.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)
.he said there are a lot of things in lifethat don't make sense,i said i know,like that time i laughed so hard at the wakei had to stay out in the garden making small talk with the smokersfor the rest of it,like the time i shut myself in the garage and went to sleepin the backseat of your car,and how i'm not at all religious but i sat in church that day withmy hands clasped andi prayed,how i kept the windows shut that sunday so what i prayed forcouldn't get in,like the time i watched her throw your stuff out on the driveway,and when she managed to smash those plates even withher broken wrist, how most hearts start to sink when tempers rise,and the time i wanted to cradle that dead pigeon i saw at thetrain station, and you told me to answer the phone and i wouldn'tbecause i knew it was you,and when the night comes calling i always let him in,i'm never quite sure who he is, but he sayshe's paid for it so now i better fuckingdrink it,he says haven't you learnt by now
.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)
.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)
.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)
.i neverlearned thelanguageof flowers,never knewwhy thenettlespat itswords at mewith venom,why thosegreenforkedtonguesleft asting(i bet the sheep don't lose a wink over the starving wolves, either)
.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)
.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)
.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)
.hatredis in labour,would givebirth toforgivenessif i let it(no)
.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
.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
.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)
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.tonight across the street i sawthe devil sneak into god's garden;he took trowel in hand, planted seedsin the earth, grinned real wide andshut the white gate behind him(gonna come up smelling of roses)
.mother i'msorryand brotheri worry aboutyouhe's deadbut still livinginside me iknew thisfresh startwould havethe samerottenending(gonna build you up nice and bitter)
Barb WireYour barb-wired brainwon't let me in,and I'm getting cuttrying to jumpthe fence.
i am no god-made manoh, you're so pathetic,with your parasitic nervousness;you're an anxious fever-boned boy& you've got manic headachesscrawled into gasoline anthemslike you don't know love'sonly parasympathetic &we're all romanticists(you may have smoke-spiral fingertips, butwe've all got a knack for burning ourselves out).
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed, a field of wild flowered- imperfections, sticky metaphors & an inability to speak. Love them anyway. Know that when they look at you they are noticing the little things.
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
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.
LungsMaybe ifour lungsexhaled moneyinstead ofcarbon dioxide,we'd valuelifea little more(or maybe we'd just go broke).
the back side of a sharpie cigaretteoh, i've got thorns & fruit fliesrotting out the flesh betweenmy ribs. they fester in theserabbit lungs until i cough themup as mechanical mockingbirds;like nightwalkers, they peck mythroat into a crumpled napkin verse.
( 4/01/2014 )I’ve been toldladies are supposed tocover themselvesin flowers, fine wines,or men.Fuck poetry,ladies don’t havetime.But lately,Bukowski sitsupon a barstoolin my headlaughing.He’s telling meto fuck her, poetically,emotionally, physically-figuratively speaking.I can’t decide which“her”he is referring to,( the new or the old )when jealousyon both endshas meby thethroat.Why do I attractbroken girlslike abandonedpuzzle pieces?Why do my wordsnot sit rightin my mouthwhen I can’teven stand upand speakfor myself?I don’t deserveto be apoet.
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.
.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)