Broken
I wake up in yesterday's clothes and I do not recall how I got here. Groggy with the realization that another day awaits my presence, I reluctantly open my obstinate eyes and I see your vampire face.
Can we pretend that we are who we were? Even better, let me pretend for a little longer that we are who I had wished we would become.
The world taunts us. It orbits at hysterical speeds. We hang by a noose, suspended without a swing. Like Eurydice rescued, we are temporarily free.
My insides knot with warmth as I inhale the breath from your lips. You taste like the turn of the century, but it is stale. And I like it.
The blackbird on my windowsill catches my eye, and he stares at me with pity.
The grayness of the ice fog embraces, and, for once, I am understood. A toothless old man with too much skin stops me on this post-apocalyptic street. His bent fingers curl into my longing flesh and his cloudy eyes prophesize my narrowing probability. I believe him.
Hate surfaces
with thoughts
of you,
its webbed
mirror-image
tangled
with Love.
I need to paint but the canvas stares at me blankly with arrogance.
Pit me like a pumpkin, scraping my insides with a cold spoon. I need a good cry but I am but a thimble wound tightly in scratchy wool. Deep breaths invigorate me, but with my morose sigh escapes my hopeless soul.
Darkness hovering, I cannot shake the loyalty of my demons. We play poker with dogs, but I beat them with my manipulating charm. I am a mistress to a coffin and the feast leaves me insatiable.
Lick up my spine in slow motion and choke my throat from behind. Tell me you never loved me and whisper words of shame in my ear.
Poison spews from the clouds and the acid begs for forgiveness. Looking up I am limited, nearsighted to Faith. Sociopathic empathy grows in my belly and I wonder if I have ever recognized Genuine.
Sweet kisses and comfort come only in twos. My penance for breathing is the memory of you.
The Roads Are Wet With Power
our death unfolds
into the air of
smoke of
waste of
time through damage
and skin and noise
the roads are wet with
power
the death of these brings
summer to the dead
lemons to the graves
of living pigs
on the radio
on the screen
behind the action
fear in a hand of smoke
my heart opened and bleeding
across your palm
and in that palm
lies sorrow
aching and dying
fear
I see your life leap up
from the bed
your heart
dying
on the
dirty
square of solitude, yours.
the green air is
home to moths
to blood inside
your
mouth
I sit here in
the
early morning
and die
bleeding.
you sleep and dream
of your wings
through
my death.
Paladin
Of razor love, the tremor of Serrated do-good and Death – the romance of rubble and sweat for the Garland duper; his chair set in shimmers. And the partisan: by all limbs caught in Paragon persuasion, and sidling a rucked Facade of slanting, impelled by the moiling of Ivory globes.
A slave to the arms that Wrench his Knees forward, in the obscene; For his Hands fell fastened in a damp shawl to the Masquerade Man. And the patter of Drums and Trumpets; his nutrition a wavering moan of Dukes laid out in colour – Staring thick and deep into hues that Glide shameless.
But who might Die to conclude these Noble? Halt them of their filicide fluke behind Flagpole Glory: And at dusk, the sound of the Paladins home; a sprinkle on his Terror. His chest, the Heroes cavern – behold the throbbing numbness of Foreign necks.
Faceless was the Villain he saw in those scripted dreams; loosening dreams, tied up in delusion. The Shadows that were slain, bursting from the walls behind him, Prehensile like his mind. Thus in heads, the Clemency of men unbound from their crimson Fright, squelch at him with the dignity of Alms.
But why still?– the Din of Daylight curfew in minds that question? The Paladin; his home now the Pedant of his own cruelty; a Strange steading of the menial, not hitched.
For Behold, the Garland duper; a man Sunk in deep Sage for the eyes; those Ivory Globes in a twisted thrall – his Chair set in shimmers.
Flask of the Open Grove
All in which sense is the slurring of castigation poured; Remarks stumbled from Woven sockets, deranged like statuary behind teeth – Eyes sullen like fatuous Nativity on Pause. Rolling, perpetual past dawns, rewinding Dusk as if Greed plunged between my toes, grappling, Slung like Evil. Battering on a Step, thence from Ignorant forging - Capped by Jingo and all things Lies.
Tell me again, by Which crippling of the Nerves; the Jarring of skulls, ossified like Rage in affiliation. Call upon the bargain of the enslaved; The free – Sad in a Prosaic march, loose like description. All incredulous in a single-file of death: but a prole Dare not uproot his Cage.
The Malignancy of Graves; the Danger past the bars – keeps all similar in solitude. Pushing bricks that build Bombs; ambling in streets that Rehash the soul, toiling to own what you had Made. Born, bereaved like Life in confinement painted Blue, and dancing, cramped between stagnant walls.
Clinically Speaking
I have wrong days -
days when there's a short
in my psychological circuit
and a stutter in my limbs,
days when satisfaction plays
racquetball in the asylum.
I've been told that
I am making excuses but
the dream factory closed down today.
The hopeful sensations kept
demanding higher wages
and my emotional economy
is stuck repeating the recesses
of a girl who used to practice
climbing horizontal ladders.
I've spent these last nights
trying to get higher
than the cost of living
now I'm speaking more in
syllables than sentences
and tipsy-toeing towards the
vacant corners of a happy place.
Dreams were only helium
in a red balloon that I released
into the sky to choke
the birds so they would stop
reminding me to fly.
I'm a spider with a needle
but my head is stacked with hay.
I'm running out of horses.