†††

"His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her grave-clothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.."


                                                                                  "A portrait of the artist as a young man" by James Joyce 




i understand nothing and everything that comes from your lips. im not going to lie, theres alot about you that makes me feel almost...

void of you

when I fell asleep my head busy with warm catatonic thoughts
 i am dreaming of a man with strong hands and dusty hair.
 this morning the cold pours through my window like a virus that infects me to shake and shiver.
i am not looking forward to you inevitably destroying me

do you know how far you are about to get dragged under?

i remember the sheets sticking to my body, a humid cocoon, I lost your taste to chemicals. i lost your hands all over me. kisses rusted over into  bloody buds on my lips

lol

the mirror poses a question, " Do i feel guilty for this?"
my mouth moves mechanically, " Not a single fucking bit"

are we there yet

sightless passenger asks, " where are we going?  I sense that you are afraid, i hear your lips trembling, their soft vibrations tease my ears but your throat dosent threaten to form any sound"
the driver speaks; " I am afraid, I've lost all direction, I have been driving aimlessly for hours. I have failed your requests"
the passenger in turn reaches for the driver's trembling hand, never be afraid of misleading me, your hands mean well, they are sure hands, let your heart speak do not muffle its longing with uncertainty"
you search for a calming answer, this is an ancient feeling
the passenger turns face,
" If I ever lose you, all I have to do is simply listen for your heartbeat"

poems 01

01

the hospital and its familiar sounds

electric moans , disembodied humming 

a white throne of sterilized sheets, a dribbling head turns to the linoleum ceiling, analyzing the imperfections, medication lazily flowing,ebbing along the intricate network of plastic veins 

a bleached hell, incubating delicate bodies, 

birthing corpses to centerpiece nauseating bouquets 

to satisfy suffering, or provoke abandon 

an explanation 

when i was young and tasted anticipation, it was like a honey stuck to my throat

sordid realization and a quick change of clothes,

the summer of 1999 was the closest I have ever come to hell

at it’s doorstep, bloodied up lips filthy hands rubbed deep into my cotton dress

we mimicked each other like children, wandering around the wreckage of trees and skeletal structures 

each afternoon his hand wandered a little closer to the honey, and it was boiling

hot painted cheeks, burning tears, summer skin

the devil was wearing a warm smile, his hands were similar to those of my father’s,

my fate forgets his face in the shadow of the sun that muffled my horror 

gods

the call never came, the numbers were scratched off the face and the cord was cut 

I remember the question clearly, “ Are you good with god”

faith has always been my black hole, I listen in on the tapped wires gratified by your rejection of christian guilt and rehearsed atheism, clarified by dissociative braying resembling prayer. 

for hours I listened, the wires were open to the air, allowing any kind of divine interjection to redeem my interest, not a single miracle even dared to breach the surface and show face 

dial tones like  a monotone disembodied answering service, there is comfort in prayer? there is comfort in a fulfilled prescription 

05

a slow clot, 

you called to her, but she was already up to her neck

these side effects, they arent working, i thought this was some kind of promise 

rejection is a liar’s aphrodiasic 

06

you were soft and tired 

they are gnawing gnawing gnawing, contained chaos, exhuberent black shells, beetle nails

you become stark and ancient

bare your teeth to the gods

i cannot hold my head above the water when you gnaw through

the head turns, the clock sporadic with the truth

van goghs ear, hears the earth’s claws coiling, boiling 

an old grin, dusted from the bowels of our closets

housing skeletons, bleached sheets 

07

she was wearing a pink dress, blood flowers, the shadows of the branches on her brow

“ i heard them tearing”, the wolves

they sing in an old tongue 

i cant hear them in your bed, 

your walls are to busy talking,

behind eyelids, not quite soiled with dreams yet

they hollow out lullabies with their rotted claws 

‘wake up, look behind you”

vividly..

i could have sworn i was up all night jotting down everything that was going through my head when you...
everything that was moving around and situating itself in me 
were the pages torn out by your hands or mine
his or hers, running out of ink but the thought of bloodletting is so perversely awakening to finish the story, 
the only way out that i know without a fucking happy ending