.and god-i saw the moonleaking into the sea,a great big silvery slickon the wavesand as i held my hands upto the hole in her side,she smiled and soakedinto me(gentle, gentle, she doesn't have long)
.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)
.if thesewalls couldtalkthen i'm surethey'd bescreamingget out,burn usdown,we can'tbearto hold youanylonger(been too busy dreaming to get any sleep)
.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)
.lies can slipthrough your teethwith ease,the truthgets caught inyour throat(i wish it was a lie, that i'm your flesh and blood and i wish it was the truth, that i hadn't been drinking)
.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)
.confess;let thosesquirmingthingsinside youhatchand falloff thetongue(i'd rather walk myself home, bare feet cold on pavement)
.i rememberedthe conversation with the anesthetist,he said place your thumbs over your eyesand press gently, and i replied isn't thatlizards?and no i can't feel my hands but i'mnot really bothered, i will sleepsleep and sleep, i won't need them,and please keep an eye on the sea til iwake, it might pack up its fish andgo travelling, it might leak throughthe holes in the earth like a sieve,all the shipwrecks and sharks willbe homeless(i don't believe in anything, and that makes me a liar because i believe in that)
.there issomethingabouthow you can makeall the animalspart themselveswith one wave ofyourhand,make them opentheir throats andspeakand i think i willfind you sticking pinsthrough the webbingof a bat's wing,cross legged inthe garden withthe snake aroundmy neck,that's how i'd liketo go(the world will shift, a heart will break away from it's chest, tectonic)
.i will marry the moonand adopt a son, teachhim not to play with thehearts of stars(but he will)i will bring home a man,give him hope, hear himoutand then coughup his gutson the floor(i will end up there anyway, might as well say a prayer whilst i'm down there)
.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)
.some thoughts get so loud thatyou cry out for them to leave;they scatter like birds startledout of their trees, before landingagain where they wereand after a while,you just have tolet them sing
.some need to know lifelike the beasts do, the heronthe stray dog the cobra the salmondead in it's stream,but i want to shed out of my skin,don't want to be no white ghost no moreand i met a magician, got rid ofthe dirt in my mind,pulled my memories outof my temple like napkins,made a mess i couldn't clean upon the pavement outside, no tip for him,you're gonna have to excusethe mess in my soul, i wasn'texpecting visitors,been pleading with words for anexplanation, came home late last nightsmelling of someone else's ink,i think i saw the light then buti heard the darkness too, i kicked themout, now it's just me and mycrazy i keep in a tank,watch him grow limbs and climb outover the side, and now sometimeshe sits on my lap and i stroke him,but he's getting too heavy to hold andhe's starting to speak for himself,says don't drink that be goodi need you and you need me and youknow it, i don't think you can evertruly know someone until you can admitto yourself t
.hatredis in labour,would givebirth toforgivenessif i let it(no)
.i want to scrapethe shell off the earth,try and give birth tosomething muchbetter,mould it and feed it and let itset out on its own to beloved,and now, bear cubdon't be sogrizzly,they'll make goodmoney from mum'sclaws and coat,mount her head on thewall by yourbrothers(always dreaming of a blind alley, and this is not a poem, just another ball of paper, throw me into the sun i want the last of the heat to be mine)
.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)
.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)
.i walk into the garden at3am, find death digginghis own grave in the middleof my lawn, he says he'sdead to me now, he canjust feel it in his bones,points at the mud and saysdirt is dirtit can't pretend that it'sanything else,oh and i found that peg you lost,it was under the conifer,climbs in covers himself and leavesme standing alone(keeps sending me postcards, i wish you were here)
Sad poems need pretty titles.April was lungs weak of blue, andscalpels held in heartless,uncaring hands.You told me you were no cowardthat the seas and the oceanswhispered in your ears and told youonly the bravest of mendeserve to kiss their beds.May passed too quickly.No time for mourningwhen I gained ten poundsof pure muscleholding up your stars.People asked too many questions.People told me I was strong.One day in Juneyou woke up to a skeletal framethat wasn’t yours and the biggest,strongest ribcage I’d ever seen.I had cornfields in my eyes;You misplaced your anchorand your mind.
hyenas make the best lovers.i need to stop lookingfor death in every bodymy fingers touch.i have been force fedold lovers, & slicesof the moons lying dustfor years-i am messy poems;i am fractured confessions.i am laughter& teeth.my jaws achewith the taste ofwolves blood,& names.i am still hungry.give me your sugar;I will share my breath.remember,you are still made of starstuff,& i am no longer caged.
leaves greedy teeth tasting selenicyou may be a corpse-reaperbut even gods will decompose &what's dysphoric transitwithout cyanosis bones?
Paper PlanesWe use to fold paper planes togetherBy the dinner table after supper.Once we finished we would write our deepest desires into themAnd then throw them into open space.WatchingThemDisappear.We would watch as they glided their wayAcross the plains.We would see which one of our planes flew the farthest.Which one of our dreams went further.But that tooDisappeared.Like everything in life.I got olderBut I never grew up.I got busy.And you did too.Our conversations now can be put into three categories:Greetings, food and farewells.Somehow, we’re both okay with that.I sometimes pray to the same God that you say you once knewTo the one you still wear around neckIn hopes that maybe, one day,Things will returnTo how they once were.See, ‘cause the plane that was supposeTo take me from my child to adulthoodStill hasn’t landed. DelayedBy a storm I cannot define.And I don’t plan on ever leaving the roofAbove me.How could I? When I feelSo safe,So
I saw an AngelI saw an Angel.No, he wasn't abnormally beautiful with gorgeous blond locks, nor did his eyes shine as bright as the Caspian sea. He didn't have wings either, nor did he wear clothing adorned in white that shined brighter than the sun itself.He was as plain as I was, perhaps even plainer. Though blond, his hair wasn't brilliant, in fact, it was dirty and matted. He wasn't the picture of perfection either, in fact, he was the opposite.Pale and thin, dirty and uncared for, I saw him in the alley with a needle stuck in his arm.A dose of heroine destroyed him, spoiled him...but I still saw an angel.Perhaps it was the smile he gave me, when I gave him fifty cents go buy some cigarettes.Perhaps it was the way his dull eyes looked at me, lost and distant....alone.Perhaps it was the way they screamed, “I'm still human”.I saw an Angel.She stood at the corner of the street, striking a pose for all to see.There in the Red Light District, beautiful and elaborated with m
Still Still (YouTube Link Included)See me perform this hereThe boy I liketold me that everything in the universeis made of stars.He described them eating themselves,the iron corrupting the heart,the spat out destitution of a would-be sun;I could relate.I went home and wrote‘You are the ephemeral glitter in the eye of a manic universe –and I am the debris clogging the arteries of stars as theydie’.That’s the difference between us.In the world of evenings as poetry –he is the star studded sky.His heart is the rocking moon that generously shares its sun with us.He is the moment when you realise that you livein the space between brilliance and beauty,and you still matter.As for me,in that same evening,I am a lake.I reflect a reflection.I refract a resurrection of a sungone down.I can only see the sun through smokeand mirrors,and my heart is so drowned in anxietythat no warmth will ever go right through me.So I look at the bo
Keep your secrets, wolfgirl.I have been suffocatingon the stars of my pastlike horny gentlemendo with innocent lookingwolfgirls at 3am- their bitefearless as thieves.My lilac lungs are breathing indust and the tears of Saturn’snameless moons,while the rest of me -well, shes warm off wineand poems leftunfinished.
like the only thing we have to fear is breathingI.i'll be licking at thesehearth wounds 'til i'mcoughing up blood.II.now stop me if you'veheard this one before -III.oh, i wanna be a car crashsix o'clock news story &wouldn't you justloatheme?IV.i called miss misery up last night; she saidkid, i've got big plans for youif you ever want outta that head
RealHow can you expect to see the truth in the mirror?When your eyes are clouded by the filter of 'inferior'
.someone told the mistit clings too tightlyto the hillsand someone told the snowthat the mountains needto breathe(an idiot, a coward)