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.
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.
note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
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
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch
a poem for your poetryin you, find:repetition,cut lines,dash-and-enjambment;a woeof honesty wringingthe strength fromemotion:toward the end,destroyed.
thuggish loverno more on love. tell meinstead of the hearts you'vebeaten, and the way they kept onthrobbing
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
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
the truth behind loving someoneyou didn't love her.the only movie you watched that ever stuck with you was 500 days of summer, and when she asked you to carry her over the rush of the creek that way that summer would have, you did. you never knew what it was that attracted you to that movie, or the idea of loving a girl as much as the protagonist had, but you assumed it was something you should do. you were young, anyways, and you were good looking, and she, among many, had dropped words in your hands, hoping you'd hold onto something. take it somewhere, ask for more, take more, like you deserved. you don't know why you took more from her. maybe she looked best for the part. you don't really know.she was happy, always. she listened to music, you knew; she wore her favorite bands like clothing, wore art in her denim and hair length, and maybe she was better looking with makeup on or off, but she looked like a project, color paper cut and placed over her body in haphazard precision. she was a doll, everyone said abo
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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
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?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:dying alone or the Judas kiss?
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
on the afterlifethere was a heaven, once,and it was made of grass andthe ground that crawled under itopened up wider than your mouth andate me.i saw mountains: i sawbeauty, it was a roughinverted fountain. i sawJesus. he said 'deathis The Promise, and The Promisenever leaves us.' i sawdiamonds, and i saw coalstoo it just took a whileto find them. i sawlucifer. he was sewingme a nightgown made ofsoft liquor slurs. i sawmy brain. it told me'thanks for the x, notso much the cocaine.' i sawmy skin strung out to dryafter a long summer rain. i sawmy bones become the frameof a house beside a lake. i sawmy tongue cradle babies andtell them, 'the sleep is worththe wake.' i saw a mirror madeof big blue tears. it said,'the shit was worth the wait.'
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
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 be a starving mani told him,you have tolove a starvingwoman, the kindwho feeds onthe way youmove and wordsyou speak, thekind who hasforgotton she exists,sometimes, but isstill achingly awareof how shedoes exist. itold him, youprobably would loveher more thanyou think. itold him, sheloves you evenmore than that.
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
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again