god says he

has a plan for all of us.

i call bullshit on that motherfucker.

bullshit

because if fate

was the one who fucked up my head

and made melancholy my whore

that motherfucker should already be dead.

bullshit

because

who would spark a wildfire in their own backyard?

the answer lies in the burning of the good book:

no one owns the world.

there is no god.

there is no poetry.

this is not a sentence

and i would take the time to explain why,

but we're all dying.

nothing is what you think.

i would say

we are all made of stardust

but i don't want to make myself vomit.

if we are any part of the cosmos,

we are the detritus leftovers

that fall off of comets-

we are worthless.

i do believe

there's something bigger than all of us

but-

i'm well aware it might just be

the weight of the air we breathe.

i believe

that energy is conserved

that we are all made of matter

that gravity will be the death of me-

but there is no theory of everything.

i have been bleeding

for five years.

i walk around with

red hands

yet no one asks about my fingers.

i have carefully carried my guts

in mason jars,

only to spill them

on paper.

no one has helped me clean up

the mess i've made of myself.

so i will spell god with a lowercase g

and no one can stop me

because there is no saving grace.

i vow to shit on the bible.

I spelled my name out

in the sand,

and it looked

like another language,

like gibberish or

Sanskrit, and I remember

you said it tasted like

hieroglyphics

on your tongue,

but that might have just been

the wine

talking.

I rest my head on my pillow

but no where to rest my

soul, I go to bed too early

but I never sleep, one of the

many side effects

of you, and they go round and

round the rim of my skull like

headache

nausea

dizziness

insomnia

thoughts of suicide.

I can't consult my doctor

because his eyes

are your

kind of blue.

On that stormy morn, on the rocky cliffs walked I

Underneath the billowing clouds, through the sad winds sigh

I looked out to the swirling ocean, there atop a wave

rowed a lonely boatman sure to meet his watery grave

furious rowing

Wind was howling

grey wave rose and

crashed upon the rocks

furious rowing

wind was howling

he was at the

mercy of God

I broke my spell, and ran down the rocky path

to a shore that was sheltered from the dark ocean’s wrath

but the foolish boatman was still far out, and my fear:

he’d be dashed upon the rocks before he made it here

I tried to shout and call for help and on my knees I tried to pray, but

my voice was whisked away, just a whisper in a crowded room

but I was all alone, a creature frightened on the shore

there was nothing that I could do to save the helpless boatman

so I watched him as he struggled, ’till he could struggle no more

He was coming in, slow, but sure that he would land

but the ocean couldn’t allow it, no it wouldn’t let this stand

it sent forth a lusty wave that broke his boat, it was so strong

and the poor boatman with the churning waves was swept along

I ran onto the rocks, prepared to save the drowning boatman

but he had disappeared, the selfish ocean swallowed him

and as I lay weeping for his life in the rain

his poor maiden waited by the window for her young boatman

whom her poor eyes would never see again

Looking out onto the serene ocean,

The waves cascading onto the shore like waves of tears,

And at once, I imagine that the ocean isn't made of water that came to be there by natural phenomenons,

But rather that the ocean was formed by all the tears that people have shed since the beginning of time;

And perhaps this is why one feels sad when they gaze into a serene ocean alone,

Because it's not a body of salt water,

But rather a body of tears,

A deposit of sorrow from mankind in generations past;

Perhaps that is why I remember all those I've lost

When I look into the serene ocean.

- Michael Hall

Pomegranate storms rage in shadowed past;

Sheets tossed and stained in reddest desire.

Two pomegranate seeds planted deeply,

Between hungry lips, there for the taking.

A sweetened voice whispers from the darkness

Breaking each strand of life my heart still has.

A sweetened voice crying from deepest depths

Of a passion long since buried and done.

Pomegranate rain falls from moisten lips,

Never to be tasted that way again.

A pomegranate dream escapes my mind,

Memory to haunt me to my last days.

A picture frayed in black and faded white

A final memory tossed to the flames.

A picture stained, pomegranate crimson

The one I can’t lose, as the fire blazes.

the leafs of my favorite novel

(leads to)

the pages of his sketchbook

the red in my cheeks

(leads to)

his converses and his sweat shirt

the frame of my glasses

(leads to)

his leather jacket

the flesh on my lips

(leads to)

the flushed surface of his fingertips

the hair bow i wear on my wrist

(leads to)

the iris of the eyes i have sincerely missed

but those colors don't compare

to the contrast of her eyes

with his

or

his pale hands running through

her auburn hair

he doesn't compare

wild blonde hair

to a yellow rose

or

a spotted foal

to the freckles on my nose

instead

he writes prose

of the galaxy

and of

being the star

in her orion's belt

of feeling the sun's rays

in every feeling felt

and every love song

he belts

he's found love

in the colors of her eyes

and i've found mine

in memories

without goodbyes

You know, I don't think we ever were in love.

There was never a spark between our lips when we kissed

Or a fire between our skin when we touched

My tongue never craved the taste of you and my nose never longed for your violent scent

Our hands never did fit together and my fingers did nothing but graze your surface

My mind never wondered what was beneath your clothes and my eyes never wished to look at you

I remember when we planted flowers together

You wanted to give them water

But I wished to feed them sunshine

We never did agree on what to give them

And thinking we each knew best, carried out our own plans

You watered the flowers and I gave them the sun

But I guess good intentions always have their counterparts

Because they drowned in the water that you poured on them

And I scorched the petals with sunshine

I guess none of that mattered though

Because the entire time they were dying of malnutrition-

We had planted them in infertile soil

Our love was never a coursing river.

Instead it was choppy and frothy like whitewater rapids

We were thrown from our tacky yellow raft and smashed our heads against the rocks

At least we added some color to the foam

With you the sun never did shine as bright as before

And the water never did look quite as clear

At least I could say I had someone of my own

But I never would have shed a single tear

No, I don't think we ever were in love

I close the door

Inspiration is an illusion, you know

Troposphere, smelling gas from a canister

Puffing out smoke

Milk glass moon

All you can do is piss on the mountain

Watch the world go brown

I try to write, but nothing comes out

Inspiration is one tricky bastard

A cobra, dancing right and left

I bend down to write

My spine grows out of my skin

My flesh bursts with a thousand loti

Angular vertebrae bask in the moonlight

Trying to taste the tears of the sacral cacti

My skin has a life of its own

and so does my spine

My armpits grow a forest

of unknown Asteraceae

plaits and plaits of blooming petals

Snakes that reach up to the seventh seal

Cobras that dance to the dreams of lonely writers

spending the nights in handcuffs

under covers, working on their lost inspiration

treading softly on lonely hearts, sleepless souls

and glasses of crescent-shaped milk

dipped in oysters of dark-rimmed moon