the night sky sheds
it's cover to air out
stars by the
t h o u s a n d s
I can't help but
that I am
as the world moves on
GoldlustIt's more than a want
it's a need.
The way you crave
the lust on your chest
heavy with aphrodisia
and amber dew.
Seems a small price to pay
for this temptation
each coupling staining
the thread bare
fabric of your
already withering soul.
It's easy to see
you couldn't care less
how he deals with the knowledge
that you'd do
anything at all
to posses the sun.
LillithShe'll tempt you with words
sweet and crisp
like the wine that teased
and drugged you
She'll try to convince you
it's only moonlight in her veins
and that curious sensation
has nothing to do with your
And all the while you're wrapped
in a world she created,
never noticing how she
hides your soul
behind the glint in her eyes
as you gaze captivated
into the face of sin.
Writer's BlockForgive me
if I dont
tickle your fancy
with a lyric
I seem to have
envelopes of anecdotes
& the bedtime story
just isnt feeling
up to par.
rely on that
faulty camera in my mind
& the lens is fogged with
making it quite the struggle
to impart my witticisms.
Not to mention that
I simply dont care.
DistantDid you regret it
each and every time
you opened you mouth
and laid on thick
the fire-cozy reassurances
of your affection?
You never once
looked me in the eye when you said it.
I should have known
each time you
than you were only
for that brick wall
you were so insistent
on having around you.
Its all so clear now
how my optimism
strained to see
over the stones while my
provided the mortar between them.
Hindsight is always
ObservationI like to
lay in the
of your love
&& I wonder if you're
of how I'm counting
that you do
& the way
they make me smile
the way his hands
shadows over her skin
and the sweet music
of his breath drew
patterns on the
canvas of her
bringing taut satin nerves
rude awakening of
BikiniIts a perfectly clear day and yet
that suffocating anxiety which plagues us all
at one time or another
I take the risk
Soft cotton glides over my skin tingling
each nerve ending.
The cloth slides away and my ears pick up a
sudden intake of breath.
From behind my shades my eyes flicker
Disecting the quirk in their lips
The gleam in their eyes and I feel
And as the sun beats down upon my skin
I am beautiful.
TemptingWhen Im driving at night
and the music stops just long enough
for me to hear the
|in between breath and coherent thought|
a curious thought
slides through my lips
to be savored with caution.
If I just keep driving,
where will I see the dawn?
DenialShe'll swear UP down and diagonal
the love that used to close her throat
blind her to all others is
g o n e .
It eloped with her
when the tide washed away
all the promises he wrote
s a n d
Acceptance is not an option
even though his
still |chokes| her reason
over her skin.
(Because you and I both know
involuntary reactions rarely go
Someone once told me
That my mind was poisoned
By the white man.
That I was already dead
To my people.
I don't believe a human being
Is inherently evil
Or wishes harm on someone.
The beauty of being a puzzle piece
Is that we're equally important
But remain different.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,
but you don't always understand my answers.
You meet me in the night,
but I'm not a bird of darkness.
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14
I'll tattoo you with a poison quill
all the venom I will spill
So all the misery you imbued
will permanently stick to you.
I cannot find any time
when you did not feed me lines.
So I will etch on you all the
pain inside my skin
until the message sinks right in.
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing: