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
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
Celestewe'll kiss hell's palms likewretched ministersbefore we give sermons tonight;yellowed wayfarerspacing scaffolds, we longto wake immaculate -deceased
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
Astrali'm the seraphicromanticist,a hallowed bodyswallowing galaxieslike i am hellbent onself-deterioration
Rottelluric vapor settlesbetween spidered ribsdysphoric--rotting lace &smoke spiralsdearest,we'll decaylike the red-eyed girlsbehind bronze mirrors
Litmus Paperwe arecobwebbed & sinkingbetween piano strings(gleamingghost writers;charming, crystalline)you keep your skeletonsrotting in the backyardinstead of your closet--
.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'
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 ).
Vitiatei am a phantom,smoking hallowed satyrsinto my helium head;you're plucking amber teethfrom between the jaws of eden
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.
VigilanceWe untangled expletives and shoe varnishbruised knees and arsenicninety-five andchoking onsyllables and salt waterI fell between the fault lineof candy flossand adolescenceas the scalpelsplit the continent in two.
(Un)windi could drink youlike heavy sipsfrom glass bottles(hesitant,shifting lips)you flicker likewax light,jackal-eyed girlbut youwill notbloomgolden-plated
in our minds we rot.my lips taste like soot.feverish,i realize that we are nothing but hell-brought fire,the seven deadly sins(you be lust, i'll be pride) and a mess of upside down picture frames. my teacher once told methat most writers are introverts; we drink in the worldand spew it back in ink and titles.we tattoo wordsacross the inside of our eyelids--but somewhere in the processi must have drawn youinside the convex of my irises,because all i can think about is your wind-shaken frame and flames licking across your hips.you turn black beneath my hands. i can't write about that.
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.
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
A Modern AndromedaShe walks this underpassembalmed with the graffitiof the broken, the glassbottles blue and brokeon cigarette dirt -where she disintersglints of rusting rails,steel line parallelsof a western yesterdayand gold melded dust.Nonplussed bythis tunnel's twilight eye,this lying catacomb echoof a locomotive ghost,she must get out, escape,breathe Georgia magnolias,and leave her solastalgia acheto a zephyr wind,to elysian fields.But it's all she feels,this millstone of lonelinesschained to the selfsame shamethat came with breakingher mother's sidewalk spine,the crab leg line of bonebeneath her very own skin.So she tarries in herewith this cemetery sicknesssearching for the solaceof a nomadic balladthat only the broken hear.
Clichedoes your poetry consist offeelings nestled in ribcagessilent cries inside of a marrowand the dull thunk of your heartagainst my barely beating bones?or is your poetry nestled in galaxiesshooting across well-kept fingertipslike comets lighting a dull skystardust of my hip bone wishesliterature universe coming to an end?can your poetry play imaginationlike a clever twist in a dreamwhere you kiss my shadows awayand teach me how to caress youwith love that burns passion away?oh dearare you smitten enough torun away with meor are you yet to be blanketedby these heavy arms of mine?do my words weigh you down?i havent met one so easily drownedby the vast sea of my sunkissed lettersbut as your velvet lips whispered,always is there a first.
.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
.you bring me flowersred linen petalsatop plastic teal-green stems,i don't think that we'refor real
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.
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
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]