i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationmy sweet synchronicity ,i have downed your appetitein a bed of front teeth (it is morning in perthmidnight in dublin, and the noonsun has been lost behinda dress of mothy curtains)do i taste ofyour forethought of love making;do i reek ofthe weeds that have infiltratedthe posture of your spine?-you bend overmy lap a curve of guiltand weep all night.i collect each knob of your bodylike a gift. press it to my mouth.swallow, spit.
i and youwho is it thatyou dream of?is it mewith the knife in your back;do you see methe woman witha wolf jawcut slack in a growl?do i pounce you?do you defeat mewith the knifei gave you?and i wonder the soundof me when you finally put your demonto rest--she is a venus(her body cut fromthe ivory tusk with hips like that of a valley, breasts shaped astwo moons caught inher breath)and i am the trapshe slips into.i cut her headinto a loop land wear her round my necklike lace.
note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
thuggish loverno more on love. tell meinstead of the hearts you'vebeaten, and the way they kept onthrobbing
thankheaven for books,and mulatto boys thatbreak my heart; thank god for vodka andthank god for urges that slither into deep throatspast better judgement and thank god for his handsthat he lovedme with
step-mothershe sings to melike the sad sparrow inthe cold,dusking the daywith a draw of chords.and i want herto choke on the glissandoof her cordial chirpsand gasp likeshe were a drowningnestling,because icannot breathe with herso close to the window, iso close to theresurrection of the freedomof mine she imprisoned.i take hold the nape of her larynx, swollenwith weep and apology,hoping to snipher straight clean.instead i fold over herlike a nest and rockher to sleep.
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
women in scornwe bought a fire pit and put your bones in it(end to the days in which we woreyour limbs on our eyes,on our hearts,heavy with contempt)and we burned you;wrapped the wreaths around our headsand undressed bare to dancein exaltation ofour freedom(a king is dead tonightand a queen reborn)
interlopershow me god the way your motherknew him, show me the mark onyour body where he stoppedyou from suicide, where he changedyour winters to summers andback again.address me by my first name to showme that your respect for me hasn'tdied, letter by letter, buried betweenthe bow of your hips alongside ouronce-strong playground love.tell me the preacher was lying as hespoke of our comely desire falling tothe destructive hand of a deity no onehas ever seen, but feels as they speakin tongues that never matched the ones ispoke in to finally tell you thati felt for you.don't leave me in some drunken tantrumacross state lines, slurring words asyou try to tell me your love for someoneelse is vivid and living in you, even in theparts that have died away, breathing outalcohol as you use the word "never".curl into me with intimacy, touching the sadnessout of me, because i always wanted to bethe one you love, not the one you loved.
tapdances on our brittle bonesif it's fifth hour and there's a cadaver in the classroom,it's because i'm carving your initials in my right carpus;or perhaps it's because we're investigating human skulls,but yours is the only one i'd like to play detective with(i'd donate my skeleton to youhad you not already owned it)(i'll use parenthesesas if they're oxygen)but not punctuationor lowercase lettersor irony because i'vewatched too much tvwithout you or senseor an attention span,and i will write poetry in the form ofsliced wrists and broken wishes, ofhacked kneecaps andhackneyed caps lock:I WILL SCREAM AT THE STARSAS IF I DISCOVERED THE SKY;I WILL YELL FROM MY LUNGS,AS IF I INVENTED BREATHINGMY VOCAL CORDS WILL EXPLODEAS IF I'M THE FIRST ONE TO YELL,and i will whisper with my tongueas if i still owned full custody of it.(and enter more parenthesesbecause you're breathtaking;i'm breathless and in need ofyour/my/our twisted oxygen)O+Mg => U+Ibut chemistry reactions don't helpwhen m
pacificher longbow mouth is un-strung; loose bottomlip with a cockedjaw -.shebirths into him likea womb
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.
virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,fifteen and beer-loosetied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lipsand i wrote a story about disaster,a quiet two sleds long.a box full of beads, i swallowedfifteen needles, mommy. don’ttell me i’m not sorry.don’t call me a whore you bag of bonesyou lock-loose suitcase do you evenrecognize me look at my face my toothache skini am not the one with the knife.my mother never slept with a boywho didn’t love her never let a boysleep on her while she lay awake beneaththe shroud of his skin breathing onlywhen her voice-box gathered too much dust.you have to know i didn’t doit on purpose. he slid beers down my throattill i felt like a landfill.i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-dot.you couldn’t tell. i got homewith my legs full of nightmare.the doctor said xanax.i said i am a ruin like the oneswe saw in peru.a balloon in a funeral poem.
a casual i love you1.a note reads: i love you.so, i call you smilingani love you, too.your phone rings. he stops.the phone stops. youstart, unclothed on top.2.you wait, watching tv,to tell me.
Witches MarketMidnight fell like an old black bird;I meant to wait for you.There were tables rich withamethyst and pearls,and fragrance by the fistful,mint and petrichor.I meant to wait for you.You were gliding through the hazewith your knotted bag half full-shadows flicked their tonguesabove your knees;you meant to look for me.Moments ran like mice;a silver pot, a cup of tea.She stank of vinegar and thyme-the hand was hers, the heart was mine.Her iron eyes reflected flame;she took my lungs, she took my name,though you had meant to look for me,and I had to meant to wait for youamid the black salt and the brew.Ash for the handle,Birch for the brush,Willow for the cord that binds the twigs.
yes, all womenmonths or yearsfrom now my therapistwill click her pen atme in the static humof her silent office,perhaps before poppingthe question so manyothers have before:why haven't yougotten over it?if it's hard tounderstand why theshortest relationshipi've undergone hasscarred my skin andnearly taken my life,then i'll explain.i am not over itbecause panic attacksrattle me when i seemy abuser's face -in person or in memories.i am not over itbecause a tank top andshort-shorts does not,under any circumstances,mean "yes", and neitherdoes his teeth on my neckor the silence betweenthe two of us.i am not over itbecause i was ridiculedand rumored to be a slutbecause his handsdecided i was.i am not over itbecause i still getprank calls from privatenumbers and nightmaresshake my fitfullysleepless nights.i am not over itbecause i am scared tocross the street to work,and i have beenharassed more timesthan i have fingersby men with the same eyesas my ab
VenusFor three nights the sungoes down without you,red mouthsdry out,the sheets remain sadand unchanged. Soon,a giantess will put downher glass to identifyyour body, so carelesslykeptfrom a photographtaken too late. And thenyou will be claimed.The altardid not forget you,girl, your little teethlike candy,or your sticky deerlegstrippingin the cola dipof the day.
slippers your ghost eats peanut butter out of the jar. an atomic grease fire tongues our oven like an aneurysm. if only we walked on clouds if only we lived in the belly of the ocean
literally, a quesadilla more than you will ever understand, you smell like an impressionist painting. cigarettes, new car, shirt stuck to skin. laughing: I wonder what would happen if we fucked right here, sacriligiously. no nerves, just confidently lacing the space between planets with electric light
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.
HistoryIt's easier to generalize a century than it is to generalize a day.
Signing in KoreanSigning in Korean as rain fallsin another land, and within my mind.A robe of cranes wraps around mywillow's body, following my every move.I gaze through my fingers as they weaveand separate the rain turned to icewith hands that flit and beat silentlyon a petrified drumthrough the constantly shifting airfrom which snow will soon driftwith the flight of cranesinto another land, signing in Korean.
welcome to wherever we aretwistingour tongues in Gordian knotschoking out tropeswe jibber like metonymousgibbons consumedin a riot of blood sugar spikes
morningssunday.the croissant crumbles in my fingersbuttery flakes drift towards mismatchedchinaand your lips are stained withstrawberry jam.monday.sleep clings to your eyeslike a shadowand i watch you breathe, whilei trace your collarbone withtired fingers.tuesday.we wake before the alarmand count how many times theneighbor's dog barksbefore she finally lets him in.your soft laugh blends perfectly intothe early morning sun.wednesday.your fingers trace the curveof my spinethe old window rattlesin the windand i press my cold toes against your leg.thursday.half asleepi mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaperlooks pretty in the sun.you tell me i look prettier.friday.i tickle your cheek with my eyelashesand make my fingers doski jumpsoff your noseand wonder out loud whythe room smells like oranges[you tell me you ate some for a midnight snack.]saturday.linen
VOGUEshe sitsheaving on the bathroomfloor on sunday nights likeit's in style to have rotten teethand bloodshot eyesand all 206 bones on display likea natural history exhibit(in fifty years they will line up before your corpse to see the girl who had to ring Death's doorbell exactly seven times before he opened the door)trees shiver in winteruntil all the snow scattersto the ground and they are leftbare and naked like skinnychildren left on the side of the road.snow crystallizes in my hair untilit is stiff and white. i miss the dayswhen the sky was black at nightinstead of faded grey and wheni didn't face nightmares ofcarving your sarcophagus.
sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.the species invents propheciesall of which contain terrorsex;a beleaguered sun collapses into itself2.It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programmingand describes the inertia as unforgivable.Outside the grief, the cardboard:Every time you teach a computer about distancethe terrorists win.In every scenario: No colorado left,and survivors leave messagesfor the future.Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,he thought of that day.The committee was rightto describe space as an absence.3.The more artisticof the species' prophecies include fieldsSomepresent ideassuch as here and thererelative to the everywhere of the other thing.The other thing is often the causeof whatever terror has been imagined.The terror, of course, being another word for nothingness.4.someone is remembering the pacific-a maniac fires his rifle into a crowdlater, the news interviews a woman,"All i remember are balloons"they say this is w
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again