LoverHe couldn't care less about her adoration for philosophy; the way the word 'existentialism' rolled off her tongueand gave her nostalgia, how solipsism infuriated her,the way she became fascinated with hail that broke glass.In fact, he despised how she remembered every bonein the human body and how she compared themto other things: "The pelvic girdle is just misshapen wingsand the carpals are like tiny stones you find on beaches."What he loved was the way her eyes stole his essence,how his skin would be gnawed on by shivers and tingling,how she'd masticate potassium and roll her tongue whenshe ingested vitamin c.Quite f
Stars and CigarettesDear You,No one writes letters anymore, which is a pity because you can't burn an email from the ex. I might have told you that last night. Or maybe in a dream. Lying next to you, I dreamt of stars and smoke.The world is ending like you said it would. It's choking.I can't believe you weren't lying.When we met, I was drunk (something I regret). But intuition tells me that you wouldn't have said hello otherwise and I hate that. I hate you too. You told me all your secrets because you knew I wouldn't remember, but did you know I would remember just enough to want to beg for more? I remembered enough to crave the taste of stars.I hate y
Salome Confronts John's HeadPrior to the beheading,I didn't know the lipschanged the most after death.I knelt, glared youin the chalkyface - eyes sunkenas wax grapes, chin slack as an arse -and saw your mouth,blotchy - a tie-dyecarnation - wrinkled as a cauliflower,lips piggish, lying like bled sowsside by side.You had a bit of a poutgoing on, so I gratifiedyou and kissed you.Each deflated lipsmacked of day-old salt,come lately from the sea,and I vomitedonto the platterso your head, amusingly,appeared to have been plonkedin a swill of red cabbageand onion.
ArtistShe splatters her true colors across a canvas,In hope that anyone will see them, And love her anyway.
King of HeartsAnd that's when I see him for the first time. The boy. The magician. The thief. The king.He's facing away from me, on the sidewalk with a small crowd around him. Shirtless, with dirty ripped jeans and bare feet. Crudely painted swirls of ink cover his torso and ripple over his small shoulder blades. His white blonde hair is laced with gel and spiked haphazardly. There's a small chain around his neck.Despite his bizarre appearance I can't help wonder how old the boy is. He's just a kid.The crowd around him applauds lightly. They toss him a few coins and walk away.He turns around. Right away I notice his eyes, a startlingly light blue
h o p e.She asked him about time, her wide sea-green eyes and twisty child's tongue forming questions that philosophers had been wrestling with since she was nothing butthere's her first question."What was I before I was born?""You were a wish," he smiled, crouching down so that their noses almost touched."A wish?""Yep. A wish, a hope, a desire; you were stardust, floating around in the milky way, just waiting for someone to wish hard enough.""Oh." Her eyebrows crinkled together as she thought about this. "So my mom and dad wished for me?""Exactly." He stood up."Wait!"He waited, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows. "Yes
Myocardial Infarction +I like to press my fingertips togetherLike thisI like toReminisceI can feel my bones through my skin, and the violet-blue translucency The oh-pah-ci-tyOf my veins running withinI like to take the stethoscope and listen to someone else's heartBecause it makes me feel like I'm A part of somethingintrudingInto their selves their soul my call I like it when someone else places their hands over my chest and feels it expand as I breathe inAnd breathe outBecause that, without a doubt, proves that I am aliveOr that at least my body continues to surviveCollar sternum ribs encasing
Yours ConditionallyLook, this isn't what you were expecting,What you wanted, what you asked me for. This isn't about you and me and us and we, Or about how I simply couldn't survive Without you in my life (because I have All these years before), or how I couldn't Breathe without you near (once again, I'veDone just fine thus far).There are no cliches to be had,I admit. There is no symbolism, Dying roses paradoxically representing Our undying love, or archetypes in which you,The knight in lackluster armour, save this damselWho is quite distressed by your quixotic notions. This isn't filled with secret strolls under the Milky moonligh
1988Lets start out as a dreamhidden in-between palm folds,crushing church steeplesand the finger-wings of butterfliesthat would soon fade and risewith the excitement of big city shine.The birch trees sway, the paper barkfraying like stewed meat as the bone is stripped away.The night watches him hover,inching in darkness, white noise & soundsI once used to confess.Then things happen: boys, glasses askew& noise a buzz at being called beauty full head against thighs. Only clothing left to clutch,the spread of skin as yet untouched. Time has grown.Rising to my mothers cheek, I turnonly to give a ma
traditionalismi am the unrequitedoptimism of a generation sunkby love drunk parental unitswho value friendship over authorityand teach their children nothing. i am desperate dysphoria,slicked along the spines of whale-menand elephant-women who thinkone more chip will stave off the craving.i am gay humans in Uganda, low castes in India,the disappearing middle class of America --each shrieking in harmony to the swellingwallets of the rich and moral-less.i am the present, atrophied and apatheticto the siren song of the future.
we don't know anythingyou wrote right-handed, but you playedthe guitar left-handed. i asked you whyand your chapped lips formed a crumpledsmile, the smile that always reminded meof a pink accordion, and you said, "i guess my brain was just wired backwards that way."those were the days when i was not a girlmade of smoke and charred bones,(we pretended that i wasn't, anyway)the days when i did not need a bottle the wayi had as a baby, now glass instead of plastic(i hadn't yet recognised that i did, anyway)and the words i love you spilled so naturallyover my lips like strawberry liquor.i never told you how odd you looked with your clothe
ApplesMya was dancing. She had on a beautiful, white dress that flowed when she twirled. Everyone was watching her, but without the usual expressions of contempt. They looked at her like she was pretty. They were awestruck at the grace and beauty of her dance. They looked at her like she was white. "Mya, wake up child!" Mya opened her eyes and saw her grandmother looking over her. She'd just been dreaming. She was still lying on a bed of thin straw and dressed in dirty rags. Mya danced across the room, still in a good mood from the rush of dancing in front of all the white folks in her dream. Her deepest wish, besides freedom, was to learn how
Elegy Of A Lost SeasonI am the fall.Broken in June, buried in August -haunting September from the boughs of hazel,where not even the rain could reach me.How my limbs ached to feel its soothing caress;but my limbs felt nothing, and I felt nothing.And the season moved on, without me.Once, long ago, I was spring,delicate and pure; fragile as willow seedlings,believing themselves strong, as they stretch toward the sun -before the wind breaks their stalks, and they falldefeated, drained, limp upon the ground;crushed and forgotten as tears.But no, I was summer -when I looked into your eyes for the first timeand forgot to curse the sun.Tin
Slippingthere's a difference betweenfalling and letting go:if only gravity gave us time to choose.
Jones Gap, JulyIt will have been estimation mostly: my return to youthis way, just this: like the decline of a body,all dolled upsmiling, anyway, of course smilingand full of something: you can tell; when I am addressing you,I can tell: you feel a yellowness in me, a kind of hope: an envy.I watch you when you are eating, when you are watching meprove myself in eating: how you manage your silver; where, whenI have finished, I fold my napkin. I suspectsomething will be put to death here, soon, and then dinner,plated and servedthat these will be the years of two mutesbetween us, our organization of hands in the air silentl
PlungedHollowed eyes and unapologetic skiesShadowing a sea of melancholia.The echoed screams of the swallowed shoreThunder and bellowA distress.Foreboding fog ghosts over the layered monotonyCasting a dim glow to the skeletonsOf the frostbitten delilah.She heaves and writhesAnd aches, Venal in her own plight. Lacuna salvages battered breath,A glimpse of flooding skies.
DryIvory veins Mutilated and stained.Drained of existence Overflowing with pain.
Beckoning BladeDo you miss meAnd my metallic bite?Do you miss meNumbing lonely nights?Do you miss me And the solace I give?Do you miss meOr a reason to live?
DreamerWords written on sand are washed away by waves.Syllables scribbled on the sidewalk never seem to stay.Love is only temporary,Hope is lost contemporary.Should I trust the storyteller or the dream weaver?
SuicideTighten the noose Surrender your breathWelcome the silenceSix feet closer to death
CasualtyCan you cope with this disaster?The smoke is rising faster, faster.Clouding your vision, you can't see.Obscuring all you mean to me.Will there be survivors?Can you withstand this obliterating plague?Your body is deteriorating and memory is vague.Corroding and crumbling, you can't breathe.Asphyxiating your love for me.Will there be survivors?Or will you become another victim?
Life in SpiteLife is a promise to be broken,Death is a privilege left unspoken.
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