Sundropssundropsonto skin thatshiversthe golden glowfallsinto everythingmeltsaway from the sunand the slivers of lightslide to earthas angelsto becomethe gods of love
22 Degree Halothe windowpanescold reflections of yourtoo-sharp morningsblankets, gracethrown downuntil they stare from the streetglasses, dregs dodgingyour tippy-toefeetdraw the curtains on the sunits lightleaching, reachingthroughto steal your haloat 22
Dirty Sheetsmy bed still smellsof hair andcigarettesstale-sweet alcoholand moisturizer onskinlike the smell ofheatagainst cold airwasnt enoughfor me to leave withouttakingpart of you with me
But if Shebut if shewhere there's none of her,carved paths in mindin mineremained hollowpassing, pastall but a greeting,those feelingthese unfamiliar,these underlying,communicatingfor her namemuch less, a facein memorywhere she might returnwhere I could only remainbut,if shehad made me stay
Tensionstrangerboy, youre allshouldersback pressed into the seatjaw linehardand straight anddisappears, surrounded byoneperfectlayercurves under to touchgracecovetyour throatstrangerwatch the show soI cant see yourfaceI want to know youlose this tensionon youchest tighter foreach way each strandfallsstrangerI want tocurl fingerscurlthem intoyour long redreal rednatural hair
Grandma's SandalsWith my eyes closed that little plastic circle is silver, and that nylon yellow shift, yeah. Thats gold.Theres nothing like it; youre not, that I know. Dressed up for pretend, ugly dirt-scrubbed toes curled over the end of grandmas sandals. Dead-persons clothes.Your tiaras cracked, a terrible sphincter opened were there was once a rosy pink jewel. Its there like its responsible for what youll grow to live; nothing but shit and the stench of pot. Its even there in daddys car, just a part of the fabric; its probably seeped right into your bones.The look of your hair, like maybe I hope child services will take you away. Filthy, sickening blonde, thin and lank and unclean; its how you say monsters stay, even if they bathe. As if youre posing as one of them, to prove to me they do exist, its there, I swear to you, look again. Please, just-One of your drawings is picked up by the wind and is tossed
FingersFingers lift to his mouth, cigarette caught by gentle lips and his eyes close for the seconds he wants to ignore. With the lights out, sunshine, red hot against his eyelids has left the room there anyway, the window, the table, the door. He still cant hear her breathe but feels her chest rise, her shoulders fall against his chest.Frightened, he drops his arm to the couch as if the seconds had become a moment stretched too long; he looks. Taps the crumbling ash into a glass before it falls and hurts her. Burns her.Lips pressed just slightly open by his thigh, her soft body follows. Ups and downs he lives to trace with hands, with eyes, with anything; hes caught wanting to wake her. Lifts fingers to his mouth.She shifts in her sleep; breasts no longer crushed together, her elbow slips off the cushion. Her hand hitting the carpet shocks her, and as she stretches it reaches blindly for his hair. Curls right in and pulls him to her, he abandons the cigarette in favour of thos
StrangersGive me a minute.They know itll be longer, but hes walking away, past the waxen grey expressions, the swollen black balloons. Hes silent beneath the eulogy, soft and distant words fashioned for strangers, falling on blind ears. He knows its all pretend because really, what is there to say? And even the too-light coffin, the box of mahogany and plastic, the bed of white velvet lining and the brass handles and opal inset design; even thats deception, empty and wasted. Itll rest deep below his feet soon, beside the corpse of a teenager and the yellowed bones of a disenchanted poet, unoccupied as it, too, returns to the earth.He little understands this hollow gesture, this lascivious ceremony, but knows its for the strangers. They cling to death, adore it, use it for all the human struggle it superficially adorns them with. Someones mother, lover, brother, friend. Death to them is commercial, a way to pretend to seem real. Real
Personal Reflexthe ripping formslong forgotten, longsince let goshe'sunprecedentedshe'slost all meaningjust a gaping partof past, hooklineand dormantwaits, impatientfor emergenceand becomesengulfing, meshes instinctual, itbecomes me
We all are beautiful!We all are beautiful!The problem is on our eyes!
Authorshipyou’re the authorof this story - and yetinsist on playingthe role of a foilwhen you couldrewrite the pagesas you wish.
DownfallAnd in this dark harvest of seasonMy life has completely lost reason,For which or against to decide.All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tideIn sadness and in kindnessIn light and in darkness.In a boat made of hopeI shall sail to tomorrow,In a winding hurricaneMade of treachery and sorrow.There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...Piercing, slashing though my head.Starting somewhere in heaven,Ending somewhere in hell.Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.Are the armies within.In my head they are all thrashing.On the heaven's and hell's whim.To be light or to be darkness.A perpetual array.It's not merely my choice,But the choice of the way.It's an option of the voice,It's a thin line of gray.Is it a choice forced by fate,Is it a pre-set time and date?Or a choice to which I myself sway?But here's our story anyway
."Nothing that I do will matter.As all things will merely shatter!"All my hopes thus darkness scatter,As it shoves me a decree.As it si
spaceshiptwoWhat's leftafter the explosionare these suns,a faint projectionfrom an unreachable darkness,flickering.And then everything is simultaneous;the entangled mess,the crowds.*And maybe it's all about editing and being edited-The pilot painted across a desert,A desert painted across the pilot.*Or the holographic drift, a surface reflection-The expanse outside echoed inward,Jagged orange treelines over the firefly black like someone holding onto a woman(or the memory of a woman).*Or maybe just the T.V. relayas I struggle to sleep,the newscasterfrom both dimensionsglowing and whispering:The horses of your apocalypse/the apocalypse of your horses.
Fixing the damageYou feel damagedAnd brokenJust like meBut togetherWe can change thatWe can fix each otherSo don't give upWe need each other
glass in the throatthere's something about thathollow quiet in the nightthat bite of airbeneath the clouded moon:something like calm words,falling through the gapsbetween stained teethsomething like a dull thud,a stumbling fawnbruised by a wheel.something about thatclinging crowding darknesssomething likea sweet invitation:prey on us sinners,now,at the hour of our death.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead. It isn’t true. It’s said the stench of hell infects the earthand healths of heated blood are downed. But Hamlet lied. The dead know nothing, the living less. There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
AloneI look aroundI see peopleYet I'm aloneAlways.
I don't like cooking!I don't like cooking!
Wingswe're well enoughto stand aloneholding ownpast the coldwe're alivetogether wholestitched up soulwings spreadwe're goneinto nightleaving lighthold onwe're bledrun drytime to flyangel mine