the modern day runawayher distant memoriesgave way to dreams ofblurred birds andthin-bodied bladesof grass touchingbare skin of hesitantmoving legssoft-step foot paths throughstill wildernessin REMinsecurity creeps as hiddensnakes, only the rustling hearddevouring hermouse spiritonly a forgotten gasp heard by her sleeping partnerand in the morningshe retreats to the chill ofinsulated rooms and the ac drip;she falls asleep,this time, to the cubicle shrill phone ringand she dreamsof dreamingin forests
words for the anxiousinescapable fingers curled cage upon her facelips, red and parted, shine through phalangeal barsgentle nostril flair as she expels airand inhalesfluttering hair draped, touching tangled thoughts draining darkness creeps up her throat , encompassingher whole being to shake muscles aching and tensed bymuffled murmurs (indecipherable, unimportant)her trembling chingiving in to terror of some unknown threat still present and reflected in wet eyestears trapped in surface tension shimmergasp over the lump in her throat obstacles for oxygenmind is losinglost
misunderstandings left. youwhen we finally felt right, turns out, we were wrong. I fell.
rhythmic rain and words for dead treesthis funeral-black night begins withpiano notes soft as the rain soakingleisurely into wood thirsty for the warm essence of heavy drifting clouds clack dripclickevoke dead writers withvintage typewriters, fadedink stamping out new storiesfrom old wounds the waythe poets do, old poets withnew admirerstonight, findimmortality resides in watersliding down a fogged windowleaving behind a clear trail--the way to see out into the natural world waiting. alive.listen.to the trees breathingsweet wooden beings-- they rattle rain-streaked glass with their oxygen-laced wind.you.
apatothe ocean air is sellingmoist and salty caressesthere is a metaphor to takein each skimming wavebut I am tired so Iso I willwill let it restmy turning mindwith the tidesand breathewith the gilled creaturesbelow the rhythmic surfacegulping gaping gas-gasping fish mouthsmine will open too andopen till wide enoughfor the cry clenched in mythroat to caw-clawits way out till I amchorusing with the seagulland if I fallinto the water nowit will envelop mewrap its foam arms aroundmy corporeality touch its crest to my headkiss me deadI will be complacentin its sea indoctrination this is how I will stayabove the darknessinfinite below me
firefighteryou aremetaphorically beautiful--what do I mean by that?you are the bonfire in the summer sandin the setting sun. you are the setting sunwhen the flames align with the horizon;your eyelash touches are a thousandwishes coming true in a single breath.you are yesterday today and tomorrowall in a kiss, a constant reminder that life isn’t so bad so unfair so impossible to live.butI forget reality in your eyes--I mean literally, you are not a bonfire. you set the bonfire.and you’re not a flame, only attached to the fingerpassing across it in a dangerous tease. you areeyelashes and breaths and lips but you are alsosynapses misfiring and calling me the love of yourlife who you do not mean. you have life in youbut you are not life and there is something beyond you.someone else beyond youthat I must reach for and I must,in the name of her,imagine new metaphors.
list(en)out-of-tune guitar stringsthe pad of barefoot feeta tickle of calloused fingerslaughter lostin a maze of sheetsthe smell of morningand silence in ceilingsinterrupted thoughtsby softsleep breathingand the yawn of a curtainless windowthe sky in the eyes of a comforter-warm room, fresh blueholding all precious thingsyoudon't you dare leave mealone
a letterdear you,when you feel smallknow that there has to besomeone in your worldor only outside it wishingyou would notice them.that's justhow life works,whether you like it or not.while you are looking far off,skimming the ocean in your headto the horizon holding secret wantsyou believe you'll never touch burned and buriedin that sunken, dying star--someone out there has fallendeeply, unwaveringlyin love with you.for instance, it could be me.I could be--amin love with you.hypothetically speakingof course.will you--I mean,would you take a ride with meif you knew? would you walk awayfrom futile watching atop your rocky sea precipice to eat greasy fries at a cheap diner, laugh into milkshakeswith me, hypothetically.can I--would you, let me write you a poemon a used napkin branded with your lip glossstains about lovers that aren't us?I swear. could you nottalk about that one guy you likea lot("he has his issues but he
meditationthe blueblack sky yawns;a many star-eyed angellit from the insidebright white and waningshe closes her wide open mouthswallowing the howl she closesher moon mouth, her inner sunsare cold, stillthe universe, full of emptiness,lays her heaviness upon the worldin the darkness our heads turn upwardand there from the pearl roundness a whisper"not tonight"and someone enters Nirvanaalong her quiet, hidden tongue.
repelwe are nevertouching--none of us.every embraceis a microscopicromeo and julietperformance.and I wonder, if we are living on earth, an electron,and the sun an atom of an armis offering comfort,then maybe, the solar system adjacentis the atom of another's shouldertrying desperatelyto feel the other'sskin, warmth, love.and there is something scary about thatthere is something scary about thatthere is something awfulaw-fulabout howwhen you are crying and I am cutting thestream off at impasseit is impossible for my atomsto push against your atomsit is impossible for my beingto more than mingle with your beingand in the crisis of your heartbreakin the crux, I am holding you in some unrealized empty way.I am hugging you, solar system to solar system,with all these light years between us.
cheerswritten some secondhand after five am,after staying up too late tillit seemed too earlyto be waking uptired.into the twilight ofgoodbyes and silences,I yawn and stretchand ask the moon,disappearing in the light,for one more dreamto drink and forgetbefore night'sclosing time.
dusk resolvehe stands stiff as a treeamong trees -- blue jeanbark and brown leather branches;cold finger leaves.twilight lays down in the clearing;smoke settles in a young man'srespiring cavities, his loyal alveolisuffocating from the inside out--he is afraid to let the stimulant lightgo out, die before his time.as he breathes heat into a cuppedpalm, hushing a forest fireclose to his slow-heaving trunk,some ways away burns another,embered as a sunset,huddled blurred in the brushlike a covert witness.he has writtena contemplative contract in flame shadows upon his face. and the stern gaze in the still evening says,he will timber on his own terms.
overwhelmedtodayi am small. worlds collapsewithin me.
BetweenSomewhere betweenasleep andawakebetweenyears ago andforeverbetweenmymemories and mydreamsI miss you
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
buzzednever tell the ones closest to youyou write to live a million lives, you write to stay hereno, show them something that looks like a poem so they'll get off your backlive life in a chair andimagine you're everywherebut where you spendthe little time you've got leftbe you but don't beanyone and everyone that is yoube a beautiful assholeand push everyone awaythen draw them in with yoursad fucking wordsmake people crymake people wish they were deadand alive at the same timetimethink about it for a whilethen forget about it in a drinkin the sheetssleepsleepthen don't sleepdon'tleave every sad memory behindcarry it in your pockets likethe pennies you say you'll spend one day but only caress with your fingertipswant attentionfrom the ones that want nothingto do with youwant lovefrom the ones that don'thave love to giveyouthen write about itover and overuntil it has turnedinto something that looks like a poemlike a tree
diffusionnature made her--we either nurture or harm herso we choseto feed her judgement untilshe was full of shame,bloated by bruisersor by blinking onlookers,we insouciant passersby.we watch her petals pull and fall--why not give gravity hands;it has none while she has someto curl into a brittle defense, to fightback fruitlessly in the corner of the gardenfrom which we witnessed her sprout so green, so vibrant-- delicacies of hope.yet she leaves naivety in too swift a turn,burned red to yellow to dead grey.we say,it is the natural order of things,for her to shrivel as winter shrugs bybut we could have been spring.
frost bite yearningsthe snow caught lightlike the abandoned foreversof unattainable women,and the heavy-hearted menwith short-croppeddark pine hair, goldenin the afternoon sun,beckoned to the carefreeladies, drifters from whipped clouds,come bury yourprincess-cut diamond fingersin my lonesome forest locks; melt into me.how they wait in rocky magnificence forthe luxurious solstice tremble tocreep to the tips of their waxed leaves.the allure of mountain escapades, winter dalliances, is not in thetragic brevity but in the tension ofstilled avalanches on silence's brink,of shuddering teeth pulling hungrilyat blood-red, windburned lips--lips to press whispers, to send skating on frozen wind,oh december,oh january,hushour earthen bodies. quiet us.
DisintegratingI was never one of the birds,Just silly enough to look into the skyAnd pretend.There's a man I know; he's forgotten a piece of himself, I think.He says he can't fold the butterflies anymore.He's lying, I promiseAnd I love him anyway.I never understood him when he said I was made of soot.The hurricane boy's at my window again. HeComes to me late at night and taps on the glass."The weather is so lovely this evening," he tells me.I go outside and he trades me his rainwater tearsFor all the beats my heart has skipped.He keeps them in manilla envelopes and hides themUnder his bed.I've become addicted to the dreaming, to make-believing I'm blind and deaf for a little while.It's starting to be too difficult for me to tell which is wakingAnd which is sleeping any longer.My chronic day-dreamingIs getting worse. I can't even remember them, and I'm losing trackOf the days.Maybe if I close me eyesFor just a few minutes more.
because i have toimpaled& wreaking havoc on theseyoung bonesmore than endorphins &planes out of controlpretending that ifnot-so-masochisticallyi--p a r a l y z e d:a manifestationinstilled in bedsheets& ghosts
now here's to you, tomorrowDear you,this is just to say that you are beautiful;that the earth you stand upon is as old as timeand you are not, for you are simply a momenta star shining sand speckled pillar of brilliancefor which we make up stories to tell our children.I, too, began the journey of scholarhood ripe withopportunity, perhaps too manygood intentions, a loaded spark rather than abreathing ember, looking up & out for the scorchingradiance that lay just below the skin;This is not to say that yours will bear any likeness tomine or that you are governed by any relevant principles,only that we share more than you might think—the present is a gift to us from the invariable past,from us to the inevitable future,to be held without expectation except to live vicariouslythrough the blissful momentum of experienc
things i have come to know about the sky1.you are endless, a backlit canopyor stage of infinites; some sayyou speak to them in low murmurs,that you rain judgement down upon us,i fear you not, you've caught my eye a few timesbut i only looked up to see whatthe hype was all about2.when i was born, doctors said i was blue—cerulean as the sky,entering the world with clenched fistsand held breath—battle though this life may be, always itwill be by my rules3.scientists say the sky is like an onion;layers of celestial sphere you can slice offwith a thumbnail, 217.5 miles of teary eyes& thick skinwe know not of what it is that compelsgravity to roll this sorrow down our faces4.in some cultures they say the sky is athronedom, an altar for the gods; weather,an instrument of rageful indifference,a beautiful devotion worthy of arthritisand a place in our school books5.you torture us as the romans did,we the bread for your melancholy circuses;apathy never looked so poeticas you do when you pain
Sense MemoryI developed taste.We lost touch.
Between Heaven and HellEveryone has a story to tellThe time and place the falls from grace.We all walk at our own paceforever attempting to win the illusionary race.So I took the time, to sit and rewind....granted pause to the cause, reflections of the mind.Years upon years slowly drifted on by...Journeys left behind slumbering alongside the road of unknown,collecting dirt and debris, anxiously awaiting to be set free, but could not flee...no one to save me and turn the key.Everything has a time and a place within the enchanted space.A story to tell of heaven and hell...Realise this upon states of bliss,In the beginning we all fell--in the end we all shall fall.Can no longer ignore the ancient call.
things you don't learn in schoolI found a cricketon the roadside, put itin a mason jar to show the worldand called it by a first name.He died of loneliness shortlythereafter and i learned how wretchedit is to be forsaken.When I was twelve, I watched a boyslit his wrists with a plastic sporkat lunch, and though Ilaughed at the irony, all i kept thinking was"I really hope he washed his hands."He bled tearsof scarlet red that lookedjust like tomato sauce, but I just stoodthere because it was the coolest thingI'd ever seen.The boy, he smelled of dirtylaundry and cigarettes and sorrowand used to sit by the windowuntil the bell, where he'd wait until everyonehad gone outside to make sure it was safe.His eyes were the hollowed ringsof Saturn, with freckleslike stars & cosmic bruisesup and down his arms.If he spoke, it was of distant shores and escape,and we believed itwhen he talked of things like freedom,hearing the scratch of gravelroads from within his throat.I realized one day that I'd nev
Messsage in a bottleSometimes people cry out for help,I think we all have witnessed it,We watch them break,We watch their tears,And we see something in their eyes,The last piece of hope,The hope that as well could be a message in a bottle.Who will ever know if someone noticed that tiny little bottle in the ocean,Or if they did,Did they pick it up?I have seen a lot of bottles in my time,And most of the time I pick them up,But I notice quite a few times I don´t,It is like they become invisible,Even if they scream loudly right in front of you,I think something is wrong,Why do we leave the bottle in the ocean?I clearly can see they need help,And I see it,I really do,How can you pretend not to?
The illusion of realityIs this the real world we see?Or is it just an illusion of reality?Will death be the thing to set us free?Or is that just a weird mentality?Is life just an illusion?Do we perhaps preserve things differently?And is this all just a big delusion?We want the people to think freeBut can they be free if they need to follow the rules?Can they break free,Without being branded as fools?If we want to know moreAnd learn the real truthWe have to venture in the unknown moreA wise man doesn't take the road everybody seesA wise man travels off the road and leaves a track
and we wondered how she spends her daysmost days, she is afraid to be.some days, she looks into the sky and sees herself fallingand then ceasing to be."one day" she says, "one day I will beafraid to bedead."