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
Celestewe'll kiss hell's palms likewretched ministersbefore we give sermons tonight;yellowed wayfarerspacing scaffolds, we longto wake immaculate -deceased
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
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
Saltwater Burnsmend your brittlepoet fingers &nurse your static headsunwashed--cherry lips &blue, blue fingernails[girls like you areselenium-sweet &withering]
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 ).
.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
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.
.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
Vitiatei am a phantom,smoking hallowed satyrsinto my helium head;you're plucking amber teethfrom between the jaws of eden
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
why we're better now back the way we came past yellow-eyed coyotes, two caustic anachronisms getting the hell out of our futuristic vineyard, expanses spilling oceans on my neck. I wanted something certain from you the heart attack I slept through now, my lips pulse; sanguine peaches making music of arrhythmic lace as you rupture in the sea: a wet throat blooming open in tessellations
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.
.you bring me flowersred linen petalsatop plastic teal-green stems,i don't think that we'refor real
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.
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.
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
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.
symptoms of red a materialist inside of you unknitting your sweater & in your dream you are a wolf eating a flower in an orange field. the world is ending. an unnamed girl stains you as if she were tea giving up to a foaming ocean. she writes a story: the unrequited blurry visions of two visionaries
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.
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]