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)
confess, like there's blood pouring out your mouthfear is licking at thiscobwebbed mind & ifeel cinematic; like asteam-powered poet,i'll write myself into amisanthropic migraine& outline cinder bonesto match - ingenue,you are an esoteric'snightscape & i, yourmorning's fever burns.
i'm a paradigm of self-destructionsnap your marlboro bones &grind them into watercolors -bay-water boy, paint your brainson the wallpaper like a sinner'ssermon; you won't wilt the waythat deities do, you solipsist:you're just a suicide drone.
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
like the only thing we have to fear is breathingI.i'll be licking at thesehearth wounds 'til i'mcoughing up blood.II.now stop me if you'veheard this one before -III.oh, i wanna be a car crashsix o'clock news story &wouldn't you justloatheme?IV.i called miss misery up last night; she saidkid, i've got big plans for youif you ever want outta that head
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; theyclaw words out of bird carcasses,poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.they count their ribs to remind youof a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bonesbetween fissured wrists & funeral pyres,these have been dying days &they're all mortuaries.
i am no god-made manoh, you're so pathetic,with your parasitic nervousness;you're an anxious fever-boned boy& you've got manic headachesscrawled into gasoline anthemslike you don't know love'sonly parasympathetic &we're all romanticists(you may have smoke-spiral fingertips, butwe've all got a knack for burning ourselves out).
i speak too fast for necromancya cigar-store solipsiststuffing towels in doorways,i was crowned prince asphyxia;oh, do not fall in love withdead boys - you can't makemartyrs out of suicide drones.
wednesday's childit is the third of octoberand i am building a castle for usout of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet fromtouching the ground.you are sin, he whispersand his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching fleshand freezing bone;brittle pieces of me shatteras they hit the stained linoleum floor.don't wake me from this nightmare.i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down ourautumn path.kamikaze leaves fall, trailingfire as they throw themselves fromthe branches, down, down,to cold pavement below.your words echo in my minda constant reminderthat i am sinbut you,you werenevergod
every night my hair is falling outI have heard that in 7 yearsevery cell in your bodyis new& isn't it beautiful that it will bea body you have never touchedbut I know that when your brain cellsdiefall like ashes through your skullthey stay dead& I can never scrap the memories out of their corpses
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
specter boys have always looked best sinkinghe says,i want to count all 206 &feel the notches of your ribs -i want you, weary boy, tophase yourself down whileyou are burning inside out.i will seethe inside your skulllike thoughts, like cigarette filters;you will thank me as i molder in your marrow.
fall in love with (splitting hairline fractures)we swallow blues insteadof talking them out. oh,kids like us are specters,spectacles: boys countingrib(cage)s & (de)composing don't you hate (this body) is a vesselwe're deities or tomb-raiders; noin-betweens for writers these days
the science of us.you told me once that a strike of lightningis five times hotter than the surface of the sun.and so if i am the skythen you are the storm,flawlessly constructed andelaborately designed to strike mewhen i'm broken.except lightning never strikesthe same place twice,and your fist has struckthe flesh above my cheekbonemore times than i can count.---"the earth is number two,and heaven is number three,"you told me once, as you slippedyour hand beneath my skirt.your other hand was on the wheel,guiding us through the storm."—because the earth was created first,"you would tell me,although i didn't wantto believe it."heaven was just an afterthought."your hand was warm,and your touch was electric.i did nothing as you caressedmy inner thigh, and i stood stillas you reached for more.i allowed you.i had no choice.the rain fell on the windshieldlike a map of confused roadsleading nowhere,and i thought quietly to myselfas our silence burned the bridges.you neve
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,after exiting the church,you plucked the sun from the skyand hid it in your palmsso that when I held your handsthey would no longer be cold.When Monday night arrivedyou snatched every single starand used my tears to makea necklace.Tuesday's empty dawn shonethrough the cracks of the door--you stole the promise of whatcould never beand draped it around my shoulders.After Wednesday's twilight passed,you grabbed the cloudsand wove a tapestry of liesthat I hung on the wallsof my prison.Thursday crept through uson silent tiptoes,waiting for us to take notice--instead, we merely waitedfor midnight to come.The dusk of Friday wanedwhile you stripped it of its sorrowsand sewed them into my skin.When Saturday cameyou tried to steal the moon;I watched as you stood on your tombstoneand stretched to reach it.You fell, then--fell, broke your neck,and landed six feet under.I couldn't cry afterwards,for you had taken my agonyand washed it out to
5:20i went to the forestto purify my lungsthen i saw the thickand uglythree letter scari left in a slenderbirch, and wondered howi could let you poisonanother living thing.moths aren't afraid of pinstill they're stuck to a piece of styrofoam.
What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-facewith the planets? To curl your fingers in the air withoutmeeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed youhow to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ashclouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriagesand wonder what cornfields are like when they're your skyand your Earth's crust? What if I took you to the white cliffsof somewhere or other and taught you how to spread your wingsand not hit the ground? What if I showed you mazes, and becamethe red threads around your thumbs? If you'll just trust me, I'll let yousee that getting lost should only worry you in jungles of co
HomesickI am the river's son,my arteries flowing turquoiseand turning to rapidsrushing around my frame,filling me with this senseof buoyancy, minnowstickling my sternum.I am the river's son.My palms caress eachsilty shoreline, everybattered bank and bend,and these places I knowso well become meas my fingerprint,even the bridge above meinflamed by the afternoonsun-glow, burning rusty andblood-orange againstthe steel blue sky.I am the river's son;I bring my home alonglike hermit crab,where I stepI pull water from the earth.
SummerIt is morning.Your breath hums through me; I feel itcrashing against each of the hairs on my arm.Your foot touches minein the darkness of bed.Were I a younger man, I'd rouse youwith a storm of lips, bring you upfrom sleep into the daytime. I'd trickle fingertips across your stomach,touching your faceuntil your eyes dawned against mine. I'd sing to you, hoarse with affectionand sleep.But I am not a younger man; I see you at rest, and I am at rest. I lie in wait to watch for daylightto fill you up and bring you to me.
two minutes at the bottom of the oceani open my eyes and the room is underwater a refraction of light--a trouttail flicked & then the sediment settleslike dysentery, this narcoleptic soulto pulse, spininto a paralysis of theno--this is the pressure that creaks in my bones:this is the space between my mouth and my mind& the few centimeters between my ears are pulsingwith the things I cannot get to my handsbut my head is not a fucking ocean:it's a flaw in chemistry
EasterRemember what you love,you with sand in your teethand the feral burn of hungerin your eyes.God sends his regrets.He made you grasping and slow,in a late hourwhen the wine washed low.Remember what you love.Fall to your knees in the tossand the swell, quellthe appetite of the cold black sea.Beg blessings for your homeand the salt-sick trees.Reach what lies near:the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.Offer psalms to what is holy,whisper the name of what you loveas it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
ChimesA bird,and the edge of winter. There are no signs.I'm tired of this, the searing and the splitting,metal on metal. I'm tired of myths. Won't you just be beside me,be still? Let me picture you, just for a moment. Divineconcentration, that's all you take. Don't ask.Living never felt natural.But here we are, trying-All for this one second,this one flash of perfection. It's trickyto be a person. I can never get the balance right,and the seasons are a quilt,heavy like a sand, dampfaces. Where is your voice, is itbeneath the soft song of the quiet? Your words,did I make them?
Headdressi.tread noiselessly, and you become rabbitchildthere is a strength in silenceGod hears your footsteps and counts your paces, maybe,but no one sees, no one speakslet it be, sweet destiny,let it have its way with you;; (& your children)ii.i'm no architect, but hear me:i know a hieroglyphic when i see oneand the writing's on the walldebutantes' young featherswon't save you nowdaddy knows best, always knows bestiii.mama sings sad song when she braids warrior knots in your scalpand sends you to the war that is life
seastormI,a wreck-age wearingat the sea(m)sof tidal vacancy;I am the ocean, andthe moon hasforsaken me.tocling to reason,I stumbled onabsence stagnant,abrupt. bedridden yetever chas(m)ing, I fell to salt-soakedground from adon’t-leaveprecipice.threewords were all it tookbut all you do is take.I am wakingand I am shakentsunami waves that breakin empty frantic fury;you aregoneforthe briefest reposeor instant of stillness,I yearn; insteadI am abandoned by language,I am bound to languish beneathmountainous (n)ever-resttempests that swell,that quelleven the most desperate of breaksfor the shore.
tonight i am old againtomorrow morning i will betwo again and scared of the shadows.i will be two again and i will notlook out the window unless you areholding my hand,i will be two again and my father willbe the biggest man on earth againbut tonight i am eighteen, i ameighteen, i amholding the world in my chest and it isbeating like a heart (well then it must be my heart)china digs a pattern in my backbone and iam red red red redi am a communist daughter andthe trains to shanghai will leave somethingto be desiredi am eighteen, i amall the life in the worldstacked around a schoolruined spineand the world moves softly and shetouches me gently with her faceand then slides away.tomorrow morning i will befive again and i will be happy,i will be five again and i will notlook at my body the way my mother looks at her body,i will be five againand people will just be pretty, people will just be"beautiful,"tomorrow morningpeople will just bepeoplebut tonight i am eighteen, i ameighte
MasksIn the summer,when the air was bright with the scent of nectar and sunshine,she was called fat.Her friends stood away from her,and eyed each other with discomfort so palpable that it hung,suspended in the Gothic hues of the warm evening sky.She laughed,as it was all she could do to hide thepain that gnawed so badly insidealmost immediately, it was joined by that of her friends.It was there,she crafted her first mask;imbued with betrayal and hurt.She named it confidenceand put it on In the fall,when the carnival left sweet aftertastesreminiscent of a fragrant dream,she was called ugly.The fragile and furled leaves cascaded over the dying summer breezeand as she closed her eyes,she wondered to herself,"Where are my friends?"When no answer came to her,she slowly took out a blank mask,from the hollow expanse inside of her.She poured her sadness into it,slathering it with the color of frustration.She called it "desirable",and she made it hers In the
to be a waste of grey matter with no self-esteemforgive theserorschach nerves &mercury veins -i am no tragedy boy,but i have self-decaydown to an art.this tar tongue only startsmarlboro conversations &self-ignition;i only start fires.