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
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.
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.
note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
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.
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.
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
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
on moving outI take my bookends. I take my whiteboardand that crooked letter opener I use to pop the caps offbeers, I take my poems,I take my brand-new never-used coffeemakerand my decades-old over-used typewriter which weighsabout 6 babies. I take my pictures, and those lettersyou wrote me;I do not take you. I take thePS2. and the broken lamp. and yourpuked-on, bleached-overshirt. I take no shit.[no shitbut my own shit.]I take a blanket,my good underwearand a deck of cards.I take my cat.I burn the rest.
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.
.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.
jamaisthe truth, as staunch and without ornamentas I can make it,is that I did not want your love,your voice rattling like the hoary whispersof stars;your dreams (rustling like cattailsand half-extended to meet mine)were as foreign to meas moonlight, concealedin its various robes.your sucking fireflies,neon mothish words meant to draw me in,flurried uselessly about me.but now that your attempted eloquenceis more akin to the wick of a lamp,charred and drowning in oil,I may vaguely nod my head.
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
HistoryIt's easier to generalize a century than it is to generalize a day.
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
AlmanacIt is not October until a stray cat tries to follow you home.It does not have to be a black cat.It does not need to havewhiskers warped like whirls of smoke disturbed,fur matted with ravenous burrs,frame as gangly as a sapling with bark destinedto keep count of age rings.The cat can be fatin an ungluttonous way,like a harvest moon.If it's hungry, just feed it the snack cakesthat expired in June.It is not October until you're trailing a shadowother than your own. Say, you snaggedthe silhouette of a picket fenceon the cuff of your jeans,or the underbellyof a scarecrow shapedlike the barn-houndsnoozing on the job.You keep every shadow under your bed.in the light, they grow into your undersized school shoes,scuttle about, make carpeted floor curse like wood,work their way into your growth spurts,fit over skin and skeleton like saran wrap."You weep like a willow," Grandpa saidthe first day you bled,you tried to cover your body's crimewith the only crime scene tap
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.
you are, you will bethis is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine--my bodyis beautifulwaitnofucktry again with moreconviction this time.my body is beautiful;its curves ascend more than the ruggedAlps, theyfall like contradictions from a politicallyincorrect statement, my body is thepavement of my mind's highway but theseflyovers keepcollapsing, I'mtrapped under the debris ofesteem(not self-esteem, that requiresa mind-heart team effort)my lips have kissed all kinds ofroyalty; my hands have polished enoughcrowns and sworn fealty to the rightpeople. my loyal legs once opened widerfor you to go deeper but I don't likethinking about that, I don't liketalking aboutyou.start over and this time,mean it.my body is beautiful; have youseen how my hipbones curve likewishbones?(when you find me stuck between yourgravestone-teeth, will you promise to bebreak me homolytically?)have youseen how my thighs purge out ofsociety's
one hundred waysthere are one hundred waysi have to fill myselfthat still keep me empty,and for all the love for youi hold in my heart,i treat you like you're nothing.you have built structuresand outlines of cities to pressagainst a dark inked sky,you are the blood of a broken pencoursing like a riverthrough my veins.i look the other way.i look for holesin the sweatshirt you gave mebecause there are holes in you,and i wonder if they match upwith mine.i leave it tucked justinside of my closetso that i don't see itunless i look for it,but when i doi pull it in pilesup to my faceto be sureit still smells like you-four months later,it does.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again