headsmeni am a satyr:martyrs, executioners,you areelectrocution &stygian smoke;oh, prophets,i am drowning in Styx &melting my mind into divinity.
this is the way that i will extract my revengei am nothing but phantom painsreborn into old bones;oh, sugar skeleton, tell me -what's it like to be a ghost?
and we'll rotoh, poet boy,you are notthumbed bruisesor honey bones& you have onlyever been a godinside of your own head
speak like you are a god -I.with these vorticose veinsi am withering, a nightwalkeramongst young phantomsII.the hangman in my head doesn't sleep;he doesn't bat an eye
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can'twrite your way out of thisbody or out of this mind;you can pray like it's high-fashion,insist you're only burning yourself out(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)if only for murky mirrors &silver cicadas caughtin your ribcage, you'vegot a knack for decaying
mescalinewe raise bygone czarsto walk amongst the livinglike travelers in blue skulls,& i am a preachermade of offhand remarks &long-healed headaches -oh, the whole world is catatonic.
all we ever do is decayI.nobody falls in love with saturn,but everyone, her rings.II.this disjointed skull is a smirkingmirror bending back reflections.this disjointed skull is a sleep-smoker.III.you were a utopian seven lives ago,but nobody lives in this body anymore.
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]
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)
heretic.admired & afar,his beauty became a childlike caricatureof his defiantly devious demeanour.euphoric ecstasy found its feathers, flying him'til gravity grounded gushes of his history on my helpless hips,his insanity insistent on injecting juvenile judgments into my kingdom,killing love & leaving lust,as malleable memories manoeuvre my mindnear never-ending nausea.oh, other-worldly oppression,please place me at peace!a qualm quickens the riot rising in the rosebud refuge of my ribcage,sand spreading through the time-glass(my time-glass)underneath the vile vagrant with wicked wings,wanting water in xerarch.yes, i yowl, yeszeus.
.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'
aubreyYou are a three-day lightning stormthat leaves only plastic bags and stray dogsflitting through the river runway streets.You are dark purple and blue cacophonies,searing-white and shredded muscle tendrils,and seams bursting from blistering electricity—I am not afraid of you.My father has whirling weatherveins too,but my mother coaxed it to his irises and fingernails;typhoon boy, you too will find your stormchaser.She will have a flagpole straight spine and sunshineclenched in her fists like crumpled dollar bills, andmore importantly, she will make you feel okay.You deserve okay.
immortal enemyi heard you whispermy name tonight; you're buriedeight miles away.
i'm only worth my weight in wordsyour gaunt little saturn-boy,your venus in blue: he's gothoneybees eating at his mind& cinder-ash rotting in his teeth;(oh the kid's just like a cigarette -the way he's burned himself bone-weary)
Deux ex machinaMaybeyou should start being morehonest with yourself.You will never be aconstellation ora sunspot on themoon; only fallenheroes belong there,and your life wasn'tpitiful enough tocavort with the stars.The gods love agood tragedy, but only whenthey're the oneswriting the playbill. Itisn't any fun when the actorsforget their lines andbreak character.(better draw the curtainsbefore the performance morphsinto a comedy)You say "I'm sorry" but inreality the only thingyou're apologizing for isleaving before the showended and reading thewrong horoscope that day.
you've been dead for a year, my deari met you on december 21st,the longest night of the year.you had solstice eyes: cold, dark, alluring.i knew you were not meant to last,powerful as a gale but fragile asthe tulip stems you snapped,a sickening cycle of you,an overwhelming tidal wave.they say two wrongs will never make a right,but i made so many bad choices thati wound up back where I began.it was too easy to love you,but getting you to love me back was impossible.i clawed at your chest until I struck blood,until my nails split into shards.you were born a phantom,and i, your corpse.holding onto you felt like drowning in quicksand;i fought but always sank into your arms.i breathed in dirt, breathed in dust, andfound my organs choked with you,smothered by your existence.you sucked out my breathevery time i kissed you.i died every day with your handknotted in my hair.You left on june 21st,the longest day of the year.i bit down sorrow and deconstructedthe labyrinth within me,the one you hadn't th
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
solipsismi am the prince ofphantom pains & mediocrity -a carbon copy, chlorinatedgrey matter deityof flickering cities &burning mercury into my wrists
Endless TalesII am the haiku of my smiles,The limerick of my frowns,The sonnet of my love stories,And the couplet of my thoughts.III am a ticking time bomb;And poems are the fragments of my blood,Mixed with the immortality of my soul,Carved into every echoes in the universe.IIII am never a story,Never a lesson to be learnt,Never a tale for you to boast;I am the scorching flames burning in the cold winter,I am a raging tsunami,And I could engulf the hell out of you.IVI am the everlasting scorching supernova,I am a whole book of undecided thoughts,I am your troubled curiosity,And every improbability in this universe.I am the paradox of my own time line,The undefined term in your mere dictionary, And the infinite definitions of my own thoughts.(G.L)-Endless Tales
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
six steps to fixing youstep onecry. scream. bang your fists against the wallsthat keep you locked inside.kick your feet in the air. tell your sister she's stupidand wrong and that you've never loved her.cry. scream. apologize via him to you.let your tears catch on your lashesuntil you can no longer see anything but your owndemise. taste the bitterness left inyour mouth from your own bitching and rot in it.step twobreak a mug. break two. kickthe pieces around the kitchen floor and cry some more.break a plate. break a cup. break a bowl.break a finger because nothing can take away thissort of pain. you are empty and yetyou are filled with so much anger.break a razor and paint pictures across your skin.step threeyou are okay, you tell them.you break three days later and you liein bed, unable to move.step fourstart picking up the pieces. clean up the messyou've made and he's left.use windex to polish off the dirt and
because love and death go hand in handthere was a man with a dull coatsitting on the green park bench.dying leaves appeared to flutter about him,but they were just falling.surely, he was an artist.only an artist could create such an illusionand fade the barrierbetween beauty and death.he was writing,or perhaps he was drawing;she couldn't tell which.his fingers were delicate around his pencil,cradling it in a gentle grip,though she could see barely controlled tensionand violence hidden shallowly beneath.on a whim,on a quick and petty impulse,she walked closer to his park bench-more grey than green, decidedly-and tried to look over his shoulder.he crumpled the paper in sheer frustrationjust as her line of sight attached to it.she saw it bounce on the dirty pathas the man stood up stiffly,glancing at her brieflywith a flicker in his eyes.he was gone.she sat on the bench moments laterand opened the bundle of paper,and when she did,she realized that this manhad not been creating a drawingnor a po
.i laid in the flowers andi listened to them hum,i think i loved your handsthe most, even when theyflayed me to the boneand i don't think i'msupposed to talk about -the devil, he said i'velived one hell of a life,you see, just read myname out backwards,and god ain't nothingbut a dog, so don't youeven go wasting your time(i left my conscience pining outside the door)
.the reaper playssolitaire when he's gotsome time to killbut when your time'sup it's back to work, coshe's gotta make a livinglike the rest of us
you're not silver-tongued, specter boyyou told mewe walked among dead -that we're all(nec)romanticists;now, dearest, i knowwhy skeletonsalways look likethey're smiling.