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 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)
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).
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.
this is our enlightenmentall articulate ribs &bone-yellow fingernails,he says, "xanax-eyed girl,don't you fall in love withsuffering." gums bleedingink that settles cavity-blackon the backs of his teeth,he says he'll cut out histongue & bite bullets just towake half-dead in the morning.he tells you, "this is the waythat writers become saviors."this is sacrifice, he says,but this is how we thrive.
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
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).
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-printsplayed out on the bedroom wall.I am not the dark mass formingin a corner of an airless hall.I am not the viscous vengeancewhere you sink your spinning wheels.I am not the leaky buckethung up on your wishing well.You are not my soul mate missingwandering a winter's night.You are not the sound of angelssinging by a candle's light.You are not the rasp of fingersfumbling with a hasp of steel.You are not the tattered towelsoaking up the things I feel.I am the oblivious child,dancing where the wildflowers are.You are my unwitting captivelighting up a jelly jar.
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.
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?
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.
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.
The Danger of Untold StoriesI believe in words. I believe in voices, the unique cries of human beings as they pour their soul out into the sky. But most of all, I believe in stories.Stories, be they written or spoken or painted onto the walls of caves, reaffirm our humanity. They give us back our own heartbeat, that dull pulse of blood, but more than that they give us our minds. They let us reach back and see where we’ve been, what we felt, what we believed. They form a mirror, let us see who we are, who we were.And I believe that everyone has a story that deserves to be heard. But more and more I’m seeing that only some stories get told. You have books for children fully admitting that people have different bodies…but where is the admission of different minds? Why do no main characters have mental illness, or attention deficit, autism or dyslexia? Where are the movies about synesthetes, those with OCD, those battling depression?This is not just a problem of children’s literature, it e
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.
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
defeatheredand this is where we bury our hearts,between self-defeating personality disordersand burnt bridges and midnight ramblingswe promise ourselves aren’t true;embedding our memories in forsaken homeslike it is a conscious decision to shedour wings (reptiles don’t fly)and maybe I am the monster of everymyth: wide-eyed and jagged toothed andlooking to regain a piece of myself theworld borrowed, many moons agoas I falter and stumble over my own unawarefeet, wreaking havoc, reeking of self-acquittal--all I ever wanted to do was belong.dreams are flaws much like the hearts weflaunt on our sleeves, and I seem tohave lent all mine away; I amsomething entirely ignorant, in the dark,believing fingers fumbling can find answers.they never told me reflections are backwardsand the world spins the wrong way andhurricanes are really an embodimentof all our own withdrawals:but one day, these walls will crumble,and I will learn to breathe in dust.
.some need to know lifelike the beasts do, the heronthe stray dog the cobra the salmondead in it's stream,but i want to shed out of my skin,don't want to be no white ghost no moreand i met a magician, got rid ofthe dirt in my mind,pulled my memories outof my temple like napkins,made a mess i couldn't clean upon the pavement outside, no tip for him,you're gonna have to excusethe mess in my soul, i wasn'texpecting visitors,been pleading with words for anexplanation, came home late last nightsmelling of someone else's ink,i think i saw the light then buti heard the darkness too, i kicked themout, now it's just me and mycrazy i keep in a tank,watch him grow limbs and climb outover the side, and now sometimeshe sits on my lap and i stroke him,but he's getting too heavy to hold andhe's starting to speak for himself,says don't drink that be goodi need you and you need me and youknow it, i don't think you can evertruly know someone until you can admitto yourself t
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.