a cigar-store solipsist
stuffing towels in doorways,
i was crowned prince asphyxia;
oh, do not fall in love with
dead boys - you can't make
martyrs out of suicide drones.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; theybetween my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial) by counting-vertebrae
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadfall in love with (splitting hairline fractures) by counting-vertebrae
of talking them out. oh,
kids like us are specters,
spectacles: boys counting
rib(cage)s & (de)composing
don't you hate
is a vessel
we're deities or tomb-raiders; no
in-betweens for writers these days
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth) by counting-vertebrae
all these poets do is wither, wither,
waste - decomposing bones just
enough to trade them in for
words & kill them
conversations bloom between my tongue &
teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughts
burst like blood vessels,
like self disgust
(i am more catatonic
than i am catastrophic).
i am made of nights like theseativan boy, you cannot empty out this skull -i am made of nights like these by counting-vertebrae
not with a pen nor with a bullet. you can
be my hallowed head(case) for spitting out
words like teeth; oh, but i will only love you
when you're weary. i will keep crows caged
between your lungs like veins, like palpitations.
i will rot you through bones & car radios,
but i will never get (you) out of your skin.
write me something, she saidsmoked-out silhouettes ofwrite me something, she said by brokenfragilethings
knits and knee-highs,
you love the taste of tea leaves and
h e r;
bones like birds rest beneath
skin, miss beauty queen without the title:
keep your voice soft, and smile,
( lip drawn between wolf teeth );
l o o k a t m e ,
i’m nothing special
metamorphic.being a ghostmetamorphic. by Whyles
has lost its appeal
and i just want to slip back into the autumn warmth
of human skin,
but that sweater
no longer fits.
love is not for fishmoonlit, cricket ears,love is not for fish by Nullibicity
and a silence that’s not
really quiet but a crescendo
of heartbeats as the wind folds
them into stars, or maybe dust.
my spine was always made of dust–
crumpled sand and beached gills
no longer able to breathe the clouds;
I was more of an oil-breather, anyway.