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.
a poem for your poetryin you, find:repetition,cut lines,dash-and-enjambment;a woeof honesty wringingthe strength fromemotion:toward the end,destroyed.
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
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again
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
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.
note 68i've a talent inturning men into gods.i sow their voicesinto commandments andtheir breaths intocreation.how he gives me life.how he takes it away.
thuggish loverno more on love. tell meinstead of the hearts you'vebeaten, and the way they kept onthrobbing
the protector i grind my palm into my stomachand it crumbles like the soft rocktowering the highway, crashing onthe paved road.i am not at a loss as to how it isi became so weak. i sat myselfdown one night a while agoas i shivered from your words,and i saidsoak it in, let it poison you.i am not a drug addict. but in youi looked for the possibility of feeling.and you did poison me.i sit within dreams where your mouthis wet, and tugging me, and myhands are pressed deep within the parts of you that stay warm. i am not cold. but my bones acheas if they are, perhaps it is becauseyou are so close, or perhaps it isbecause the air stills when youare near.in the morning i wake with my mouthdry and my palms wet and my shouldersaching. and my voice stumbles, as if itslipped out in the middle of the nightto find you.i can never find you.i do not blame youfor the absence.i know that if you were brave enoughyou would stay. i know that if yourskin did not crawl w
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
hungry womankiss me where i'm starving,a hungry woman's love is startling.drop your lips down my wrist,grab my hair, strip my kiss-the tongue is equippedwith two loves, one:skin, the other larcenyopen me uptake my shadowsscar melick my woundslift my fearsguard metake me downthrough the mountainsand haunt me. i neverwanted you to steal my dreams,but i wanted you to watch me in yoursleep behind my eyes where you couldcalm your lungs and ease your mind.breathe until yourbreath tastes fine.we take turns being strong,you and i, though i'll admit-you are the strongest most of the time.lick my wounds while i heal,make me yours, make you mine.kiss me where i'm starving.a quiet man may havethe loudest heart, buta hungry woman's loveis startling.
inertiai think i brokesome bones in my sleep.i remember waking upand saying i will do it in the morning.my floor is littered with broken thingsi meant to fix. there is a mosquitoin here growing fat on the thingsi have intended to change.the radio whose battery light is flashinga slow sos at the darkening ceiling.the piles of old letters stacked like snow.the people who told methey were lawyers and insurancebrokers in the elevatorone time at two inthe morning with the stenchof death on their breath.the day my body stoppedhealing.
Prelude Nocturne;I conjure the moonas dusk crests, a wave across the sky I am lovely and lonely in the night, shadow- shackled to the mountainsideand the mothsunfurl their hamsa-wings asmama calls me in.
a fracture in late augustYou were a venture capitalist with a sharpie, drawing strip malls up my shoulders.You were a half-mile of train tracks on a Sunday night at the very end of summer, our lips fresh with the tastes of grass and each others necks.You were everything I could carry in a purple scarf—two empty glass bottles, a pack of Marlboro Reds, a picture you drew of me on your bed that first morning when I propped myself up on my elbows to write.You were almost a notebook full of plans.You were an expanse of skin beneath my deaf hands, and after that first night in the grass when all I could say was holy shit you were grinning into my back, saying I know, I know.You were the reason I lost all of my right earrings and I didn’t care.You were the only person who has ever called me beautiful.You were every single Beatles song, every single one, and I couldn’t think of any beyond I want you.You were going to be back in thirty minutes.You were every shadow at that party as I watched
untitledseducing the writeris pointless;he'll seduce himselfif you're silent.
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.
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
(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.
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
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
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.
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
the world doesn't need beauty sleepmother earth is pregnant;her curves yawn -molasses stretches of dark,dank night freckled withstreetlights sparkling.i yearn to rest in the cradlethat the small of her backhas become.the roads untangle likeveins unto her skinafter being held so longin the fist of pre-dawn.drunk in slumber, red-eyed,beautiful - morning willcome yet, the small childborn in the rafters ofcatastrophe, aching;but before her date,mother earth shifts in her sleep,love settling in the wingof her hip -exhaustion dilutes her blood,consciousness touches her goldenshoulder on his way out the door.
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.
tell me things that are true.tell me thingsthat are true.'fall comes soon,your eyes are blue.i love you.'any of those willdo.'breathe,come on,deep breaths.'the seizing ofmy chest is makingup for all the yearsthat i thought iwas dead.'hannah,come on,i am trying my best.'pleasetell me things thatare true.tell me things thatare true so when i losemyself, i willalways knowthat youhave me,that ihaveyou.
they can't be takentheir bleach skin caught my eyealbino white against the wildhair like bright sky electric in the briarshaloed sister gods shot down like fawn
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