There was nothing
half ripe about her-
A struggle in my throat,
a blackness ground
into the angles of my body-
her eyelids, an open coffin.
Book: Kissing the Witch
Other poetry by me:
I am a walking, talking universe of dead poets
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-
but death becomes me.
She only ever wanted a real reason to scream, collecting her tears in jars and hiding them behind Poe and Hemingway; she secretly hoped for an ocean too call her own. She would name it after an aged bird spirit, pain manifested in many a Gods imagebelieving our vast universe formed by the callused hands of artists.
"They must have a sick, twisted sense of humor." she said, eyes on the moon.
And I asked her "Who?" curious, because I'd yet to figure her out.
"The Gods; they give dead stars the prettiest of names."
I like pretending I mean something to the ghosts
who wreak havoc on my bones-
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets,
I got a heart in New Orleans,
palms engraving names like
Juliet, Alexandria, & Christine
on the seats of greyhound buses.
& I'm offering up 102 degrees of skin to a godless moon
as I breathe in her night scent.
Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.
these god-hands are barbwire's,
snagging & scarring everything
black tongue bleeding sweet ichor
along the guarded walls
of skeletal frames.
'i want to taste heaven.
it rests there,
just beneath your bones.'
he is a god dog
made of scythes & scalpels,
sewn together with weak thread.
and she is