.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)
.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)
.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
.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)
.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)
.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)
.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
.if thesewalls couldtalkthen i'm surethey'd bescreamingget out,burn usdown,we can'tbearto hold youanylonger(been too busy dreaming to get any sleep)
.hatredis in labour,would givebirth toforgivenessif i let it(no)
.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)
.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 noticeyou bite the skin ofyour lip, toowhen you're nervousor have nothing tosay -writing is startingto feel a bitlike a disease -just like your brotherdoesyou know you'reexactly the sameas him -one that all thewords in the worldwon't ever cure -i'll just have toget to know youthat way, i guessno don't walkaway -i want the foxto hunt the hound,the badger to cullthe human(let's take a walk down memory lane, let's see if i can finally ditch you)
.confess;let thosesquirmingthingsinside youhatchand falloff thetongue(i'd rather walk myself home, bare feet cold on pavement)
.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)
.i can't give youthatbut i can birth youa godwith my eyes instead,pray to him hard withmy tongue(take refuge when he wakes)
.there are some things i've seen and heard that reallyget to me sometimes, like those birds and mice with teeth markson their little red raw thighs,rotting flowers, i recall he said this is a waste of timeand you're a waste of space, it's just impossible to holda conversation with you these days,let it go, just fucking drop it,keep your mouth shut unless i sayi think i froze to death last night, my fingertips turned blue,i heard a cloud say fuck you boy, did i come all this way for youto say that i look like a rabbit,better places i could bei've seen my shadow put two fingers to her headand pull the trigger, heard my echo laughabout it with the walls, and every timei hold a match i hear itwhispering to me,if you don't want me to burn you,then you're gonna have to blow meouti heard that you can't tame a lion just by pullingat his mane, i heard that blood feels goodon porcelain and not just i
.a mother says to her soncan you feel the world lodgedin your rib? do not tellme you can't, it's right thereand let's not tell godanything about this, let's givehim the silent treatment likehe's giving to us,sometimes i wake up wantingto shred myself into ribbonstie me up in a bow and send myselfto your doorstep with noreturn address and let you deal with it,you're not listening and you're notunderstanding, you're too busytrying to read all the text, buti can go days without speakingone word, got a habit of holding mybreath diving into my own mindfor hours, blue bottomless poolriver veins with the bones of a dreamdrifting through, some stuck on thebanks all dried up and thirsty, thisshark tooth reminds me of you so ipress it in hard, still not one singledrop, a baby raccoon floats by withno life but wide eyes, i know you'llpray the horned god sends himstraight to the sea, drown him outwith that voice that says maybenext year when you search foryourself, yo
OsteophilicHe loved his bones.The way they never asked too much of himor protested his requests.There was nothing superfluous in their design;simple, sleek, and uncomplicated.They were spry, robustready to take on the world withsharp and fluid motions.His bones were not brittle like she was.Not so breakable or frail,not so expendable.They didn't bend under pressureor fracture under stress.He loved his bones -their ivory purity eased his soul -and he was proud of the waythey held everything togetherso effortlessly.She knew one day he'd stomp thisold flame out, long before 'death do us part.'Cremation had never been part of the plan.
.What do you want to be when you grow up?They ask it like a dare.As if letting your unlikely dreamsslip from the safety of your mindcould bring their owna little closer to reality.
he called it the art of destruction.she had nice eyes,the kind you liked to drawwith watercolor tearsand ink like the moon'sstolen glow.he had memorizedher midnight lashes,the half-closed shuttersand memories locked awaybehind a pupil,and his pencil was thekey.yellowwere the specks in heririses of emeraldsprings;everything she touchedturned into gold,everything she toucheddiedand rose anewlike budding flowersafter the blizzard.his pencilcould never do the same,he knew;but he'd give those eyes awayfor a dime apiece,ignoring the factthat ebony charcoaland half-dried acrylicswere all that she wouldever be.
Barb WireYour barb-wired brainwon't let me in,and I'm getting cuttrying to jumpthe fence.
.Every night I praythe miles of nervesbeneath my skinwill melt away, sothe lash of yourtongue canno longer sting.
I can't write poetry for dead girls.there are toomany pills in thisworld and toomuch misery inthe human heartbut that didn't meanthat you could justup and leave whenwe both know itcould have gotten betterand i miss you likea wolf misses her packor a goddamn dragon missesher fire and i'm sorrythat i can't give youa bouquet of jasmines(they were yourfavorite, after all,because that wasthe only princesswith a pet tiger)because poppies aretoo cliche and i'msorry i wasn't therewhen all you neededwas a hug and for someoneto whisper "it's okay,you're perfect enoughfor me, don't listento that junkie bitchwho just happened togive birth to you" and didyou know that i'm still waitingfor a reply to that oneemail about the world'sbest puns because fuck,there's a stubborn partof me that still refuses tobelieve that you're gone.
Sweet CornHe shuckedher cleanto the spine.Broke off the gold untilnothingbut the stalk remained;bareand broken open.The ribcage spilledher secretsand gushed her painupon the sheets.She lay in the bloodand wept, for the lieshe had lost.
fourdo not wish upona star, the starsare dead; the skyis filled with corpses
they don't make maps for a place like thisI'm stuck somewherebetween great rollings hillsand a sweet-calm sea,but the air doesn't smellof salt or dandelions.Only this heavycloying breeze that sticksin my throat and fillsmy lungs with the sharp tangof musk and pinereminds me that I'mnot far from home. Andin the distance thereis a rolling clamor;a whistle crying long and low.But there are no signs,no landmarks.Though I've wandered daysthrough this strangebeautiful world,traipsing across smooth plainsand sharp plateaus, I've never crossed thesame path twice... One thought rings true inthis foreign land:dear, don't be alarmedI only lose my bearings so thoroughly,only become soinexplicably lost,in you.
.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)