.i laid in the flowers andi listened to them hum,i think i loved your handsthe most, even when theyflayed me to the boneand i don't think i'msupposed to talk about -the devil, he said i'velived one hell of a life,you see, just read myname out backwards,and god ain't nothingbut a dog, so don't youeven go wasting your time(i left my conscience pining outside the door)
.she told me i had soft palms,i said yeah but i've got a hardheart, because wheni was young i got giventwo goldfish, and one day thebig ate the littleand that's when i learnt i'dbe fucked by the world, it woulddo the same thing to me too(i heard the language of evil and i started to speak it, saw the actions of evil and i started to be it)
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.unbutton my skinand let me fall out;(a mass of red and blue strings to wind round your fingers)
.my thoughts want toflee, but there is no fireescape, no guide to theexit of my head, and theyconsider digging a holethere, i feel it, maybe acrack just wide enoughto crawl through, drop arope through the backof my neck and climbdown, prise open theearth - a tremble turnsinto an avalanche, anda snowflake in the flurrywonders am i the same asall the rest? he coughs andsplutters and chokes onit - i wake in the earlymorning, heart lodgedin my throat, that redbird in that chimney, he'sgoing to starve there andi'll be spitting feathers;i won't claw the insideof my neck again fornobody, i'm past that,pick me up by thescruff and drop mewherever you're going -but wait, when lightningstrikes a tree, well isn'tthat love? and when therain pelts the ground,well what about then?when you miss the acheof wounds as they'rehealing, is that it? wellwhen your nose bleeds,that's still love right?cos i've got an entirepack to get through -and what a funnything it is
.in a poemeverything comesto life, so i writeabout you, i writeabout you, and iam still keepingus alive(light the path then, lantern eyes, if you know the fucking way out of here)
.and goddess,this isn't something i cansweat or starve out of me,i'll have to write and it willbe madness,see i've often thought aboutplacing my head in the pestleand mortar, i wonder if i couldgrind out the hell inside, becomea red pulp on the worktop, andeven the oven keeps tutting at me,it's so easy, just open the doorstick your hand in, feel his forkedtongue on your palm,orange lover, youknow you'rea cowardfor thisand it's truethat the dead are never reallysilent, they grunt and they groanin their damp soil sheets,toss and turn overagain(fill the bath with water, and just drop me in it)
.i don't believethat if you can dream ityou can do it,cos i once dreamt thati killed atlas,i tore him limb from limb and theni stabbed the globe he held,watched itdeflate,and sometimes i get sadabout the children in the worldwho will choke on all the wordsthat they'll never learn to speak,and there's a baby somewhere garglingthe meaning of his life,and he's a little bit upset that youkeep wiping itaway(i have no words for you)
.i like to feed things inthrough my mind and then pull themright out of my chest when they'redone,put it on paper and call ita poem, feed itback into the brainand repeat, butanxiety says justlet this stuff go -cough up those wordsthat you've got in yourchest and dust off theshelf in your lungs, feelthem one last time if you wantbut please, send them away intheir poems, and quicki'm realsorry buti'm just notdone with themyetthere's nopoetry dripi can ripfrom the backof my handand my neck,can'tdischarge myselffrom this one(chew it up, spit it out)
.karma sits on my sofawhiskey doused, eyes rolled upto the top of his head, and he saysjust do whatever the fuck makesyou happy, mate, just dowhatever you want(what a terrible thing to be full to the brim with emptiness)
.my bedroomsuffocates me,so sometimes i climbout the window andcurl up on theroofinstead,there used to be a treedown the side that kept hisarms open for mebut he said i don't thinkyou're ever gonna knowhow it feels to bemidasor medusa,you know you'vealready got a heartof gold and eyesof stonei said nowyoudon't getto touch me(i can drop down into the alley from here, or sit with the cat like a gargoyle)
.i can almost hearthe soundof everything -foxesweepingon the bodiesof rabbits, idid not meanto, i did notmean -howling andhowling,the deer inthe headlights sayingi told you so(and do you hear that? that's the sound of it all caving in)
.she said i spentnine months on thiswork of art, and nowit's justdestroyingitself(it's tearing through its own beautiful canvas)
.how am i feeling? well todayi'm a phoenix, doc, here get mean ash tray i'll show youand please i just wanna sleeplike lena does, i got a brainlike a ten ton weight(and i'm still holding what's dead because no one else can carry it, and i can't get into bed until i find somewhere to bury it)
.there are a million different worldsthat have been built on top of this one, and i know this cause they whisper throughthe cracks of doors in secretto each other -i heard you're never more than six feetfrom a rat, eight from a spider andseventy from the sea, please, don't letyourself drift any further out from me(holy ghost, are you flammable?)
.i heard that eventhe dead have nightmares; sometimesthey roll in their graves
.sleep left himexhausted;when he closedhis eyes he sailedthrough graveyards,and every nighthe threw himselfoverboard
.pour love allover, then strikea match;the fire willburn itself out,but the ruinswill smoulder
or maybe it actually is.thisis nota love poem:this is not aboutme and how i hatethe way realism tastes.this is about you.this is about how youare one too many shades arrogant,how nearly every night youtry to forget that time hasleft you behind. this isabout your laugh and the way itwhispers "i can't rememberwhat i was like before ibecame this." and,if i'm being honest, this is abouthow i will never see your toococky for your own damn good grin thatmakes me go weak in the knees.this is about youand how you're not real and how i wishto god that i wasn't either.
You asked for dark poetry.i will neverbe niceto my enemies.i will devour them all.slowly.methodically.with a fork.
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
CandaceI have named the lumpin my throat Candace;and she is what her name means-penitent and contrite,remorseful for every word that slipspast her because they all havecome out misshapen and wrong.
disorder"mirror, mirror, on the wallwho's the fairest of them all?"i whispered to my doleful reflection,but this was no fairy tale:this was a small town on a cold, foggy night.my skeleton was so beautifuli wanted to showcase it,give onlookers a glimpse of my impendingdeath through my very flesh.i could picture myself, edges carved awaylike a cored apple.i just wanted to feel real.everyone around me chewed and swallowed so easilybut i just gnawed on my lip until itasted blood, and leta piece of myself die.the flavor made my mouth wateras my stomach ground out hoarserequests for expansion, for meaning.i held nothing within but pathetic yearning,hollow with self-hatred.i could only feel affection with pain.perfection became my obsession,consuming me alive the way i would haveloved to consume anything at all.some part of me believe i could be a super model,and living my life on ambition and emptinesswas the way to do it.every day i watched the little numberson t
Hate Sleeping AloneEach nightI lay in bed...Letting my coversTry to keep me warmThough they're neverAs warm as your arms.Letting my dreamsTry to soothe meInto a deathly calmThough they're neverAs calming as yourQuiet snores.Letting hundreds of sheepTry to caress my eyesTo finally closeThough they shall neverComfort meIn the way your gentle handIn mine will.And while the covers may tryThey will never fill the placeWhere you slept beside me.My dreams will neverFill the emptiness leftWithout your breathe.The sheep will neverLift me awayLike the comfort of knowingThat your near meAnd that youWill be the first thing I seeWhen I wakeAlways has.And each night I stay awakeBecause without youI'd rather not sleep.
titans.they don’t tell you thatone day,sisyphus just let the rock roll downand collect his bodylike dust.they don’t tell you that you can still walkwith holes in your legsand you can still lovewhen your heart has already been ripped open.they don’t tell you thatyou are 75% of an oceanthat is six miles deepand eats ships alive,75% of the water that shapes canyons,75% of the rain that drowned the earthfor forty days and nights.they don’t tell you thatyour body is made of the same carbonas starsand diamonds.they don’t tell you thatthere is a fire burning inside of youor that your bones are stronger than steelor that the things that fuel youfuel tigers, too.the greeks and romans wrote stories abouthow strong you wereand you are icarus,and you died laughingbecause they didn’t tell youhow beautiful the world really waseven as it was swallowedby the waves.
TimeTimeis upon us,they announcedto an audience ofmillions.We alllooked aheadand continued on ourways,mute callson deaf ears.Time stepped out,cigarette in shakinghand, eyeshalf closed inresignation.Grim linesstood out near hismouth, grim linesnear his grayeyes, grim lines,grim lines,grim.I wonderwhat could be hiddenwithin suchempty eyes.I have to wonderhow many times he'sasked Deathto kill him.I bet Death tells him"Without you,there's nothing."Then I start to wonderwhy he stillhasn't done it.MaybeTime is justeternal,and how heavythat must be.Timegives me a wave.Timehas a watchon his left wrist.I betthe only time heever smiles,is when he looks at itand thinks,"You know,this thing keeps timebetter than I do."
lung canceri will die with your name on my lipsbecause there is nothing else i'll need to say.you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,you will greedily swallow my ashesuntil nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.you dipped me into unconsciousness,and i willingly closed my eyes.the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.i find comfort in these carcinogens.i've made my nest in a swaying tree,my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.they smile at me with pity in their eyes,scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,yet
.my demonsmiss yours(he must be dead; his eyes are closed)