Abidethi will not write youinto a seraph,nor mend yourheadaches,nor nurse yourraw pock-pitted tonguebecause youdo not wear yoursins likeebbed moonson your wrists& youhave never beenone of the damned
Celestewe'll kiss hell's palms likewretched ministersbefore we give sermons tonight;yellowed wayfarerspacing scaffolds, we longto wake immaculate -deceased
shetar-tongued;sea-brittle sugarbones & star-stitchedwitheringwaste offever burns &blue lips
Woadwaxenhoney-heat boilsunder the blued skinof the daydreamer;sun-soft metaphors hangingfrom seraph wings & in betweenyellowed nerve cells
tar-sweetwe're rotting lace & lovingcigarette burnssugarcane black birds,purloined anthems &selenide spinessalt-water wounds;silver cicadas rattling inblue skulls
Saltwater Burnsmend your brittlepoet fingers &nurse your static headsunwashed--cherry lips &blue, blue fingernails[girls like you areselenium-sweet &withering]
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
demigodsi set myred skull ablaze,detached from mymercury headlike a kingof blue smoke &stelliform girlswith shudderingshoreline ribs
Astrali'm the seraphicromanticist,a hallowed bodyswallowing galaxieslike i am hellbent onself-deterioration
blowing my teeth out the back of my skullI.we are hynagogic wasteland words, unravelingcorpses clutching at bruised throats - white gasolineII.and when your skin heals, i hope i've permeated your bones( i will never be rid of you ).
Elysiumi am alkaline,speaking of star-stitchedharlots with atongue tinged ultraviolet;love, you are selenic & iam mercurial melancholy
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;like the ink scratchesof plath, i ama diamond-dreamerstraw-stitchedspecter boy: decay,dispose, & disappointbecause this is the waythat writers wane -(this hangman head is nosurvivor story, & godsdo not burn outin supernovas)
.when her love left, it leftthe house emptyand she saysi hope one day it'llcome back to me,cos i don't keep this shotgunon my front porch for nothin'
Litmus Paperwe arecobwebbed & sinkingbetween piano strings(gleamingghost writers;charming, crystalline)you keep your skeletonsrotting in the backyardinstead of your closet--
.they greet me like old friends,ivory hands gripping myshoulders a little too tightto be forgivingi tell them that i'm sorry,and they know what i mean,their smiles fade and the blackholes on their faces start to furrowand i explain that it's notquite time, not yeti still haven't worked up the gutsto let them outbut they've heard this spiel before,and it's getting harder tosilence the rattling, a myriad ofskulls and ribs that i can no longerhide
breakup breakdowni rarely touchthose seven digitsthat make the voiceon the other endyours
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressfor four days, becauseI am sick, exquisitelysick --black and gold, your drunkdimestore Nefertiti. Awhite stain announcesitself, a muddy star:she coughedhere. Undo yourself,those sallow words you drink,let the silk fall loose. I've gota face like dirty laundryand burial grounds --What I touch becomesunwell. I wear my hairlike it pains me,blow kisseslike a little girlsucking her teethat cars, the caked littletombs of sugar that crumble,nakedunder the hot milkof the sun.
This, TooI point to the hair on my knuckleand you say, “yes, this, too, I love.”It is longer than the year before, curlinga little farther from my body. I say soand you say, "I know."I pull it out to two options: am I angrythat you saw my body betraying youth,that first little slide, and did not tell me?Or, do I pat your rounding belly and say,“yes, this, too, I love.”
come inShe is a rain-soakedneon sign at eight o’clockon a Thursday night.Her light is too cold,pipes twisted, full of fluid,I’m open, she says.The door is always openIsn’t that what I’m here for?Isn’t that my job?Hollow, dim, dull,there’s not much else she can do.Come in here, she says.At 1AM ona Sunday, she’s still open.Chemicals buzzing.
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
.you bring me flowersred linen petalsatop plastic teal-green stems,i don't think that we'refor real
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
tencourage must be a dominant trait,for how else could you handle a pin-pulled grenadewith such delicacy and patience?
you could read to me foreveryour vocal cords collapsed withthe heaviness of your words,repeating the same exorcisedtruth that you caught over thephone when you moaned to me.it took a thousand splendid sunsfor us to see eye to eye, for youto know why I weep over bookpages and not people and why i keep some stories tucked betweenmy alcoholism and faltering acidtrips. your voice and mine havethe same cadence and we're caughtin the ceasefire between our cords.i've always been too exhausted, outof my mind to tell that eachoscillation we've let our voicestake has been plucked betterthan a million dancing beams.
whitewashedmother refuses to drink the honeyshe paints our rooms with, forcurtaining the timid female quarters of homeis just as frighteningas a monsoon-poor September.the kind she weaveswith her own words seem farsweeter than the jars they makein the farm downthe tree-cut boulevard.she hides stories in her collars, spillingonly when her honey jars are raisedto counterher red-hot honestyand our yellow, foolish,innocent laughter.the forlorn scent of industryseeps into the cheap marble floorand cracked bathroom tiles,till it reaches father's nose where itvaporizes in fear of being shunned.father will paint the ceiling bluebecause aloof girls make broken homes, sewn seamby seam to a delusional perfection.we are perfect, bent at the knees and spineto the fetus we compare tobut the shoulders we always are.we dare not tremble;his reign, unquestionable,eternal.
Vertebraewe dressed oursalt burns;purloined ribbons& bone crownsspitting static throughour buzzing t.v. teethyou're a silent migraine:blue-blooded, honey-soaked[& i want to be somethingtoo pristine totouch]