ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency: i. / green mist-earth / knit atmosphere / fathomless blue-lavender / lights spun out from light ii. are recalcitrance / and you are convergence & - a fingernail of summer - a melting of rain - a crown of flowers - a priest of sunsets(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.Zemi. are you beautiful because I loveyou? Zemi? ) iii. I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution. To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us when we have forgotten how to listen for it. I never could forget this: for how could I know my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street? iv. We go on morning walks and Zemi laughs at everything I say.
what are you thankful for?thank god for youand for LSDand for all things in between the twothank god for democracyand for level-headed patriotswho realize the real love of countryis the love of others and respect of self.thank god for the biologistsand the chemists and the physicists andthe mathematicians who in the faceof an ugly human race, give mereasons to love the worldeven more every day.thank god for trees and mountainsand oceans and fresh air and wide fields and, i'll say it again, thank god for youand for LSD too because they belong in the listof natural beauties as well. you are made of the earthand lucy helped me to see that. every day i thank god forthe truth being that he doesn't really exist. that all thingsexist. that i have a conscience to keep me straight. thatenergy is never created or destroyed. that energy is god. i thank godfor that.thank god for my family. i wish they weren't so blind but i thankgod for them nonetheless. i thank god for your eyes. green likethe back
a string drawn tautthere are so many blue stars in your skinbut i can't believe each neuron is a universealight with planets,gaunt aliens signing godin the absence of your name,dim cars on the street,beneath an awninglike a glowing orange wombyou shudder saying,god,i just had a chill, is this room coldor are we in the gut of a giant who's strung outseven days lifeless,biting the apple,a dragon,wishing for his mother,mijo, dioses magno,the earth is spinning in the eyesof a turtlewith a red shellwho swims in the flowers ophelia braided, who swallows supernovas and they pass through his kidneys,oh god,we could burst any minute,a fly's nerves twitch,tectonics shift, a city laid,babel screechesbetween microscope lenses, clutching wife to child,do you know my name?do you know you're shivering? do you know i'm the son of your nucleus?i live in your cheekand die at your
Vishnui. (matsya - fish)in the beginning, there was silver;mercury inscribing cuneiformbeneath the bloodwork of your skewed scales,scrawling preserverthroughout salt-drenched lungs.and you laced clear planets into your slipstream,wrapped solar systems in translucence.ignoring all the shattered galaxies. ignoringhow easily their frail orbitsbroke.ii. (kurma - turtle)your ribcage screamed a shattered warcryof not-quite-god and less-than-human;a shark's-tooth carapace crushed in. forgotten names clawed out your sternum.your spine fused into your biting back.iii. (varaha - boar)razor-wireless shrieked of true talesthieved by midnight's neon-tripped true bones.gunshot eyelids half-horizon,you rose, arpeggioof stop.iv. (narasimha – half-man, half-lion)he walked like christian gods on holybreaking waves of children's bowed backs.a crooked tooth inside you turned,crucified his smug steel-gray blue.v. (vamana - dwarf)eras of electrons scratchedthemselves into your heels
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
(MDCCCXVIII.)& maybe élanis holdinga magnumto your temple-no bullets,flowers(lilacs)like we stolewhen we were young,wondering aboutcelestial skies& the meaning of forever:it will never passinto nothingness.
Eighteight.i felt most violatedwhen you denied it—evidence may have mountedin the mouths of other victimsbut i haven't spoken—even in the wake of certainty,family and loyaltyforked my liar's tongue—maybe it's enoughthat you know what you did—because i can't bring myselfto hate you.seven.your son's beautiful—you were my firstand i don't regret that—in your arms,i realized myself.six.it wasn't my fault—i received the letteryears too lateand suicidehas never been sympatheticin the eyes of thosewho suffered to live—yet, i write for you,remember your face acutely,long for the nightwe bathed togetherand you told meGod hated us.five.i wrote a poem for you—it was long and vitriolic,full of anger's energy but—halfway through,i realized you aren't worth it—have a nice life,long and unfulfilling.four.you hid food under the bed,said we were bad children,did everything in your powerto make us f
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
LungsMaybe ifour lungsexhaled moneyinstead ofcarbon dioxide,we'd valuelifea little more(or maybe we'd just go broke).
apart.and I was sitting in the gutterafter trying for the fourth night in a rowto drown you along withall my other ghostsand the churchwas across the streetcross lit up high in the skyand it feltlike the completeopposite of salvation.it was 4amand with the neon blueshining in my eye linei realised i was alonei was utterly alonein the saddest way possible.
make me blue foreverwe had sex between empty boxes on the floor and the scent of vanilla and dragon's blood incense made everything seem more vacant than it had to be. the room was cool but too warm beneath his skin, between his and mine. the ashtray was half-full, i noticed, as we moved across the floor, and the smell of summer dying was coasting through an open window. i becameinfatuated with the knowledge that fall was coming. soon it would be cold. i could smoke,stare at the sky and maybe i'd stop purging. maybe i'd commit to health, stop cutting and anxiety. maybe i would change.or maybe i'd keep promising myself that until next fall. all the while, i am changing, just not in ways i want. i corrode internally. i turn so blue that i begin tofade into the sky.he grabs my hips and moves me, tipping me up and steadying me to ride him, the phosphorescence of the quiet bright room seemingly ingested by me. m
untitledseducing the writeris pointless;he'll seduce himselfif you're silent.
.i have learnt enough about gravityto know that he can do what i can't, myselfsnap my bones like twigsunderfoot, andhe says that beautiful things arethe easiest to break
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