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July 08 2017

why did you destroy him
you utter dragon.

sat on your haunches over
no pile of gold.

you whispered fire
to singe his skin.

whisk away yon fair maiden
but you can't be bothered
to consume her.

your fickle appetite.

o no no.
beowulf died
a brave sad death


may my knight heal

i know how these stories end

but i rewrite them in my head
again and again

July 05 2017

I am a vessel
of God's untimely heartbreak

Explusion from Eden
Forty years in the desert

Abraham's zealous preparation
to murder Isaac

Job, in the middle of the night,
covered in cold sweat.

the origin of that panicked feeling
that this pain is not possible.

maybe i love it more.

as comfortable in it as moses
in his blanket floating down the river

this wave so much worse.
pharaohs wished i drowned

if I looked back any harder
I'd be a pillar of salt

I just wanna be in your apocalypse parade
The War to your Death

June 22 2017

the authority that rings from my bones
is a new sheen, metallic and green

it is no more armor than hammered steel.

what did you think,
whittling away at a woman for so long?

don't you remember
piecing together your shield
which fell full or arrows

which sprung out from within me,
hollow and hot?

drawn agonizingly into battle,
peppered with marks
a shotgun shell detonating inside me.

woman is a veteran
of a war she won't speak.

armistice is never fathomed.

collateral damage is eternal.

it's just a matter of being prepared.

June 02 2017


June 01 2017

A candle
A small shadow

When you breathe,
what does it feel like?

In the morning
When you open your eyes.

In the evening
When you close them again.

I can't cry.
I can't unassign these demons.

I can't chop my soul into small enough pieces.
pass your hands over me
like i was a perfect statue
chiseled out of aphrodite's body

because a man called me goddess
but you made me feel immortal.
lovers melted me with their mouths
but you did it with just your eyes.

why won't you let me kiss you, narcisuss?

i don't want to be your echo.

the greeks were so masterful in depicting the eternal nature of suffering.

they paint it as a perfect physical picture
you can hear the very agony of prometheus' cries.

but camus speaks to me from beyond the grave. his death the reminder of ruthlessness.

there is something more beautiful in aching.
wittgenstein said it the way i meant it.

he also said what we can't speak of must be passed over in silence.
pass over me and don't say a word.
we've had enough language i no longer need.

maybe we'll just write letters back and forth
across this chasm.

or i will just write you. and you will read every word. or you would've already packed me up, return to sender.

May 23 2017


may 22 2017

for Emma

At least 19 points of light snuffed out by God's gray glove
They woke in the morning, baby birds
beaks hungry for Momma's worms

Now a rainbow arcs overhead
Kissing a graveyard with its edges.
Now silence muffles thought.

May 17 2017

i woke up
and you were lingering at the corners of my mind
a will o' the wisp
landing gently on my hand

i have never been good
at throwing things out.

as a child, compulsively
i hoarded trash.
the broken things. the empty wrappers.

everything i felt
stashed in a moldy closet corner.

blossoming into adulthood
i began to shed the smaller skin

i molted into something new.

i still keep
so many of my physical trappings.

it's just that the layer underneath
is a little more efficient.

i just can't see
any reason to blow you away
back to drifting aimlessly

when i could keep you
and plant you like a seed.

and if the soil took,
if you felt at home

watch the most beautiful flower
bud and burst into bloom.
you know i never wanted to live
for the longest time

you know i never felt myself
pulled inside out
through a gap in my soul

i borrowed some platitudes
to make meaning of my mess
and they rot here, wooden

my hands and my mouth
are limp marionettes

you saw me
and that's probably it

but let me show you
how ugly i can be

this is why they tell you
not to feed the birds.

May 11 2017

Someone once told me
To stick to fishing

And finally I said ok
Nothing's worth chasing

But I'm crafting bait for you
And wishing so hard you'd take it

Because I can't make up my mind
But if you nibbled on that hook

Oh, baby, I'd never toss you back into the sea
Tags: poetry

April 29 2017

she instilled every note
with her being.

wishes and dreams and genie lamps.
crossed fingers. rabbits' feet.

she carried desire like a talisman,
winding its way around her waist.

spreading sinuously under her sweater
it clutches her close.

she exhaled the spirits of her ancestors
she inhaled the pity of angels.

she saw them crosslegged on God's golden gate.
smoking cigarettes and playing with fate.

she painted them green, gold, and gray.
their essence faded from the canvas.

so she opened her lungs.
lifted her voice to the heavens.

she will never know if it is enough.
Tags: poetry
i am going to fucking cry on a city bus.

the ugly kind, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. wailing like a banshee in the cold.

people will stare. always a fucking nutter, they'll think. or maybe, that poor nice white girl. what could have gone wrong?

someone will want to help. perhaps a few. charity worms its way through most veins.

i'd have to make a show of accepting. warm words. making a connection.

what wracks me inside this ribcage is no good for language and i know it.

the noises. the choking sobs. the pathos of pain.

i won't. it still doesn't illustrate the mottled, mauled mural of whispered words within.

so why bother?
Tags: poetry

April 18 2017

We are ephemeral
Floating ghosts from another sphere

So each thread we pull
Knotted and worn
Entangled with so many other strands

Winds its way to dust.

We waited and waited for Godot
And he couldn't send a telegram
We smoked endless cigarettes
Told endless jokes
Until the English language fell from meaning
In our mouths.

We sent letters that were never opened
Just thrown right into furious flame.
The world eats alive. It devours.
It sucks the flesh from tiny bones.

Mercy is a concept borne by angels
Themselves a concept borne by men.
An ecstatic sky painting.
A beautiful cloud-shaped fallacy.

We bury our dead as if it matters.
As if one day they will wake
And appreciate the carving
On their tombstone.

As if they lived beyond what they breathed, dreamed, hoped.

As if.

the moral arc of the universe is long but it bends towards justice

You're wrong
You're wrong you've never seen man you see it's getting better you say it's getting better
but in the core of the heart of man is something so sinister and sincere you will not know how much you see it inside you

It's too bad. That we are purely instinctual.

It is too bad that we are the paler versions of our better selves

It is too bad we will never achieve what is set out for us

It is too bad we will die in a fireball
Before the sun burns through its flame
Before it would end
We are determined to end it first
So determined so determined

April 05 2017

i never felt your lips against my skin
more aptly than i did right then
the night spins outward, fibonacci.

you pierce me with those cold blue eyes
what's behind them, i surmise
i dare not pry, i'd be disappointed

but for now, you hold my hips
my hands in your hair, listless
I fall completely victim to the moment.

i made a few mistakes before,
but never one i've been so sure
was worth it, every second, every breath.

days pass by and still i'm there,
traipsing through my memory lair
lingering longingly by the stairs

winding back in, fibonacci.

March 21 2017

The harshest memories
Are the clearest
While the happy ones
Float in fog.

The brain has a way about it
Perhaps Freud was right with Thanatos
A death drive looping over and over.

I could never make the decision but once.
Conviction is never clear.
That's for flowery writing
In elegant novels
Where all the loose ends tie up neatly.

I tried to write a poem about how I felt.
It was like slapping mangled intestines on a dirty table.
And yet I looked at it again and again.

I blame the id. If we are going with Freud
It's the driver of all of my mistakes.
My superego whips them out of me.

I was always so skeptical
But I see where he gets it from.
It makes more sense
Than the reasons I can think of.

March 15 2017

I am a magician of suffering.
I unfold your card from the deck
And slide it between your ribs.

You will be aghast at how
Such a thing could happen
When I pull cloth from thin air.

I am a witch.

The soup that stirs inside of me
Sulphorous and acrid
Pushed through my veins

I will infuse it into you
With the slightest syllable
Your muscles knotting into quilts.

And seeing you twitch keeps me alive.
I draw power from your rolling eyeballs.
I need to breathe your straining gasps.

Otherwise it will overwhelm me
Slowly melting from the inside out.
They will write fantastic stanzas about it.

Years later they will be sure it is a myth.
Hyperbole of a tragic disease.
The tragic disease is longing.

March 09 2017

line up a row of marbles
but shoot them snooker style one by one.
rabbits abound in the fields.

the cigarette smoke curls out the window.
the cup of coffee steams.
the idyllic paradise sits at hand.

cheap imitations or plato's cave.
i don't care about philosophy
that's so academic you can't feel its bones.

i do care about the soul
and what substantiates it
although soul is such a pretentious word.

it rolls off the tongues of priests and new-agers alike.
and i can't stand anything like that written down.

words are just placeholders
for brain matter.
to remind you what you thought about
last tuesday.

March 02 2017

watching flame eat the wrapper of a cigarette
it is hard work
sabotaging yourself

i'm not going to give into pity
like an indelicate socialite
or a broke pensioner

calculating precisely the right path
to stay inside one's moral compass
and yet stray somewhat further north

if we knew each other's thoughts
they say
we'd all be heartbroken, gnashing and wailing

i can't look at my own
guilt and shame are permanent residents
skulking in the hotel corridors
by the ice machine

but as long as it stays inside
projected onto the ceiling of my brain
like a planetarium

nobody else has to know
what a sinner I am.
what an unrepentant, shadow-slinking sinner.

February 27 2017

some sort of whiskey fever dream
where cigarette smoke coils up
the trees of the rainforest

we eat the animals
roasted over chemical fire
coloured raindrops stain the grass

it withers instantly, crisp
the smoke in the sky hot and thick.
we grab greasy hands; we must.

the fog begins to blur
the demarcations and boundaries
we are frantically, suddenly intertwined.

waking up drenched
in sweat that won't wash off.
it slides like oil down my arms.

it winds like vines around my legs.
it binds me in desire.
it roots me in this forbidding soil.
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