.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.i feel change, the waythe birdsong changes when thecat goes out for lunch
.and i stopped killing spiderswhen i realized that we are both just tryingto make our way in the worldand he hasn't got a cluehow he ended up on my bathroom floorand i can turn out the lights tostop the moths from killing themselvesbut i can't turn off my brain andstop myself from doing the same
.she became a seabed noanchor could grip, with ahabit of turning everythinginto a shipwreck
.you said november was akick in the teethand life goes onget over itand i thought godnow i know how the birds feellying dead on my kitchen floor
.i am empty,insides carved out likepumpkins on halloweenand i will tell the kids thattreats come with trickscosi was born with something eventhe night can't hide
.i want to sink intothe earthand rise up againblooming
.the oaks crouch to greetme, i sit with the ferns andthe forest listens
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.don't come to me at 2amwhen your heart starts to splitits nuts and boltsand your eyes are threatening toburst their banksi will be too busy trying tosolder my ownlaying down sandbags and prayingthe tide comes no higher
.time will only heal yourwounds on the conditionyou'll let him prise themopen again, upon return
.i keep a garden ofdead leaves, their amberribs crack under myfeet, and i smilethe flowers turn theirbacks on me
.a spider weaveshis silver lies on myfront door, and iwalk right in;the flies laugh
MythosThe Hunter Orion's prey— a sky of fleeing stars: dawn.Chiron Sagittarius: the archer's arrow, piercing eventide.
His Better HalfBride/GroomWife/Husband /Widower
HaikuWriMo1Church spire, stretching,weds the moon.2Slate skyand a heavy heat;collapsing.3Embroidered stars—celestial needlework.4Fairy wrens:steeds of elven knights,armoured all in blue.5Raindrops—wet wings,startled honeybee.6Huntsmanupon orange glass:a specimen, fossilisedin amber.7Scarred grape,veined in gold—kintsugi.8White blossoms,fallen like snowdrops.9Eagle in flight,great wings cradlingthe half-moon.10Pastel sun,peeking from a soft,smoky grey duvet.11The world settles;the heavens awaken—storm.12Black swans:two arrows in tandem.13Mirror-verse—sunset’s reflection,river-bound.14The yellow of anold book:crinkled paper moon.15Tangled in old web—a spider, noosed.16Rough brushstrokesof a smudged landscape:Impressionism.17Giant’s treasure:pot of molten goldspilledalong the treetops.18Raindropslike gemstones,flinging light.
unchainedi have seen sunrisesbloody and feral.i have walkedinto thewind.
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboardsJust writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.My repaired left half is gone;Without you, I’m faulty once more:The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.There aren't words to describe the emptiness:just return soon.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasuresfaded verses from his wife the way connoisseurssavor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.The record needle hits the groove wrong;he stumbles over words that aren’t there,rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.He doesn’t write poetry anymoreand his confusion is strangely endearing.But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,poetic lines inserted between the daily grindof character names and who said what;voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.He doesn’t write poetry anymore –except when he does.
a.m./p.m.i put my handsin the stars-feathery hair, coldskin and cyanosis fed, i realize that i amnothing. born in neither winteror spring, crying aboutcherry tree spines andthrowing stones, iwas left for thewolves. it is the dawn ofFebruary, and i am so close toseventeen that i cantaste it; i am very nearly choking on age. the sky beckons me most at 11:49 pm, becauseit's hovering between tomorrow and yesterday--that destroys me. i want to burn it to theground, breathethe ashes in like cigarettes ondirty curbs. i am stuck here in a windowless town witha thousand memories stuck between my canines;into the wind, i drop words like deadweights. take me home.
ResidueShe wilts in the wind,but laughter still sounds from aleftover shadow.
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
.i would shed my skinwith autumn, but my veins wouldcrack like the dry leaves