.think i'm madas a hatter,just becausei want to sit anddrink tea with the deadfor a whileon a sunday afternoon?just cos i like totrace the patterns inthe woodwork onthe table with my fingerswhen we're talking,yes,something has beenhere before,and it's us,with words so wellused that they're nowdamaged andwe can't even tell whatthey mean anymore(still cramming them into the distance though)
.i often ask myself questionsand answer them too,maybe tell yourkids this,that i'm the wolf in the woods, i justsaw red and couldn't help it, whatcan i say i've got atemper, i couldn't waitto grip her neck insidemy jaws n shake it, snapit clean, cracked like a twig,you see she was a bitch she was awhore, she had itcoming, with hersweet laugh and her lips, herswaying hips inside, she carrieda rifle in her cloak, she wantedmy pelt for the angry winter,and her old gran? i suckedthe meat fromher lame ribs like she'd have donethe same to mine, i licked mychops and got inbed,had good sweet dreams untilthat axe man, that old drunk,who thought he had some bigger ballscame stumbling in through her frontdoor,they found his gutson the hall floor,and i can stillsmell it amileoff -but what i'm sayingkids, the moral is,there's nothing little bout the amountof red you're gonna see inlife, it's all about whether or notyou've got the stonesto fucking stomach it(
.i hearthe sun hisswhen it catchessight of the moon,i see you too, so pleasedo not come any closer -i crack wordswide open to see justwhat they're reallymade of, and i longto do the sameto you, i thinka crowbar is the only thingthat would give youa more open mind, iswing then prise -you laughand saya moth in searchof the lightis boundto get burned(what are you in for?)
.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)
.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
.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)
.did you spendlast night diggingin my graveyard of a chest?i seem to have a holethis morning -where did you putyour heart youbitch, i know youmust have one theresomewhere,and when the light letsitself in throughmy bedroom curtains,i will always sayget fuckedfuck offfuck yougo fuck upsomeone else,do you still crackyour knuckles when you'reangry? take twosugars with yourtea, carry a scythe?well i carry the devilin from the car when he's tootired to walk, he tugsat my sleeve with his littlered fists, says i know howhard it is to get closureon somethingthat makes you feelripped wide open, mate,now carry me in i'm tootired for all this tonight -oh, one more thing,the shore can never leavethe seano matter how hardit tries, again andagain, you're going to getfucked by the current,so just go with the flowit gets better,spend the rest of yourlife laying in thatbed you made,spend the rest of yo
.twenty three nightmares of beingon the operating table,my surgeon mumbles something about getting rightto the heart of things, i might feel a little sting not unlikethat one i got on my wrist when i wasyounger, but no, that's not working,would it be okay if he wereto dig a little deeper? -something crawls up and over the edge ofthe bed, yes she did cartwheelsat the crematorium becausesadness was never that much fun anywayand to be honest it was cold and a little too quietinside, there was no need to kiss heron the forehead again - and if you bumpinto the evil, sister, come and letme know -about how i wanted toslip through that crack in the pier and smash through thestained glass surface of the sea,shatter and curl up on a pew with the eels belowand simply flounder, watch the world fromunderwater, grow somecoral,i'm not really sure why it's that big a dealif i'm sick -of writingthis is my body andthis is my love(the prob
.i wantto know about god,which namehe would prefer to go byi want to knowabout the stairwayup to heaven,and why sliding downthe bannister into hellis much more fun(think i tried to climb a step that wasn't there, think i might have died more than once)
.i think in fingerprints and teeth,in skin and lips,i'll try remember better, sir,rubber wrists, a vial?a concrete sore on the flesh of the earth,eats away at the world til it's achingall over - muscle turns to dust andthe clocks self-destruct, i bought afake bouquet -i know the day the month the time,but i don't want -is there some medicine for this?some blue and green, some bittertaste? a stitch or two, some sleep, sometime to grieve, just somethingcheap,psychology and torture?yes we do hang draw and quarter, pop your braindown over there and i will seewhat i can do, take two at night, come backnext week -about this firein my tongue, how much longer willit last? these days i speak smokesignals no one knows and howit hurts,i'm looking white, i'mburning up -go spendsome time downin the ground andwrite it out,don't be amess(dandelions for eyes, scatter them wide)
.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
.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 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)
.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)
.the moon shudders;silver dust landsin my hair and i sigh,knock it off -what's your problem?i'm frustrated -i've been trying tostrike a match that won'tlight for two hours,she saysyou carry a lighter,remember?
.not nowi am too afraidof dreaming,if i do -the tidewill recoil atmy touchand then say, come,come sleep under me,look,the sky is throwingdown its nighttime sheets, let's gograb that loosegold thread and pull,let's watchthe stars unravel -i might have kissedthose feetof freyas soft and gentle,but you know if you waderight in i'mrough and heartless,the planets willalign, and then,three ghosts, one of themmy father, and there ain'tnothing holy'bout him,a starving dogwill run - there willbe red on white and i willlaugh, and i will standat the topof writers blockand i willthrow myself off(sleep please take me back i'm sorry about before)
.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've ForgottenWhen she diedI tied a knot in my stomachso I would rememberbut I've been so busytrying to remember her dyingI forgot how to forget.I've forgottenhow to let go -and the doctors saidthey would cut me openand snip her outa blade between the bowsand she,and the pain, would be gonebut I've forgottenhow to let go -and I still don't want to.
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.
rewindI dreamt I was a necromancer,dreamt I was a demigodwho resurrected cultures, peoples,skin and teeth and bones and hair.I dreamt I was a logician, clinician,an imagined anthropologist,a linguist tinged with dark,dark magic:drew dialects into my mouth,reawakened languages,undid a hundred hundred years.but it's a heavy, pricy spell.I take the weight of ages and ages.the yokes of seven continentsclang upon my pale brown hands.
...i'd like to see the stars, falland kiss themoon.i'd make a wish as they'd shatter its glowinto a million little pieces, andscatteracross the seas.one day, these lights will goout; one day, that wish will cometrue.[shut your eyes and imaginethe end]
she's a grey emberburn slow;call absence to your kneesand kiss its bruisesfree from greeduntil your hands are stained neutraland tasteless.
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteemforgive theserorschach nerves &mercury veins -i am no tragedy boy,but i have self-decaydown to an art.this tar tongue only startsmarlboro conversations &self-ignition;i only start fires.
the drifter i.i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,but you wanted to walk with wingsacross gleaming midnight. How marvelous, this stone stands sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.you drilled way below the church stone, and found dried palm leaves and old jointslike clues to the map of an exceptional life. I love this torrential literature, I love a racing heart. ii.i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming, ezekiel's visions leave me breathless. Take it up with the Big Man. Surely the cannabis creator must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.iii.i've lost my ability to fly.a tender sky with reddening clouds, the sights of death give birth to no life. Well, I'm l
a poem on the inner workings of my chaotic mindit isn't like i'mlazy or anything it's just thatthe thought of getting lostin a crowd of ten or more peoplemakes me want to puke.this is not just somestupid little hang-up that you canjoke about when i'mdigging my fingernails into my palm sohard that blood is drawn as we walk throughschool hallways so packed that it feelslike we're suffocating from too muchoxygen but i just grit my teeth andlaugh "yeah, i know, i just don't likebeing around people sometimes."but you know,there's just something about the waymy mother says "go out and have a lifeand stop looking like the worldbetrays you every day"that makes my stomach dropor when my dad looks at me and justsighs, like they've finally realizedi was never good enough to betheir daughter.and to everyone who believes thati just need to relax,to just calm down and think:fuck you. fuck you for trying to pretendlike you know how it feels when mybones grind together like brokengears as i walk by people who mayor
lunarWhen I was six years old,I decided I wanted toeat the moon.Mom with her pink frayed bathrobeand tired eyestold me to go to sleep,that I had school in the morning.Dad with his stacks of booksand prickly beardtold me that it was impossible,the moon was too distant.Well, guess what?I ate the fuckin moon.And it was delicious.Bitches can't tell me shit,I'll eat the fuckin moon if I want to.
.dandelion seeds inthe wind,and they're saying,you know you could dothis too -you need to get outif you're going togrow,don't go blowingyour head off though -(tear yourself away from there, go get set somewhere else just like we do)