifeto stab the one he swore"I do" to.But what I do know is the messagetwisted and fitted into our brains,that all things happen as they must,snap and fit like zippers and buttons.So maybe the bride,had cheated on her belovedor maybe she was crazy;and he was just helping her out.And maybe you were createdto grab my heart and break itthen mend it back together,all to let yourself go in the end.
JMTI spent ten dollars, fifteen cents,and four months of my life on you.
onomatopoeiai. we are stardust,she says, and we glitterlike the northern lightsbut. aurora borealis was neverso twisted, i reply,and we laugh.ii. i am not the one whoshines in the dark.i am not the one who hasorchid blossoms tumblin'from her mouth as shespeaks, every worda sunray. she flirtswith the whole world,with danger and deathand life and -iii. comparing palmsand fingers and nails.it's unfair, i think. mineare stubbed and bittenand chewed, thingswhich may have beenbeautiful once but now,oh. they are chippedand flawed, while hershave always beensilver and gracefuland perfect. afterwards,i begin to wear gloves.iv. she is a haiku,simpleand flowing andgraceful, whilei am anonomatopoeia - justnoise.
Clichedoes your poetry consist offeelings nestled in ribcagessilent cries inside of a marrowand the dull thunk of your heartagainst my barely beating bones?or is your poetry nestled in galaxiesshooting across well-kept fingertipslike comets lighting a dull skystardust of my hip bone wishesliterature universe coming to an end?can your poetry play imaginationlike a clever twist in a dreamwhere you kiss my shadows awayand teach me how to caress youwith love that burns passion away?oh dearare you smitten enough torun away with meor are you yet to be blanketedby these heavy arms of mine?do my words weigh you down?i havent met one so easily drownedby the vast sea of my sunkissed lettersbut as your velvet lips whispered,always is there a first.
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair colorand forgive their monsters.i change my moralsand become one.
nine fifty sevenyou are wide, animated eyes likea couple of pale moons in a velvet winter sky, andlimbs that stand like willows against thesuburban scape behind you, soft grace in yoursure stride, soft sincerity in the slight curling of yourlips, sweet with a salty aftertaste or bitter with aspicy edge, i can't decide,but your aches and pains echo likea thousand orchestras playing Rossini toopen amphitheatres, and i can hear the soundsoaring across open plains to where i amhiddenwhere i stand, between black buildings and slate roads,i am rouged cheeks and deep scarlet lips withcigarettes perched between them and billows of smokeframing my face, blonde hair pinned back,wearing a black turtleneck, i am your film noirfemme fatale, but my big brown eyes seemreproachful in your gaze, after all,i am a living facade, and the world is mydisappointment, and my own reflection is mypure hatredwe're both so disillusioned we can't see beyond our own starsand the atmosphere seems to condense
cardio.each octopus has three hearts,two to pump blood to the gills,the other to pumpto the rest of the body.such great efficiency thatif someone were to break their heart,they'd still have two more triesto get it right.lying on our backs on the floor,i think about us and marine lifeand nothing whileI let my hands do the talking,say the more important things.and i trace his scars with myfingers and mind,red ropes of recovery,resilience that's faded to pink.when he tilts his head to the sideand waits for me to speak, i thinkthis is how i'll find you through the messthe sea of bodiessomeday when everyone's the sameand i only have one heart,not two or threeand at that moment it pounds,loves him with everything it has.
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressfor four days, becauseI am sick, exquisitelysick --black and gold, your drunkdimestore Nefertiti. Awhite stain announcesitself, a muddy star:she coughedhere. Undo yourself,those sallow words you drink,let the silk fall loose. I've gota face like dirty laundryand burial grounds --What I touch becomesunwell. I wear my hairlike it pains me,blow kisseslike a little girlsucking her teethat cars, the caked littletombs of sugar that crumble,nakedunder the hot milkof the sun.
It is enough that I sit here gently rocking, every glass still undrunk these quiet hours, my face unzippered, my skin discarded on the floor; the sigh of the fridge, the creaks
two-headed boy.there’s a thin yellow boywho dances around the roomto accordion keys,syncing to the timeof the needle that sings in his veins–and he achingto know where he’s gone;more of himescaping when he opens his mouth,because those wishesare his best kept secrets,now flooding the skylike exploding suns.now he’setching designs across his skinas if he’ll find himselffolded up, naked and new,underneath his pores.
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]
dancing on the fire escapedancingon the fire escapei climb closerto heavenwith every stepto where the skyburstsinto gradientsof vibrant colourand no boundarieswill everchain medown.
artist's dawnhalf past fourmellifluous silence hung buoyanton gossamer skiesshe painted the sun litheand lissom strokes brushing spacewith sunrise bursting from her fingersshe perspired morningbrow beading imaginationof clean towel cloudsand citrus sunlightdallying
Flashyes, there’s something niceabout fireworks thatcut through the night andspill golden light all overthose who watchbelowbut there’s also something magicalabout the smoke trailsilluminatedby each and everyflashhow they showwhere the fireworks tore through the darknessbreaking through the unknowneven with no light to guide themhow they displaynot only where we end upbut how we fought to get thereand I realizethat as pretty as each little flash ishow beautiful each burst of color seemsI think I’d much ratherbe learning aboutthe smoke
breakup breakdowni rarely touchthose seven digitsthat make the voiceon the other endyours