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.
thuggish loverno more on love. tell meinstead of the hearts you'vebeaten, and the way they kept onthrobbing
note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
a poem for your poetryin you, find:repetition,cut lines,dash-and-enjambment;a woeof honesty wringingthe strength fromemotion:toward the end,destroyed.
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)
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.
pacificher longbow mouth is un-strung; loose bottomlip with a cockedjaw -.shebirths into him likea womb
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.
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.and we're all artists.we paint ourselvesonto someone else likeit isn't painful for them,like it isn't killing themin the process. we give themownership of our failures,we lay our flaws under theirtongues so when they speak,more often than not, we hearsome distorted version ofourselves. we expect themto love the way we love. we expectthem to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we'reall fucking artists, right?and we're all individuals, of course.we're all on our brave, one-mantrip to enlightenment,we're proud of the wayour word has been shaveddown to feelings, and moments,mood swings, and oxyoff the bathroom sink.well i can't be the only fuckingone who's tired of being an artist.i can't be the only one tiredof seeing my skin stretched out overeveryone i know. i am tired of watchingmy reflection shimmer and fade in theirsmiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becomingsilver in one moment only to tarnish in thenext. i am tired of asking
.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.
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.
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.
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.
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
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
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.
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
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.
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
dreams from the strawberry cityi woke up with the word prozac on my lips.aaaand i dreamt of london again and thecity was swollen and the lights were red, trafficclutter and cinnabar bus shelter redi thought i heard a train smashing but it was only newspapers soaking upthe nocturnal tempo of some underground night clubsome state of the art sound system, oh so modern oh so let's pretendto be an orchestra, hang cables from plastic pronounces,
Tattooed in My Tear DuctsI don’t know any big wordsand I don’t drink tea and I haven’t readall the classics and my hair is a startlingshade of ash blonde, if you’re beinggenerous. I would call it grey. I will notimpress you. And maybe that’s impressiveenough. You will always get an honestreaction from me.My mother drinks tea though,earl grey, and chai and chamomile,she thinks it will heal her, make hersleep. But sleep and healing are notthe same things.I have run from monstersto find them in my sleep, and by runI mean get high, and by monsters,I mean me. If sleep is a mirrorwe are all doomed. I’ve seen myself,eyes red and raccooned, reachingfor some comfort and I had to explainthat my lips swell when I cry. All I wantedwas for you to say that I look pretty whenI cry.I have come to realize two things:one, that everything I want is not good for me andtwo, I am not the worst things I ever did.I am not the worst things I ever did.I want this tattooed i
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.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again