note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
note 60i don't need a godto be saved
hvirfilbylurin the morning i throbagainst a lilac bruisefrom the ache i'vecarried for youwhat if i said i wake up and i look at youand your skin has not blackenedfrom disuse, has not paled fromneglect and stilli find perfection in the wayyour arms hang likea willow and thearch of your backand the width ofyour ribs like amarrow-cagefor mewhat if i said i loved you?
note 62i fell asleep besidehim, and around elevenhe woke up and said"i'm leaving"where did the hungerunlock from, why is iti spent months watchinghim come and leave withnothinguntil now"don't" i said"stay" i saidand bent my armsaround him. "allof a sudden you love me again,"and he stayed for a little bit longer
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.
pacificher longbow mouth is un-strung; loose bottomlip with a cockedjaw -.shebirths into him likea womb
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
abortionI.there is a storyabout a girlwho throws herself down the stairs, because herbaby's father is her father and she can't have her siblingalso her kid.it endswith her becoming a harlotthat the world can fondlewhen ever it pleases.II.there is a story of a girlwho sits in the clinic, waitingto be probed by the doctorand carved out like a turkeyby the assistants.she is thinking thatthe world has always disliked killing babieseven thoughthey have made it simpler.it ends with herleaving empty.
another love poemi would lay down bodies for youi am not bitter in love,i am bliss with it,my anger is yours andmy happinness is you andmy heart is sound whenyours is silent;i love you,and this painis a blessingwhen i stand to clothewhat youfear,and i will never letyou lose in circumstancewithout my own attemptto deliver what i've won,(and i have never beengiven love, but i intendto give it, until you areso weak your knees blushto bend with me)
seven hours of who you might have beeni.the breath you tookthe moment you fellout oflovelies in the dirt somewherebetween the gardenand the dip of empty earthwhere rain pools.all the lost things of your lifekeep gathering in cottony patches overheadthat only the flowersyou have touchedcan sense.ii.years vine out.between thumb and forefinger,the clumsiness ofmore than just oneseed.iii.on Judgment Dayyour tomato plantswill come out of the earthcarrying your braverylike beads of water,they will gesturewith their leavestelling howmagnificent and half-drunkyou left the houseto stand in the historic thunderstormthat killedthe neighborhood dogs,the ants ofthe city.iv.the trees lining the waterand the green in the air,the wordjuneand the distancebetween syllables of river-waterreplace the vanishing pointin all yourbest memorieswith the divine.v.how many wordsyou could formout of your name,thatand how oftenyour hour in the suncamewas all that matteredchildwhat happened
FactHeaven knows, but it won't tell.
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiverlike two blades of grassheavy with morning dewbut you're the first frost of november.
40810If only you were soulless.If you were mindless, blind,you and I could make a beautiful disaster.The press would write of our brief affair;they'd paint me (the woman in red) as pathetic.They will not consider how I need your loveor how it pains me so deeply to throw myself at you.I will not be remembered as a poet warrior.I'll be the eternal survivor no more.All who think of me will shake their bowed headsand tearfully remark; If only you were soulless. If you were mindless, blind, You wouldn't have been such a bloody disaster.
The White ThingsNothing is as far away as a minute ago.No matter how hard you row against the tidewe can never reach it, never return there.It's hard to sleep in the light of my regretsthat creeps through curtain and barriersto rot away and bleach all things white.It's hard to sleep knowing that no distanceis as far away as sixty small seconds ago.Immalleable, we rot, and things turn white.
fuck, here we go again.the back roads--80's music. a water bottle full ofgod knows what,and it burns a little going down.that's okay. we all need that,don't we? the sting. we touched a windmill. and we leaned against it,pointing at radio towerswith cheap cigarettes dangling between our lipsbefore we kissed,sober, this time(sort of).stars screamed at us.this is whyyou like the country.i wondered about our smoke creating the starsas it drifts out of our lungsin clouds of post-code envy(god, we need to get away from here). that would take a long time. that's okay. we've got time.
Allusions, IllusionWith my mouthso full of heartI know I cannot kiss youSpreadingfingers like spiderwebsacross my backA longing tree grows down south, scarring the earthlike a knife fight at sunset.
inflicti opened up the earth andstole your breath before we could do ityou and ifell in hard a couple of chicken legssprawled and brokenat the bottom and you told meto climb to the moon if i'mso eager to die but instead i crawled to you'til your brow, all six stories andjust when you thought you'dget some sleep i went in you, enamored--you were great but iwas better
I Never Stole a Traffic ConeThere has always been a silver lining.It's tarnishedBut if you melt it downandShape it into a bullet,It will still kill a werewolf.Not all dogs chase cars.Weeds don't know they are killing the PetuniasEven monsters dieThe only difference is that they don't get flowers and nobody wants what they leave behind.Things could be a lot worse.Eight black balloonsThe last Raven featherA gray hair floating in your tomato bisque.Knowing that blood tastes like dimes.I still believe that there is good left in our world.Orange things make me laugh.I knew a girl who thought that ghosts onlyhaunted mansions inNew England.
willowsquatting nude by theriver bank; you become afriction of forethought
Satelliteit seems you wander aimlessly—like the white blinking lightbetween the branches of that dark treei see when i open the backdoor to smokeanother desperate cigarette—orbiting so far in the distance thati cannot fathom your purpose,though you must serve one in the livesof many.
novemberthe sun is a dim pearlbeneath a blanket of grayhung low from the heavens;i'm your yellow tremorpaled by the cold, achingfor a proper sunrise.
SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
Love Bite, Fire FightWhen your virgin heart's been bittenby a love that makes you burn,with a voice from deep withinyou sing your bliss without concern.Once burned, twice shy,afraid that love is just a lie.You let your bleeding heart drip dryand give it all another try.
ZestSunset is early,a cast-off orange peelfloating on the lake.
note 52i don't know how to properlywrap my love: eitherin wordsor whips