All ready to
But you can never reach the
Your soul is
You are an
Chained to the
where do flowers go when they die?there are craters in my skin
that don't exist beneath my fingertips
but I see them clearly when i look closely in the mirror
trying to find some light left in my eyes.
and in polariod photograps
if the lens was close enough
i can the corners of my mouth where laugh lines are supposed to be
and there's only indications of age i'm too young
to have lived.
you left your roses in my throat.i'm convinced there was a god
at least once
not because of some neck-tied preacher
or pamphlets left on my doorstep
but because there was poetry written in the lines of your lips
and, though you were so many things,
a poet wasn't one, love
so if you didn't write those words
then who did?
i wanted to,
but it wasn't me
i don't think you would have let me anyway
you never liked my poetry very much
because it was sad
and sad reminded you of your mother
and that made you sad
so we'd be sad together
and you didn't think that was a good basis for a relationship
but we weren't a relationship
we were just two ghosts
trying to haunt each other
and that never works out.
breathe, love.i sat on your bed
and used your watercolors to paint
a cemetery in my journal.
i painted the grass the same beautiful green i always wanted
your eyes to be
and all the dirt is nice and flawless,
you can't even tell, in the picture,
that you're buried beneath the flowers.
there's a sky somewhere i can't see.i don't have laugh lines;
i have frown lines
trenches carved into my skin
by the threads that weigh my lips
the weights on the ends
have indented my collarbones;
i am, in all metaphorical sense and purposes,
a lonely canyon
dying in the sun.
can you tell i still love you?i keep a picture of you in my cigarette pack
sometimes i blow smoke against your matte face
as if it'd creep up your nostrils
or down into the depths of your ivory lungs
so you'd be dying with me
and sometimes i cut your eyes
from other pictures
and glue them in place
just to burn them out again
sometimes i just look at the picture
with an unlit cigarette resting on my lips
i used to be in the picture
but we cut it in almost-half
and took the side of each other;
i wonder where you keep me
(you used to use it as a bookmark,
is it still in that bukowski book you never finished?)
i keep your picture in my cigarette pack
and sometimes i just ignore it.
seven o'clock is looking pretty good right now.i want to take a road trip to bury all the raccoons and possums dead
on the side of the road.
i don't want to drive though,
i want to be in the passenger seat
with my feet on the dash, the tips of my boots
putting dust scratches on the plastic,
and looking through cheap sunglasses
at the sun setting beside your face
somewhere obscure in Arizona
where armadillos have died atop the gravel.
i want to read music, out loud like books,
and sing poetry.
i want to watch clouds melt against the sun
and fall down on the windshield as rain.
i want to bury all the dead things
on the other side of my skin.
did you tell the neighbors to cut the lights off?i thought there was some significance in anatomy
but it really doesn't come to much.
there's just some skin, muscle, and blood covering bones and lungs.
your freckled jacket drapes the galaxy within your ribcage.
there's not gravity,
but i'm still falling.
when i was four i thought the sky was blue marble.my father feels guilty
for spending my childhood
spending time with my brother and cars,
he feels even worse every time he yells at me;
he yells at me a lot.
my father buys me books
to try to buy my love (or maybe my forgiveness)
but he doesn't realize that he's just paying me
to love other people;
some dead poet he doesn't know shit about
and probably wouldn't understand.
but thanks though.
i'm going to need you to breathe for us.don't fall in love with me
because i don't do things the way your exes do.
i'm not going to take you to some fancy restaurant
with a suit and tie and valet to park the car
i'll take you to a library instead
we'll go shopping together
and try on some other people's grandparent's clothes
we'll get new names and fake shitty accents for each reflection
i'll convince you to buy an ugly jacket
by telling you your face is so damn pretty
no one's going to look once at that color blocked windbreaker
you'll wear it in the car,
but fidget uncomfortably when we stop
so we'll switch coats outside the art museum
you'll take my picture next to some abstract piano sculpture
constructed of old park benches
and tell me that i'm brave,
but i'm just a coward who likes to make you laugh.
i care too much about what people think
but not when i'm with you
because those strangers are just echoes of your shadow.
we'll go into the bell tower of that catholic church by the harbo
enduring biopoiesis getting over it
in quick gasps of rabbit fur
and valley tangles
we would have
had such darling
strung out on fake roses
floating on our sun-striped backs
but we're so
some world-children cutting
out, tuning in yet
slippers your ghost eats peanut butter
out of the jar. an atomic grease
fire tongues our oven like an
if only we walked on clouds
if only we lived in the belly of the ocean
Cheshire Cat-Pandora Hearts
Eyes the color of crimson
Clothes black like nightingales
Chalky white skin
With disinterested gaze
Hair dark blood and disarray
Claws covered with malice
The kitty smells evil bringers
To hurt its lost master
The calm but volatile cat
Protects its masters harsh memories
From the master herself
But you job is done
Go to sleep
And perish within your maze
Made by the Abyss
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their size
they tumble through sharp mountains
but they never, ever stop
ii. i can rush and pick up sediments
and disperse them where i wish
iii. i'm lying -
i knew you saw it anyway,
there's seaweed in my fingernails
and salt on my breath
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,