When you lose me,
I'm not in
the lost and found.
spider.monsteri'll take two shots of vodka
one down my throat, and it will coats the ashy insides
a deathy cold.
and the other shot between the eyes, and i'll call it
a bullet wound.
and i'll stuff it silly with
more rounds of vodka and whisky
and i'll be hazardly drunk for a
i'll arch my feet until they resemble a ballet dancer's
like imaginary highheels
and i'll savour the fact i'm another
i have this strange fascination with
grandmother spiders and i wonder why they spin webs
when they're already dying on the inside.
they quote biblical nothings in silk, and the
fullstops are made from the bodies of the dead.
like another coat of broken arms,
another layer of freshly ground lips.
grandmother spider swallows her prey.
the last supper,
i scribble nothings amongst my arms
and you swallow a smile and ask me
i laugh a damaged laugh and just warn you,
"i'm not feeling so good right now."
the birdsong.a little bird once told me that we're all monsters.
and in complete honesty, i believe him.
something ruptured deep inside his worstforwear moral compass, and the gears and cogs just refuse to grind themselves and tear his heart strings up anymore.
"it doesn't ache" he whispers to me, as the veins that line every inch of his notsoporcelain skin pump a chemical effervescence down his veins.
two little blackbird sitting on a wall
one named peter, one named paul
fly away peter, fly away paul
drop dead peter, drop dead paul
he yearns for more than my fragility and the crumpled reputation i hold in my cradling hands, and he laughs this airy, bitter laugh.
i laugh too, and i know
he isn't a liar.
he isn't a thief.
he isn't a monster.
but he's a ghost.
he swallows the sparrows and they slide eagerly down his throat.
they rest like robin eggs in his stomach, pearls dying themselves red, like easter eggs.
and they melt away in toxic levels of hunger.
he hangs ropes from
straight as a.Rainbowlisten.
all the words I can say
are played whenever you hear
the rainwater against my acrylic skin
and when you shatter the glass of my fingertips.
you know how to make a poet fall in love with you.
you are never supposed to give him roses or tell him sweet nothings.
give him fireflies from your metaphors.
and quotes that make his spine ache with loneliness.
take away his eyes that scream like projectors from a theatre.
rip the words from his mouth, make them your own.
tell him to look for seashells with you,
but make sure the beach is empty,
cause he just wants the passion of having empty hands.
and lastly, make sure you will never love him back.
that is how you make a poet fall in love with you.
you told me to clap if i believe how we're all just fragmented hearts longing for our second half.
and as cliché as it sounds, i fell in love with that thought.
I clapped and you clapped along with me, as we gave applause to starless skies and city lig
winter nightsYou came 2 months ago in a white van that rattles along the road, you tell me how you'd only stop driving whenever you fall in love with the most wonderful boy.
'It's you this time. And I will never stop loving you.' you smile, and the bruises on my hips instantly feel better.
'i love you.' i whisper, and the air condenses into clouds.
'i know,' you smile, and the air around you chills the minutes.
you remind me of winter trees that lack the life of leaves and fruit and flowerbuds that explode into thousands of petals that feel like lips and are dyed colours far too beautiful for our mortal skins.
you are but a tree made of white bones that are naked and bare in the last chapter of the year.
and you made me love scarves.
we are lifeless as we waste away on playground swings.
'hey, alex?' i whisper, and the crisp air welcomes my heated pants with clouds in arms reach.
'how do you swear?'
you smiled and placed a hand over your heart.
'i swear I will always love you
benign malignant. cancerousmaybe the anguish will stop sometime soon,
[from you, from there, from here]
and i'll buckle down and stop aching for you.
and i'll have enough time
to mend my other pains.
and i won't be so convinced that you'll come and hold me and make me feel safe.
maybe i just thought you were the skin i could take and make a cocoon of
honey and scars and
but no, you were never meant to read this.
and maybe, when my mind finally starts bleeding, i'll learn from the spiders and devour my prey of fragmented
philosophy in graffitiThese words are but fleeting human contact.
Both of us are lost
but for a moment
we are lost together.
i wonder who you are.
never stops flying
i sleep under ribcages which swallow me whole, like hungry mouths that long for the satisfaction of a full stomach, but they have no stomachs, just wicker cages filled to the brim with butterflies.
their rattling bones are spidery and brittle but cage me in like iron bars, made for a prisoner, but i get treated like a god.
it's a shell of honey and scars and the love of the asphalt, and for now, it's still better than the blanket of arms you gave me.
you have Atticus' dead shot eyes, but no compassion in your clockwork heart. i used to make fun of you behind your back, saying you wound it up before you went to bed, scared you'd drop dead in your sleep.
and i guess i was right.
you shoot words at mockingbirds and expect them to stay and be shot down, one by one.
except, they'd fly away, and they won't be like those carnival games you'd play with such an earnest will.
[perhaps that was the only thing you were earnest about, destroying clay birds.]
a poem for a terrible boyyou used to smile and promise you'd choke me with pearl necklaces and everlasting joy wrapped into lace, saying you'd tie my wrists up and cover the veins, so no one could ever see the scars.
i'd laugh weakly and whisper how the scars don't matter anymore.
[and i spent the night wondering how you knew about them]
we spent nighttime ushering bodyache and musclecramps into our twisted metalspines and our shoulderblades.
maybe you were attracted to helplessness.
maybe that's why you lovedme.
we are 15, going on immortal [or maybe extinct, but it doesn't really matter] and you promise how our glassy eyes will stay whole long after our bodies rot away into carbon and ash and the butterflies escape from our stomachs.
but the birds won't escape, and our eyes will just be non-biodegradable.
you sang me lullabies of morose and heartbreak and paper cuts.
the science of silence.your arms form a barrier, blocking out all sound,
there is nothing but you.
you are the only thing that
can make a buzzing fan
sound like a butterfly;
a creaking house
like a lullaby.
moaning wind and soft footsteps,
tickings of clocks, downstairs.
but you made it feel like a soft cocoon;
a weightless wall of something golden:
"silence is good in its absolution,"
The stormCartilage-smooth azure extends
above bent heads.
Furrows s t r e t c h b e y o
the edge n
My WinterCardinals will
from the branches like
and the sky will turn to smoke.
The ground crunches under your feet and its
Almost as if you could
across the ice.
Brandished behind screens of glass
are fists of ivory
They are covered in scratches and
from the dark like magnolia blossoms.
The Vampire and His Servant I The Vampire and his Servant
As I fall on the withered ground,
I stare up at the darkening sky,
Tears pouring from my pleading eyes.
I want to be free from this hell
Light footsteps sound, stepping toward me.
I turn my head, slowly, the fear sending chills down my spine
Making my heart cold.
He walks towards me, his graceful legs carrying him closer.
His long black hair whips against his pale face
As a sudden wind makes contact with his slender body
As he reaches me, he kneels down in front of my crumbled body.
I flinch visibly and turn my head a
napoleon at sevenan old guitarist sitting
on a watercolor hill,
plucking on six strings absent.
two halves of breasts running near
under van gogh's starry night,
under black-white guernica.
everything in all jigsaws,
everything in trepid cubes.
a girl before a mirror
with violin and guitar,
sitting with three musicians
and a woman with her book,
stippling all realities
of intangible maternity.
hours yielding from dalí's clock,
minutes sub-the alchemist
like rain, like raining, like rained—
portraits wilt with abstract smiles.
clear sfumato, oh still life,
napoleon at seven.
winter footnoteswinter footnotes
your elbows were anchors
in a softly-lit parking lot,
where you sang to glass and paper:
and your visions are quiet hills
your visions are shy sounds
your visions are sheep covered in frost.
like an old shoe-
that dry rasp
that leaves me covered in skin flakes,
brushed onto the wall .
I am the raised bumps in spackle-
ripped off with the sound of a poor phonograph:
in my chain link home,
a residual ghost.
losing everything i never hadit's an early morning as the sun is rising, stepping into my mother's room and moving towards her bed, careful not to disturb the dark shadows on the walls, or the lulling silence that's filling the steps between us, i ask her when she wearily opens her eyes, "why was i born?"
her face held no expression, and she didn't reply
she didn't reply
i might as well not have gotten out of bed today.
i might as well be -
and sometimes as i'm sitting in the passenger seat, i lose track of where i'm headed. i lose track of the fact that i'm moving, i'm moving somewhere slowly across a map. i'm moving with the world, and i'm just one person out of so many. so fucking many. i watch the rode beneath the tires blur passed us. i watch the clouds drift along with us, the trees look like ghosts. i feel the time move along with us, as the sun falls to the floor and gives up letting the stars take it's place. the moon has painted my skin white, just as i sputter out my words and let them fade
brushing the willow,
swallow many branches, while
brushing the willow
they hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat.
Scratch the bark,
they hear the
brushing the willow,
They hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat;
scratch the bark
they hear the
brushing the willow
satan threw me a slumber partyim tired
of you, and
im tired of
im tired of OCD,
im tired of poetry,
im tired of counting
and miscounting sheep,
im tired of losing my mind
to cosmetic con artists who make
more money than banks,
who make more sense
than a vending machine;
who make their mind up,
not minding their dirty,
oh, how i envy those poisoned Disney Princesses
im tired of blitzkrieg alarm clocks that snooze louder than me,
im tired of vinyl pinups (un)dressing up my hypnophobic lids
im tired of the poltergeist who keeps fucking up cushion clouds
im tired of my revolving eyelash nightmares opening too soon;
and im most certainly tired of the technicolor monsters
living six feet under my bed
the ones that scream me caffeinated lullabies,
beneath bedlam bedbugs, to scare me awake,
so i can daydream of dormancy
the next morning.
the crows have risen,
and the roosters snore
until i wake u