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i'm a bunny and i hate themI was thinking about that time when
we sat barefoot on that log that
hung over that ledge and I Sunk
my toes in the moss because I
was afraid I would fall
like I fell in your room the night
I can’t breathe I can’t breathe
Shut up shut up catch me
But this time it was a cliff and not the mattress so I didn’t think
and even if you did my arm would probably
That log was also
a beginning and that cliff was (is)
but you didn’t even know that until now
because you’re probably reading this
even though I didn’t want you to.
I took two and passe
ghosts in the gardenand she slung
her slender bones
swallowed by fabric
chintz roses echoed
on the rattling
in her shiver-quake,
her molasses tongue
around the unraveling
storm clouds gathering
—good for the flowers—
and the canny mouse
curled cozy in some
dusky cabinet corner
—bad for the biscuits—
down her furrowed
when i was small,
she said into the silence
on a paper-whisper,
on an errant past,
my sister died.
and they laid her
on the kitchen table
in her Sunday best, and
her small fingers curled
and i fancie
MelancholiaI crawled beneath the skin,
nails taking crescent moons
to labored arteries,
where life birthed.
I gave rash to skin, rippling in marrow,
bulging flesh and pore…
all to break free.
I laid beneath scarlet muscle
sick with Loneliness: a bittersweet
disease of rusting hearts.
I let it throb, pound—ache,
sulking within the cradle of spine,
rocking joints to solemn sleep…
and how easily resignation
for they were weary,
used to hunching to sorrows
Honeythief.straw-stitched and hanging
off every word--
pressing my ears
against your brittle
and smoking you out
LeavingSoul-burned, I speak
these parting words -
nods, goodbyes, promises,
born of human frailty;
a heart, yielding
to truth and beauty.
Holding me back
is the holding - a life
put on pause, wrapped
in cotton wool. Now these threads
that once bind are pulled
to prosperity, spun
of feeling and new will.
Throw off these naked clothes.
Stand up to the sun, and remember,
parting is such sweet sorrow
and yet, on the morrow,
the worm will break the earth,
and laugh, dodging the bird,
burrowing its way home -
home, where the heart is.
.i avoid the eyes of people when i'm nervous
stare at spaces in between their eyelids
and let the conversation fade
i don't know where to let my eyes rest
when you appear
in my head
around my bones
there's nowhere to look
except through you
one am thoughtsI hate this feeling that keeps arising in the pit of my gut. This emptiness, loneliness, that sends chills up my spine and tears running down my cheeks. I miss you, I guess. Or maybe I just miss knowing who I am because with you, everything seemed to make sense for a while. The sky appeared to be bluer than blue and the grass greener than green; the darkness was an intriguing shade of navy and the light always seemed to be brighter. But these days I just can't seem to find the rhyme.
I am just so sick of hating my life. And I'm not necessarily saying that I would hate it less if you were here, but maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn't feel so lone
ElegyReveries of pale silhouettes cavorted beneath her eyelashes
Skylarking with alluring steps,
Restless in her walking,
She followed them into the covert;
The hallowed and disembodied presence soon began to abscond
From the wretched and chitty girl, to somewhere beyond.
"Oh, my beloved John Doe, thine sweet redolence lingers with me,
Agony for a sufferer without a path,
How I cry for the immolation of thy memory, to let me flee
Far from the bane thee hurled onto me.
John Doe, prythee!, let us meet once again,
For my wounded spirit would not be able to abide
To a such loss, it will tear me in twain..."
Shadows come and go,
WinteringDecay's lush colours
brighten the cooling season,
herald winter's chills.
Dead blossoms remain,
once yellow heads become husks
of breeze tossed summer.
Not the months alone. These are no more than the signs of those ever-returning cycles as the universe continues in its timeless revolutions. Against that backdrop, the rapid blinkings of the cosmic eye, there is to be gained a paradoxical stillness.
Not that I, or any I, will prove to be impervious to change, to the fitful shifts of decay and regeneration. Rather, the strobe-like blinkings seem to freeze my flickering existence. The candle flame is a process of static motion. I too per
Locket Of NecrosisHer mouth taste like corpses
lips closed; graveyard gates
A sad story hiding behind iron
but the lock has been mutilated
...oh what a conundrum
Infected I became by such sights,
hectic pulse beating under my skin
made this a prolonged fight
Stealing this cadaver
has brought absinthe to my veins,
turned her flesh to flowers
and decayed my soul
Her mystical essence whispers in my ear
"Take me, all of me. Indulge yourself before you rot."
I obey her whispers
for her allure can't be denied;
her sweet succulence-my will
Miasma dispersed around us
morphing into a sapphire locket
before falling to the dirt
It opened itself and dr
Brain VistaHe is wedged in every corner of her brain
memories drunk and swam
imagined time, by-and-by
growing conscious there, composed
fine waves slogging for divinity
ever so slightly
too quiet now
in danger of losing transaction of feelings in
the face of all the un-planted
trying to scoop him up
knowing no one will arrive in time
in his eyes
pools of light drain
no proper translation
through wormhole corals
blight, struck gorgeous rhythm
bled from crystalline flesh
mourning him in full sun
by an anato
it's like water slipping through your fingers
or the stub of a cigarette bud going out
like the color of the sky right after the sun sets
or the drip drop of the water of a leaky faucet
like a roller coaster — only broken
it's a silent cry for help that is never spoken.
portraitselfborn of thunderclaps and rocket-smashes
clattering, cracking for air in black smoke
mechanical gears frozen mid-routine
ridiculed the ghost who lost his tombstone
hankering for a home that never was
offbeat and lost in a land of oddballs
searching for holes in gates guarding the door
singing strange songs for fabricated friends
fail and fall, disenchant the floor people
stranded roadkill in turnpike rush hour
with twisted fates and destiny condemned
easy fun playing the cop on cocaine
each passing day thinking it's happier
never noticing how more empty fills
run for judgments, opinions, decisions
sold them all for free, those f
The SpectrumThere have been coloured instances
(the latest one, I think, was grey)
in which I've dwelled, inside my mind
and dreamed of diff'rent coloured days.
I have known violet states of thought;
the blue ones I could just abide.
They lasted 'til 'twas all there was --
then broke through to the other side.
Most briefly came the amber ones:
the sun would turn my eyelids red
but blacker times were longer still
the single shade inside my head.
And only one was ever real.
No other tones could I foresee
when murky hues of brown would glaze
across my ev'ry memory.
There was nowhere to go but on
against a solid-coloured mind
until a new and lasting plain
Red Rum and ChardonnayShe's got these hands that
memorize and define her,
wrap her up in a pretty bow
like a package to be shipped off
to another destination
because that's all she has ever
wanted was a little excitement,
a little freedom that will carry
her to a place where she doesn't feel
like all there is in life is open skies
and flatness and normal.
She's got hands that I want to
hold to make her stop running.
I want to take those hands and
tell her that no matter where
she goes she still has me and
even when we're old and withering
in our rocking chairs I'll still call her
and ask her if she remembers
that time when we went walking
chasedo you believe
in stockholm syndrome?
& let me love you-
i'll show you how
it can hurt
to feel so good,
how the dark
turn violence to passion.
& i will turn your eyes
a fledgling green,
show you that
pleasure and pain
are two chambers
of the same heart,
of the same being.
do you believe
by the end of the night,
my dear, you will.
Jade Eyesjade eyes
cool as stone
softly they look upon me
starting to unravel the bones
of my body
the fabric world we have known
i see a girl
just a girl
lost in herself
if I pull you out
do you stop being yourself?
if I take the jade from your eyes
are you going to take the life from mine?
if I find the truth of a lie
could I ever say goodbye?
slip-The memories of her come in portraits:
heavily scented with her cigarette scent,
dusty autumn coats on the faded ink.
"He dreamt of a woman who moved like the sea,
perpetually flooding the alcove of his mind,
bearing eyes as blue, with hints of green,
like water in cupped hands,
slipping through thin fingers to pour
past the shoreline,
falling deeply in love with the ocean tide."
The memories of her come in poems:
brief as her kisses and
lonesome as the night.
all poets are used to deceitare you still savoring
the taste of deceit
off the edge
of your limerick tongue?
you know what i mean
you "poet of unusual sorts,"
chaotic green eyes
and skin of pale misfortune
leaving scents of sweet seas when oceans
begin to spite you.
yes, your silent panthers,
loyal only to the sound of sonnets
of broken piano chords
and keys and torn six-strings.
those slithe things will
prove to you
that betrayal is just eight letters
of pleasure undercover.
it's these little beauties that
will make you see;
every liar was an artist
and every poet was a whore,
just till the point
they owned you no more.
The FaderA whisperer of buried words;
with parchment paper fingertips
she spins a tale of love in vain,
to remind her it isn't to remain.
She blends to the wall like a flower,
bends to it like bamboo.
Something lonely about the way,
she stills and waits to fade away.
(a downcast gaze)
They all play pretty charades,
while she sweeps her game of spades
(and to this day- still one she plays )
She paints portraits of Jays,
whispers that they know her name.
She says that one day they will be all that remains
as the little wallflower fades.
AtomicI was born with a revolution burning between my nerves:thumb322161386:
Born with a backbone
That can't bend, break or curve
I was born with fire in my veins
To ignite the sinners and burn the self-proclaimed saints
Well, I was made out of passion and dreams
Made out of love that was free
I can't be bought or traded
I was born with my soul unchained
And I will not lie for smiles that are painted
I was born with a revolution itching in my throat
Born with a demon
Who's favourite word is No
I was born with the power of hell between my legs
I'll never bow down, not even if you beg
Questionable WisdomGlancing aside,
I twist the ring around
where a little bit of stupidity
might land me.
I glue the words inside my throat
where they simmer,
then creep more tendrils
downwards to wrap and tangle with
the important veins,
in an all-too-familiar way.
This is an explosion waiting to happen.
A Silent SpecterFor the third time that week, something dragged her from the bowels of sleep, thrust her from her dreams into a fear inducing state of sleep paralysis. For what seemed like long, taxing minutes, she rose from the depths of dreams, struggling to open her eyelids, knowing she must wake up. Must wake up. Slowly, bit by bit, her body became hers again. She could breathe.
What had awaken her, she had no clue. There was merely a black space, a fear left in the back of her brain that told her to turn on the light--to check closets and underneath beds for unseen monsters.
Awake, she decide to make tea, hoping the warm liquid would soothe her back t
Perfectly Presented ImperfectionHer hand wandered aimlessly over to its twin's wrist, picking at a lump of skin without much conviction. She could hear the others around her laughing at their separate worlds, shocked at the news of so many irrational hookups. Occasionally they would point her out, repulsed. She listened and chuckled at the insults. Then she stood up. Walked out of the school. Had anyone called her back? No matter. Found herself at a bench a half mile away. Sat down. Looked around. A dog owner was cooing over her pet. She stood up, never having been fond of animals or their obsessive caretakers. Walked home and laid down on the bed. Stayed there for the rest
Pick-Up TruckI miss passing by the intersection of our fingertips,
Without reading the speed limit.
I crave another kiss in a road slick,
From the rain weeping for our sins.
I lust over running over your snow-white chest,
Using chains and going hard like cement.
I fall over speed bumps as my heart pumps the oil,
From your country's war-torn streets, that used to be royal.
skin.skin taught hipbone to hipbone like the skin of a drum as my fingers play the keyboard of my ribs,
digging deep to pluck them like boomerangs from the corset of my chest. stomach like a cave whispering lies that echo in my bones.
there's a vortex in my middle
that i refuse to feed,
a blackhole that only grows.
(but it doesn't seem to know that i've forgotten how to be hungry).
the empty echos the ice in my heart and the empty in my head.
the countdown has begun.
(caged rabbit heart is dying slowly).
and i know you'll come again soon. you always do.
there is a dead songbird in my chest,
and its wings are clipped and laid to rest.
SimbelmyneThere is silence here, upon
stale skull tombs
these everminds are stilling...
(And yet their tragedies
shall endure in the pallor of the
flowers in your hands.)
miss sells-her-heart-for-freewide open legs and penny smiles
collide with the eager vowels escaping from
your fingertips, creating houses and lives in the
vibrating air that suffocates my pores.
let me be free of you my synapses yell
as my legs wrap tighter around you,
dreaming of kisses that are not hollowed
out by all the things you've never thought.
one perk of emotionless touch is how easily
i drown you in semen seas and blind eyes.
let me be free of you i beg my trite old flesh
as it tightens under the pressure of your pulse.
my spine unwinds and tangles up in the soundless
core of your shadow, of your red stain on my bedsheets,
of your teethma
I rarely remember the bridge and that only lonely evening, where the season was changing its colors, and I stood, like the children stood on snowy days, looking out the window, at those two flocks of geese soaring past the city bridge. I rarely remember the section of the bridge that are your big eyes and straight nose, a smiling mouth with two dimples, the dimples of the boys that are very sweet, but I do not remember this bridge any further. Easily as the boats sway from dock to dock, the waters cover the time of our life.
Under our aimless boat is another world, a world split when we made that decision under the heartless
a poem abouti lie on the floor and lie
endlessly to you.
(when you kiss me i
can only think about
dust dust dust and how
the pounding ocean is the
heartbeat of the world.
but i would never tell you that.
i know how i stain you with
i am just
Lightning Bug CosmosI lace my skin up like a corset, peel back the blinds on my eyelids, and take a step forward, waking from the poppies to the
lightning bug glow of truth tapping on my eardrums.
In front of the mirror I stand, but what I notice is not the awkward crook of my nose or butterfly lashes. I look into the lighted mirror as if searching for answers hidden under
Ribbon-like sets of
veins, arteries and nerves.
Sometimes it all flows correctly; sometimes everything becomes
knotted up in all the wrong places. Skin toughened by beatings brought about by the
It's a purge, just a kiss;
there's a moment of hesitation
but, oh god, how it never matters.
Because when you lean over
and the world buries at your feet
and the emptiness consumes you,
that cage tips.
You can grip the handles in an attempt to hang on
and dangle over the edge;
but that fear, it won't last forever
and soon there'll be a fall.
It's a purge, but try to resist;
there's no going back once you dip
and everything eventually slides.
Rattle, rattle, rattle.
Every cage has a lock,
but sometimes, you're the one with the key.
Go ahead and toss it through the bars,
because that latch can fall open
and there's always r