Saturday, January 15, 2011
I want to light you up, be your source of electricity and feel you bloom over me, to drench myself in the rain of your body and fall away in a clatter of shaking bones and mending moans to be pushed, a violent stain the color of want on the wall. I want you to excavate my soul, breathe religion into me as I exhale under you, bury deep into my skin and slip into my flaws and nuances in a crumble of gasped surprise and lightening eyes to pull the stubborn flutter out of me and tie it to us. Mashed; we are mouths, but oh, so much more.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
there's a lot of dripping
dropping around my feet, so funny
since i don't go swimming
and i haven't cried since
we buried that bird in the
the one the neighbor's cat caught
--despite not even being hungry--
we were children then.
where the water comes from, i don't know
its not in my nature to know
i'm not a woman of water, i don't move with the
i am like ophelia, yes, but not because i fed the river.
there are other ways of being ophelia,
you don't need water to drown.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
i woke up with the weather sticking to my skin.
last night still powders my hair and
echoes in my tapping fingernails,
ruinous debris of limb-smashing, hot-breathed, god-yes,
i wanted you. but that's not good enough.
there was a chase like tigers
a clawing, a sabre-toothed trade-off of
exotic animal perfumes and pheromonal purrs.
i breathed in what you breathed out
and my teeth disintegrated
into powders that wafted right up into your nose
taking you to heaven, taking us to the Congo
i mean it must have
how else can i explain the pounding and the
hot scents that burned me and evoked the jaguar howling
when my bones pushed through my skin
in a vain effort to get closer to you,
to be gnawed on.
you wanted me too. but that wasn't good enough.
i slept in my own tent and let myself be coated in indian summer.
Monday, November 15, 2010
and it was into the cave
salt crashes and ex-train tracks and stuck in the mud
and light, the cliche light
at the cliche end
and i wasn't afraid to not hold hands
to break against the ledge
alone, in the debris that roared roared roared
this is how i'd kill myself, if i thought i deserved a death that good
there was hemming and hawing about
tide traps and skulls mixed with foam, smashing against like jelly-filled shells
fear of footing
and i thought, that's how i'd like to kill myself
but i kept mute because
landmarks are supposed to light you up
tighten your grip on what is and isn't natural
pat our backs for keeping one littered run-down piece of geology from turning into
big, beautiful frothing landfills
that doesn't keep me healthy.
i want my body to nourish the scrambling soil, my bones to be
a cragged beach spine
because the only time i feel as alive
is when my muscles snap from poor decisions like
poor decisions i want to make.
i would toss myself into the whirlpool
when and if i deserved to die.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
water draining from between my toes and smoke billowing between each breath
like some red-lipped girl in a three-star film, the porcelain holds my bones in place
as your bones rattle my brain.
lung cancers and broken homes aside, some people never learn
and the cycle which has left ashes in my bathroom
and bile in my stomach
is born, without so much as a pat on the back or have a cigar.
"you're better than this," i pout into the camera
but what is it i am better than?
point of references aside, i don't know if i'm actually all that good at all
or the angst just makes for a fine photograph.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
i'm not scared of you anymore, or the blanks in my brain. i waited, and you never came, and that was the worst that could happen and now i've numbed.
you forced me into a nunnery of the psych and i can't say i'm ungrateful, spending my days on pressed flowers and knit gloves and heavenly verse, there's nothing worse than lies treated like gospel, and now i know what i can live through:
i would prefer to still be unaware of my own powers if i meant you still sometimes pushed the hair off my shoulders and whispered things someone else wrote but you meant more into my skin.
Monday, July 26, 2010
i used to be filled with stupid factory romances
marriage to me meant our names in a tree
there was an unspoken sexiness in our childlike blood oathes and
newborn bedroom war cries
you'd whisper, but i don't know
i don't think you really knew the weight of your own mouth
and how it pillowed over my lungs
traditional blooms of the femme, you attributed to my bareness
little did you know
i'd be content just lying in the shadow of beauty, not even being a shade of it
you pushed too hard
when i wept on your grass, i felt a spin
but i didn't feel you
you had gone
you had gone long, long ago.
and i knew that i had to grow up and take some responsibility for cracks and floods.