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holograms of brinei do dwell in coastlines –
between the salt water and the
sea strands i watch the arches
of my feet be kissed by
creeping little creatures
and the demure sucking
of the ocean’s lacy skirts,
twitching restless and happy
in the light
i have never liked the
open sea once the sun
goes down – at night it is a
galaxy swelling and mute
like a storm, lumbering
leviathan made of ink
and coal, made molecule
for molecule of the kind of
fear that starts
in the marrow-spaces
of your bones;
a dreadful suck of negative
we all know in space
no one can hear you scream
and i think the part that frightens
me the most is how so much of me
want to plunge through its
hidden stars and choke on brine
let it strip my lungs raw let
bubbles stream upwards
in oil-slick black and
sink and sink
and sink and
so i turn my head away
and look to the soil,
where the coastal
Marcohe left america with his family
to escape mccarthyism and when i
was little i was scared of him and
his house and the smell of isolation
thick in your nose – of the way
he coughed like he had a
thousand years trapped in his
callused lungs - and i hated the
surrealist art amongst the cobwebs
on his walls
i’m older and i drink coffee
from a stained cup, cloying with
milk powder and sticky sugar
and he says “oh, the situation
in israel, that really gets to me” –
i look over at the dostoyevsky
on his shelf and you can’t
carry a conversation with him
now (too deaf, too lost), but
still he talks and talks and talks
and decades spill like bees from a
and you shall have no other godsbroken nails
digging into palms
made of soft and foolish skin
made of lifelines made of heartlines
made of veins spreading out like spiders
like trees like rivers
paper skin made of stories
made of the sleeping beauty sopor
beneath scrubby khaki trees
made of salt-scented prayers and
glitter-shot sighs and a tension
swollen and creaking as
damp wood as concrete
cracking in the heat. still as a statue,
lungs’ hushing hum, restless
like the sea. summer
pressing a hot and heavy breath
on the back of
adoration and sweat
gathering beneath my clothes.
heavy like a stone, you
know i’ll never let go. you
know. i am –
i am devout.
equinoctial ennui amongst the eucalyptithere is no loneliness more profound
than that which the earth can give you
when apollo knocks off work
and smokes his first cigarette
exhaling nicotine stormclouds
like blue celestial bruises in the fleshy
belly of the sky
as daylight drains like a wound and
the trees turn wild and bewitched,
twisted fingers dropping broken blossoms
like widow’s tears –
screaming wolf-women moaning
for little dead sparrows and
their moon-smiling babies
(gone, gone, gone)
sunlight drips away, night edges its way in
and the dark parts of your mind
roar and chatter and laugh
and crawl and slink and
scream with viscous joy.
the soil’s not kind, the grass isn’t green
anymore, the grapes are sour and the ground is hard –
your pale knees are streaked and sobbing with red
the night does not care whether you
take your next breath.
the sky is so big, and it sees
RegressionI feel like I'm twelve again, trapped
in winter clay.
A thick slime of resentment at the world
coating, gagging in my throat,
other people's beauty shoved
raw and saccharine in my mouth.
This is a bitter pill to swallow. The slick-
smooth muscles convulse,
my eyes are hot and bright.
My body's a collection of haphazard
flaws and vaguely, dimly, I hate
myself. Wipe away the smoke from my
mirror, the grit, stare at myself dumb
and naked and peeled open like a grub.
Crawling, sticky. Chemical cleaned,
antiseptic guts, ready for the
redemption of the knife.
I want to rip myself
Who would ever
love this? Who would ever
touch this with their fingers
a moment while lighting fires in drumschuck wood on, and more, and more,
and more. it feels like a waste. why is this rusting
metal tin so hungry for the earth? consume,
consume, consume, the fire is snarling
like a dog.
the nissan pintaro sits squat and blunt
in the uncut grass. there is diesel
on my fingers. sunburn on the back of my neck,
aching lumps of meat pressing on
it roars as i flick in pallets i chopped
myself with a heavy-headed tomahawk,
my body and the slick-shine metal
work together to make it split
apart like fruit
summer is weighty, sheet metal pressed
over the bulging sun. we are insulated, trapped
in cotton wool. most of me longs for
the salty ice swells of the sea. there is a
mosquito near my ear
and i think i have a cobweb
in my hair.
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
when i stimulated the prayers of rib-beat
when i licked the temple of my teeth,
speed pushed my fingers shaped like confessionals
clasped holy, carved my throat to fixing-
lover; i did this for the anthem of your eyes,
the feel of strangled feet crushing the fame of stars
for the glow of streetlight worship, for the moons
of your crooning throat, for the halls of your arms,
the strayed revels of your arms,
lover: you manufactured a god out of the drugs i used
and had me addicted to the divine, to the dignity of music
you pressed in my direction: just what i am, hallelujah,
marijuana, day and night-
lover, i fell in love with your culture
that preached the real definition of dusked kneecaps,
the plea of closeted throats, the whisper of bless,
unlearning how to say please god in borrowed tongue,
i fell in love with your attention, with nervous grace
lover. i levied the rubble of my sins
Even The City KnowsIs it at all easy?
Being by yourself, I mean.
Sitting in a car, on a train, on a bus--wherever you might be now, isn't it hard to be a drifter?
There are no men with newspapers, no women with strollers, no love-crazy teenagers, no annoying toddlers, no anybody.
You stare out the window, like there are people out there, calling your name. The trees are out there, and they've lost all their leaves, all their buds--they've lost everything, just like you.
The sky is out there, and it's gray and colorless, just like you.
The stars are out there, and they're so blown-out-of-proportion, and they're just like you, too.
But the trees, the skies, the stars, they're used to being left alone.
You lack the ebullience of your drink, but it, too, is fading.
Frost has gathered on windows, on the ground, on rivers, everywhere.
Frost comes and goes, just like you, when you finally melt away.
The city draws to darkness and quiet--it disappears, just like you.
But, even frost
Death to the LoversHe screamed,
He tore his hair from his scalp;
But it didn't bring her back.
The beautiful girl
With the gorgeous smile
And witty remarks
Would always lay six feet under.
She would lie in her death bed,
Her arms folded on her chest
And her face full of peace
Known only to the dead.
He would be the first to rot.
First his health,
Then his sanity.
She would forever feed on his emotions
Like a pretty little leech,
Sapping his well being
And happiness from her underground world.
And he would let her,
For a fool like him
Who allowed himself to love,
Skeletons.I have skeletons in my closet.
I drag them out sometimes, just to have a look.
They click their teeth at me angrily.
Oh shut up, you get to spend your days in the quiet, and the dark.
I have to face the light
and it's harsher than whatever you lot can come up with
in your dusty old tombs.
"Yes, but we are you."
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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