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
Coffee Shop MemoirsPhilosophers think
We may dream our reality.
With earphones attached liked IVs
I dream my own melodic universe.
Until someone laughs behind me
And strikes up conversation with a friend.
And in that moment they become my anchor
Are they spinning through my dream
Or am I spinning through theirs?
Sometimes life fits in a coffee cup,
Sometimes inspiration pours out slowly like a packet of honey,
And sometimes it all mixes together
Like liquid incandescence that I drink right after brewing.
When no one speaks to me for hours
I begin to wonder
Is everyone dreaming a reality that includes
The whole café but me?
The street outside the window
With passing strangers, dogs and cars
Is a whole new Milky Way
Waiting to be discovered.
But I am no space explorer
Aliens are beyond my reach.
Whispers of the people around
Reach my ears distinctly
Like waves lapping on the shore.
Words on paper go no way
Towards proving that I was ever here
My identity is slowly condensed
Not into the people who kno
pyromania.I tasted your lips sideways,
and they were lit like
but in reality,
your breath simply hovered
above the bowl,
and you smiled at me
as you lost control.
Who are you?"Who are you?"
said the Caterpillar.
"Who are you?"
But how could she answer?
The identity of a person is not so
easily known, and one has to think very hard
before one can say with certainty.
She could be a beautiful winged horse whose flesh
glows with the golden, incandescent dust of fairies, her
mane a sugary concoction of pinks and blues with streaks of
black and green whilst her tail is a brazen red that would shock the senses of
even the wildest of flames.
Or perhaps she could be a jellyfish that carves paths through
the darkest and lightest of waters, the bell shape of her body
as large as her blue skirts and her trailing tentacles as
pretty and glittering and perhaps even brighter than
the heavenly stars that hang from the
silver strings attached to
the sturdy yet gentle fingers of the puppet master.
Or even, perhaps, she could be a pixie, with fluttering
dragonfly wings that beat faster tha
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
tutorialtake an evening -
reclassify emotions as chemical compounds.
remove one atom,
see what changes.
take your field notes, transcribe them
back to front.
add line breaks.
be scientific. be too scientific.
replace the word 'entropy'
with the word 'god'.
be so full of want that you can feel it
scraping its numb jaws against your insides.
write about flowers instead.
make your first line provocative.
follow it, let it unfurl -
inauthentic, try again.
who the fuck
read, find inspiration.
find new ways to plagiarize old ideas.
hash and rehash,
slash and burn.
look at the mess you've made.
spend an hour flicking back and forth -
write about family. if it hurts too little,
write about flowers instead.
use a word bank.
write in the dark.
write from within your own skull.
write your litanies.
write your lines.
z.perhaps i was born to be a bird for you,
grey wings sprouting from distended shoulder bones;
the inside of your eyes are darker than midnight,
your hands having bled blue until you could see right through them,
glasslike, they shimmer around my face
& it doesn't matter that they're cold,
the mountain ridges that you've carved for yourself are not something to shy away from,
not something to be ashamed of;
lie still as i run my hands like hikers across your mistakes,
your old certainties,
lie still as i discover how it is that you came to be here now,
so quiet & unsure,
so caught within the old sheet of your past,
lie still as i discover every fuck up you've ever made,
every moment of control that slipped out of reach,
every extra drop of sanity that escaped from your pores.
i have always shivered my way into tomorrow,
too busy searching for something i couldn't find to warm my own bones,
too busy to realize that i was dying of a chill i couldn't cont
Sex Object Between her legs, lies something that
every man seems to want.
A place where she should be able
to call her own, between her legs.
She feels that men only want her,
a true want, to have sex with her, and
The breasts she has, they gain
stares from men passing by, tripping
over themselves to find a chance to touch.
When will she stop being looked at,
as an object of sex? when will a man
see her as someone he may spend his
Her hips curve, and she doesnt
want your hands on them, if your
just going to touch her skin.
She wants a man to touch her soul,
not just touch her skin, and run his fingers
where they do not belong.
What made these men think, she
is just a sex object, a toy that could be
put on display, and taken whenever they
Between her legs, lies something that
every man seems to want.
Proud she is though, that she hasnt
given in, hasnt
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.
A New CatOur neighborhood stray is dead. I know this
because there is a black cat here I've never seen.
This cat is not the black splotch covered canvas stray
that clawed up and down my arm last winter
when I mistakenly tried to wrap it in a blanket
for warmth. This cat does not have the matted
fur that the stray did, does not deliberately stretch
out in front of my car tires the way the stray did
right before I had to leave for work, does not
chase lizards in the grass like the stray. This is not
the stray that aggressively meowed at me
when he wanted affection, nor is it the stray
that climbed our fence to try catching birds.
I'm certain this new cat must be lost, or else
looking for that same blotched canvas stray
that had become part of his family, too.