fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:these wildfires raging in our retinas& the sins we wear like demonic simileson our tongues- they are not enough.& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.but, tell me,what is a young poet(ess) to dowith veins made of kite strings?
August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,hold your secrets between myribcage-embrace & just breathe.
astrological.i. On some nights, street lights guide this lonely heart to her lonely bed.ii. In this universe of twilight skin & mismatched bones, I wonder just how many poems sleep beneath the inkwell of her eyes.iii. My body is a house of stars, and her palms are black holes sucking ( me ) into their vortex of nothing.iv. She says, "Pleaseómy moon, pleaseógive these bones a reason to stay." & I am whispering lovelies into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.v. "Goddess temple, sunset eyes, & my windowpane love- Let us eat the stars together."
RepossessionYour words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding onthe raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust.My ribs cracked from the blow.But, I think sometimesof how these were the ribsthat should have chased you away from me,quietly wondering how you managed toslither past this cage of bone and fleshto engrave your fingerprints into my marrow.You were sweat & spice & scars-Your eyes,a thunderstorm of black and blue sexjarring and devouring my insides,shaped a faithless religionthrough the cracks & broken shardsof my hollowed out womb.(I want my insides back.)
A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,devoured blasphemy-hallowed out, & spit back up,( you are afraid. )Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselvesgrapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.( spread your legs. )Red-inked and trembling,prosetry masked as screamsknots into her anatomy.
Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,mosaic butterfliestattooed into therose garden curveof my vertebrae,gliding me through this wild youth.But, like IcarusóI was a sky conqueror& these silk wingstouched the sun.-My inhalations are heavy,like the earth he bruisesbeneath his fingertipsas I chase silence."You've got a tonguemade for words." He saysagainst the arrogant thornsof my briar spine."Learn to love yourself."-How do I say I love youwithout saying I love you?"I want to replace my heart with you."-You are spider silk woveninto my harvest moonheartstrings, spiderlimbs traveling this road mapof songbird sin.You are not just in my head now,you are dancing in the lingering starsof my night-witch frame& setting me on fire.-You're not bruised enoughthey said,to write poetry.-Allow these bones to tell your story, Love.
Scorpion"Show me your bones."the atlas of her thighs quakedas she misplaced her skinin the backseat of his car."I'm a scorpion, you know-"a messy promisefolded napkin-neat."Prove it."& she smirked,sure of her limbs,her scars, & her teeth."I dare you to stake claim to this clavicle."
Her Musethese words are not poetryswimming liquid fire through ashesof dead phoenix veins.no, they are rough and callusedwith over use, their own faithless artistsspewing black tar from their lungsin the hopes to one day breathe again.nothing moves her.she would rather scribble her heart outon physical manifestations of her own reality-on skin and bones she worships like a temple. "Write of me," he says, "right here."- planting sun-stricken kisses along the hollow of her burning throat."I want to be where your heart sleeps."
No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,the embodiment of poetry.& my clavicles whispered too many nothingsabout your summer storm hands,folding like paper cranesto make wishes upon themselves.wishes are for the weak-stand up,do something about this quaking heart& freezing fingers.Anything.I think I found God then,lurking behind wanderlust eyes.
ConstellationShe is dream dust,too bitter or wisefor her own good.A timeless dragon's soulsomewhere inside ascaled shell, burningthe silence in her bonesalive, honeysuckle sweet.She collects fireflies only toset them free at 3am,crying to an uncaring moon.& she's begging for the starsto take her away,make this house a homerigged in the sky.To me,She is already naked feverswimming through the cosmos& I orbit her.
Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their wayto the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.Until you.You carried them away saying, "I'll use theseto fill the empty spaces of my universe."You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs."I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.
Sweat, Spice, and ScarsYour eyes,a thunderstorm of black and blue sexjarring and devouring my insides,shaped a faithless religionthrough the cracks & broken shardsof my hollowed out womb.I want my insides back.
Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inch of your tattered surface ).you were the beatific grinof a kindergartener high off oxygen,mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.(You taught me praying was for the weak as I fell for your gypsum nails, white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame). scribbled flesh tells no love storybut three layers of skinworn thin along the length of our feverish bones.(Garden flowers tucked away worms and dirt, my ribs hoarded misspellings of my mother's name).dipping your origami limbs into my ink,you lost yourself within the dark tanglesof my labyrinth roo
FrostI am devouring chaos,chasing it down with winter's chill.Spare me your fingerprints,summer's lovechild. †Those knowing owl eyeshave me second guessing the wild churningin my bones. You are the sleep that sweepsmy eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.When was it...that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?
Please, forgive me.Like lies, you saidI make breathing the cosmosthrough rose colored lungslook easy- vertebrae stretchedtoward the moon.& I'm hanging my bonesout to dry, carving Saturn'srings into my wrists- mystar burst ankles.I swore then I'd keep myblack tongued poetry& uprooted limbs far,far away from you.But, like lies, galaxies,& night fevers, youare the destinationon my star map skin.
Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poetswho tattoo their stanzas into my fleshwith ghostly, typewriter fingers.I live and breathe their worldly disasterslike a nicotine addiction I've never had.Drowning in their scribblesI 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 limerickwaiting to happen.I am jealousy:nothing more than weak words,& a tongue-tied cliche-but death becomes me.
She has the moon in her eyes.But, this body is a black hole,a hollowed out womb-and these palms are sandpaperthin and bleeding a silent stigmata."Not yet ripe to fall from her bed,too young to understand her own limbs-"She folds back July's origami skin,wishing for the warmth of winters kiss.She is a raven heart, thumping wildlyagainst the whispers of vintage lips.Her bed is empty,but the sheets are red.
OmegaThere is a wolf lurking in my doorway;our eyes holding breathless conversationsas secrets whisper through the stroke of my peninto the awaiting lungs of strangers.
Soon young pup, you'll have nothing left to say.My heart is woven together with tight-knit words,blood red Poe, and thumping Hemingway-Yet, no headstrong Omega sleepswithin this slightly cracked, ribcage embrace."I am unafraid of forests with teeth."
ApocalypseLast human.Facebooking.No new posts.
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
The Glass BeesWatching kids going down the long slideto happiness on the spines of literary classics,fortified with university degreesand an eye for semantics;I think of a beehive populated with glass bees,buzzing endlessly in pollen thoughtsof a priori logic and feminist criticisms.This hive is transparent, a reflection of nature in glass;Better for the machine, and more efficient too.But transparency is a complaintSaved for children who can't hide their class.Instead with these kids; he's reading SalingerAnd she's reading Woolf;And they're pushing prams off the backs of broken bank-cheques.The bees never tire of their toilBecause the streets grow bottles of Bacardi,And like everything fantasticBecome a Saturday night habit-Filling their glass frames with yellows,Reds and Blues: dewy pollen drops orThe early signs of alcoholism.So kids grew tired of trivial pursuit in twenty ten,With the internet pandemic and hockey sex scandal,And I instead thought of beehives thrivin
RevisionI hear each altared word;dipped in borrowedthought, encumberedas the candle's wick,my vigil lights, unlit.
A Piano TaleShe broke the piano's heartwhen she moved on from Bachto the beats.The keys were changed;from spruce to steel-doors were unlocked,and notes were silent.It was left downplayed,unloved and forgotten in the backof the attic, the player grownand clumsy in her age.But when the skies darkenedand fires burned bleakly,fueled by bills and bank notes,the piano made the sacrifice:it was auctioned off,sold for scrap;but the love of childhood is bittersweetand we all grow up eventually.The piano knew this best,so it went awayand gave her the chance to be happy,as it had when she was young.
MonsterI was a person,sometime before this.Now I am a monster,something no one would miss.I saw my freedom,as it slipped away.But slowly though,day by day.Take me home,take these thoughts away from me.And give me hope,I shall be free.
William,If I am nothing but an actoron a stage in this dust townof rose torn bones and washed upstars, why is it that the galaxy sculptedcrescent moons in my palmsache?