thunder-and-lightning love
they razor
across a face opaque
as sugared absinthe, her smile-
shanks, swearing nothing
could ever come between them, nothing:
the studded starlight, the straightness
of his spine;
there was a time i would’ve moved
everything; now all
that is left is to move on,
the piles of pills uncut, un-
touched on the kitchen counter, a
caress in their cold aloneness. no
half measures in this meeting; she
reads too fast, so crazy she
mustbe in-love, in-
fatuated (i find
i do not believe youmuch, anymore), un-
characteristically alive; still, she reads
too fast, like cobblestones
coming up to meet you, & there is no
sorry in cement, like our
footsteps that day we walked
the beach in the cold, like
elbows in a coffeeshop
on a streetcorner
where they sit and argue
(will they remember my voice,
when i am dead?)
over what it means to be crazy.
just another suicide poem
you don’t want to read this.
untethered and still in tangles, some words
should only ever be sung at song’s end.
for some hurts, there are no words.
here. put your finger just…
here. where it pulses.
feel the slow.
red-black, it giggles
as it drips from skin to
brick-l(e)aden sheets.
you don’t want (anyone)
to read this.
they’ll take away your shoelaces,
your plastic knives.
but then, what’s a razorblade
when all you need
is the will to stop
breathing?
for some pain,
there is no air.
i know these things,
the giddiness of a dripping
pulse. trust me, i’m
a doctor.
here. they’ll take away
your shoelaces
and you’ll walk barefoot,
without dignity.
but they won’t let you
leave. you’ll walk hobbled,
in small circles,
barefoot,
broken.
like poetry.
your story
on some stage far from here,
another bleeder.
here. as it gushes.
trust me, i’m
a poet. feel the slow,
the red-black breath
of forever
a single, beaten tomorrow
that will never
be yours again.
read barefoot,
untangled,
how it gushed
(in the end),
how they wouldn’t
let you leave.
broken, the whole world
will applaud, crying in the end (;)
you don’t want to read this.
shut door when done
remember when it was more than this.
remember the hiss of snow on the lake,
the feel of fire in its place.
remember the forgetting.
remember what truth was, its high-flung pain.
remember the next night.
remember the taste of never,
the perfection of a kiss in the sun.
remember the last time you felt safe.
remember that you are more than (t)his.
remember the dregs and the puddles.
remember these words: concave, blue, gravel, catatonic.
remember the walk barefoot, cobbled in rain.
remember the screams.
remember the hand that picked you back up.
remember why.
remember how it ended, and where it began.
remember that which it is needful to remember,
the song you never meant to hear.
remember that dreams, too, are sometimes prophetic.
déjà vu
sometimes i
ache
for the darkness,
turn my eyes
before the ocean of his
mouth
has d(r)ied
on my
lips,
remember
distinctly
the thick taste
of charcoal sucked
through the brown
slatted shades
that hid sunshine
from the secrets
inside.
there are scalpel-
scars still on
flushed flesh,
mirror-marks
of time that
doesn’t pass,
connective tissue
knotted into daisy-
chains of white tomorrows:
where waters whisper
of salt and rust,
there is yet
frost
to come.
i accustom
myself
to the sound
of endings, learn
to hold my hands
close(d). sleep
is the natural
consequence
of over-
dreaming,
an exhaustive
star-eyed
lumbering
collapse. sometimes
i think i
think too much.
ebb and flow
it was a
quiet torture.
sudden dyings
and small footsteps in
quick-drying sand;
soughing behind windows;
pestilential dreamings:
if one were to cry
out, none would
answer, but
if anyone should ask,
i left in search of a muse
to make even my despair
sing; i
don’t know when i’ll be
back.
solitary, confinement
……
……
…….
…….
…….
……
……
…..
…….
…..
what color is your soul
when shadow ceases to exist?
who are you
locked in at night
behind the darkness
of your eyes?
are you even human?
every dignity gone,
all your dreams naked,
autumn branches
scratching at a bolted window.
the last question
they will ask you is
“If we have to use restraints,
should we call your family?”
last primeval answering cry from
deep in the forge-fires of
your heart, knowing:
there’s no one
you would want to tell.
