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
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
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.
KATRINALIVES A MILEfrom the sea.she is sallow as a beach.she smells like rain,or a wet earth,with pale hair clippedbehind her headwith pins.she feels as though her hairwould be black. but it isbrown, sometimesand sometimesit is colorlessblonde.KATRINAGIVES MY STOMACHa fight.she doesn't speak.she is silence.i speak at her, mostlyand her eyeslook as thoughthey've been pluckedfrom a lynxto replaceher own.they are blue around the edgesthe deep blue you findat the edge of the sea,if you've been out that far.at the center they are greenlight like a riptide.they tug you in.unmoving, and calculatingwith audacity.KATRINAi said to someone once,gave me head.she didn't.her hands are too far duginto the coast of spainfor her to reach me,far too eagerfor my composure.she'd suck me drylike her mothers didthe caspian sea,like the fields of saharaonce lush with green.she is a barefoot girl.she moans like the shorefrontin the dead of night.i've made love to
a poem for your poetryin you, find:repetition,cut lines,dash-and-enjambment;a woeof honesty wringingthe strength fromemotion:toward the end,destroyed.
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.
just a thoughtdon't let your sadnesscarry you. you can look at it-and rock it to sleep in yourarms and let it melt in yourhands, you can put it outon the windowsill forthe cats. they knowhow to kill fast-moving,sharp things.you canblow it out with black dreamsand the sky will eat it,she will cough in 200 yearsbut she will eat it. you candigest it in a concrete pillthat you can't snort, but knowthat the sadness will come for you inthe morning like the motley hawk tothe long-dead doe who thought sleepwould offer some peace, but no-you thought relief would offer some peace, but no-the sadness will come for you inthe morning.you will carry it, dragging it looselyby your ankles behind a pale body. if you carryit, it will wear down, sometime. it's got to go,sometime- just don't let it carry you.
some things you have to figure out yourselfsleep is creeping pasttwo holes in heavy eyesrips my mind from my thoughts,the muddy rib from my sideyou in the aisle of wal-martwriting Jesus underpretense of a hallmark card"what's a stone without a sinner,a sin without a stoner?"the life-longquestion: which is worse-the need or the donor?because we, unequivocally,have excelled at ripping allof the fruit from all of thetrees. your eyes are open,they are viewing, but theydo not seeand do you seewhat i mean? do youeven see meat all?three hits.a snip, a crush, two sniffs-i need you, i need thisyou are beautiful and i am hungry,but i can't take what you won't give.(the need and the donor)and-which is worse:the deliberate lie or the Judas kiss?i am starting to understandthat i can't haveit all.i love you, standing strong andstanding tall, but how muchdo i love you if icurse you when youfall?we have been conquerors of everything,and keepers of nothing.don't you
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
contactwould it be possibleto grow so comfortable withanother person'sskin,that distancewould feel like tearing off your own?
tremblingmaybe i should askyou for a lifetime,she said withher palms dangling,neck dangling, toestipping over themselveslike she was the pervasiveproduct of a sad, crumpledpuppeteer.maybe i should askyou for, at least,a summertime, she said,this time circling withblack, slick, meteorsfor eyes. i didn't care-supernova or end of theworld, i'd tear myselfapart just to be ather center. i'dvolatize myself,blue blood runningthin- i'd destroymyself.maybe i should askyou for my name back.maybe i should askyou for some space.maybe i should askyou for some fuckingcompany when i'm aloneand i can't faceanyone else. maybei should introduceyou to my mother.maybe i should peelyour skin and blow your cover.maybe i shouldask youfor alifetime, she said.i'd give it,oh man, would i give it.
.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.
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.
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.
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
.Sometimes,the ghosts thatclaw at my eyesand the demons thatpour from my mouthlook a lot like you.
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.
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
Sticks and StonesThey say words can never hurt you.Silence does a better job.
the (real) year of the rabbit , part IIto matt:the year of the rabbit hasdescended upon us-nicotine-starved and perched onthe kiss of higher education,i can feel the hare bloodsinging alongside my blood-rimming red my eyes into a pair oftortured, twitchy nestsstrengthening my heart-with the stamping of its legspushing forth my hips,offering a sloppy, slutty wreck-i have been awfully weak with my passion.But no more!The fever has come asa soft and subtle guest.Today- if someone were to ask mewhat i wanted mosti couldn't pretend to know,as i have often pretended to knowfor knowing's sake.or trying's sakeor faking's sake-Those who are most sure,you should be wary of. youshould remove your left eyeand stick it to their side.you should not leave themalone with the last piece of pie.Those who want one thingwant all things. and those whowant all things are usuallylooking for one thing. And, well,those who don't know arethe most honest and youwill find the feverthere.to matt:there is a new lov
not on patriotism'god bless america'that's all you saidwith your head betweenmy legs when you slippedbetween the skimpy flag andme. i think i'm a differentkind of soldier, one of tonicbrains and scanty culture. believein me as hard as you grip my shoulders.believe in me as hard as all the wayswe drift and smolder. you sayyou've got no rhythm but i'm keepingcount with the way your tongue whipsaround and a 1 and a 2 and a 3 and ano more, no more, please no more-lay your head on my chest, daddylay your worries to rest, you cancount on us being madly laid torust in fifty years but until thenwe are kings and queens ofsex and harmony.
spider song, purple ladyshe carrieda pair of scissorsin her purse so she couldcut the filter off her cigarettebefore she smoked it.she sucked in hercheeks and pursed herlips when she had to bepatient for anything.'how do youstay so thin?' i askedshe gathered her braceletsat her wrists and they clinkedlike wine glasses, like the twinkleof her smile, 'cigarettes and ritalin,'she said. 'a steady diet of cigarettes and ritalin.'she had smallhands that were notfeminine. her fingerswere short and her palmswere wide.everything abouther was purple. evenher eyes. they were brown.she didn't wearlipstick. only gloss.stinking, pink, and sticky.don't go too near, you'll endup with your lips stuck and thenshe'll eat you. you'll love it.i asked whyshe didn't justcut the filters offall at once, all at onceat home and she said, 'honeyit's wednesday, and i've barelymade it past monday yet.' snip,flick, fzzz. alright, i said, you knowyou're one hell of a girl and you'realright, i said.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again