.she wants to taste the moonbetween forefinger and thumb sheplucks it from the sky, and likesome great pearly gobstopperrolls it over her tongue,licks the dust from herlips,shuts her eyesand smiles
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
.i've been breaking out ofhell, but the devil don'tstop mehe slips a return ticketinto my pocket and says,you're gonna wannause this, kid
.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.my cat has ninelives and i fear he willspend each one doingthe same fuckingthingstaring out of thewindow at the birds onthe fence, when he could beout there, sinking histeeth in
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.death says he's a busy mangot places to go andpeople to seebook an appointment on the way out
.they greet me like old friends,ivory hands gripping myshoulders a little too tightto be forgivingi tell them that i'm sorry,and they know what i mean,their smiles fade and the blackholes on their faces start to furrowand i explain that it's notquite time, not yeti still haven't worked up the gutsto let them outbut they've heard this spiel before,and it's getting harder tosilence the rattling, a myriad ofskulls and ribs that i can no longerhide
.misery lovescompany aslong as it'son his termsand i've abetter chanceof winningif i just playby the rules
.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
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.he told me prayersare uselessand if i really want hisforgiveness, i should get onmy knees and beg
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
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.
.you should haveemerged with life; yourlittle roots should haveclutched the soil in theirtiny white fists, andgrowni did not mean to trampleyou, i did not mean tolet my body killyour body
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
.i knew a little boy witha golden beakcould not utter a word, buthe sure could sing a mean song
all we ever wanted was the world.it still feels like summer.the rain tastes like late nights and cigarettes,sliding through the back door,still damp with the could-have-beens,our past loverstugging at our lips. we sit in downpourand watch the trains roll past,metallic stardust spilling from our mouthswhile we talk about how we could get on one of those trainsand just get off at the last stop."and we'd never come home."
to become a writer.parents divorce before you can talk.write about itlike you don't care. try to mean it.go through monthsof shitty pity-leaking almost-poemsbefore you get onethat actually makes someone feeland thensay that it was all a mistake. mean it.only feel like a writerwhen you're insecure. fall in lovewith someone. anyone. tell yourself that's it's just for fun. just for being young.actually love the hell out of them.mess it up.write about it. smoke 2-5 cigarettes every day,something destructivebut with the hopesof saving your lungs for running(a metaphor? another rule: never tell)and drink and drink and drinkuntil you have the courage to call up ex boyfriendsor lovers or dead friendsto say that you miss them.write about that-act like you don't care.actually care.everyone knows that you care.write about that.
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
symptoms of red a materialist inside of you unknitting your sweater & in your dream you are a wolf eating a flower in an orange field. the world is ending. an unnamed girl stains you as if she were tea giving up to a foaming ocean. she writes a story: the unrequited blurry visions of two visionaries
stardust.my spine cracks beneath rose petals, and i realize i'm not worth fixing.
don't trust me unhinged like a stolen surge of ocean, I become what your girlfriend thinks I am: drinking alone, forgetting your name until it flowers from my blackberry throat I wash my tangled hair in your kitchen sink, malingering
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'