Dark is the bloom of
a spring lost in
A cyanide crow approaches
my window sill
Get back! Get back!
Fidele ad Mortem (Pt. 1)Beauty was a bite forgotten between God's teeth, and now she basked in a basement that never expected her. A boom had shook the youth from her bitter frame, blessing her now with neither parent to boost her. Seldom did her kind acknowledge her gaunt ghost, so often she anchored herself in broad blankness, where wonders wove themselves between her talons. Bloom and fade, boom boom boom.
It was on a day with no particular noon or star that the brooding creature discovered a bulge in the waning wallpaper. With a nudge, budge, and tuggy tug; paper became weary wall, and the grandest of portals knelt before her. Hungry and haunted, a squeezed doorway dug deep and drew no larger than her nervous nightstand. Inspired by intrigue, the Girl revealed an abyssal descent, drifting down a darkened drop. The Girl thought once, twice, and once more before sliding through the crouched mouth. In many moments, the ancient esophagus swallowed her into earth, and she slid down in cobweb company. The Girl
as a buzzing orthodontist,
dirty dentist delivers dreams,
he delivers me.
he drills, drills, drills wormholes
in each set of teeth,
in every molar and fang:
done and drugged, now I breeze
whistles while I
Lordy.I craft a claw
made of baby bones,
tender and weighted
ideal for jellied knees
and angel autopsies.
Open Wide.You keep tugging
on my tongue,
scraping me with
gravel calluses and
Soon my mouthmeat
will slobber along my
knees, drooling as she
am I to scream promises
with my elastic muscle
trotting beneath me?
My DarlingGoodmorning flesh,
I came with hands
To filet and squeeze
I came with hands
to pet and pet your
i was born to destroy youi am no hydra.
there is no poison-tipped spear,
no angry torch to hold to my neck
i may not raze your fields nor eat your livestock
but i was born to destroy you.
when i smile i want you to think
not of wolves, but of girls
pretty girls, with flirtatious red lips
and teeth white as pearls
not of monsters who lurk
under grandmother's bed
swallowing children for supper.
i am no chimaera, no sphinx:
no hero can vanquish me on winged pegasus
i cannot breathe fire or deceive with words
(it's all appearances, everyone knows that.)
do not forget
it was helen who launched a thousand ships,
clytemnestra who slew agamemnon
judith who beheaded holofernes
because no one thinks that your lipstick
might be congealed blood,
nobody thinks that the points of your nails
might serve more than a decorative purpose
nobody stops to consider the nightshade in your perfume,
the foxglove flowers on the mantle
and the cyanide in your purse.
perhaps i don't look like a monster, but remember:
no one's an angel
Blue PillI've only ever followed
the path already sketched
out for me, but the blueprints
print blues to my forehead;
to my forearms. Cracking smiles
is as taboo to me as crack rocks.
I've tried crossing the River Styx
on my own, but I always
find myself getting drowned
by the Ferryman, as he tells me
that it's not the right time
that it's over for me yet.
So I take the blue pill
and a handful of advil
to ease into reality.
SuspendedWinter has frozen her work now,
secret names shimmering, safe, anguished.
Lulled, we enter it like a rocking cradle,
the white, vaulted room
where frost settles into glass,
where we shrink with the noise of death
drawing itself across the snow,
packing up the wise, the sad, the beautiful.
Our hands are older than our eyes, some say.
Some say our memories are forgiven,
that we’ve come to a place
famous for absurdity,
but this is the part where we light the village farolitos,
like children accustomed to time travel and invisibility,
striking our matches in the dark.
Play Me In CrescendoIt scares me that this could be
my last poem—
something more than a goodbye
but less than my soul;
a mere imprint
on half a white page
just begging to be read,
I haven’t even begun to grasp
the hintings of love,
its quirks & random tendencies
to be set aflame
when you look into the eyes
of someone staring back
It isn’t fair for fear
to house in the hollows
of your stomach,
because there’s so much more
that’s worth the good
you’re too shy to touch—
knowing you’ve been burned before.
So darling, don’t leave me roses
on my grave;
read to me,
in your happiest of voices,
poems and quotations
you’d give your heart for
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
the equation formerly known as 'us'integrating integrity into nano-christened circuits,
this is the difference between what you see
and what goes on, the anonymities between our arteries and
mitochondria: all the makeup of an atomic bomb,
bits of fire and reasons why we didn't stop
a level above consciousness,conclusion: is it sanctuary,
like the sound of self-destruction and cannon-made creation,
softer, slicker, a sunset in between your motherboard and the fifth dimension,
sounds like love or anarchy, (the computation makes it wonder:
is the difference?)
this is one definition tracked by linguists in the future: one,
two, not addition but simulation, emulsion, (fusing)
different atoms, different substance
ingratiated quarks and bearing down,
so tangled up the universe
doesn't know us now
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,
your death wish
of maudlin words
stretched across this failing light.
I will not wear
new wings for you
that crimson you
were born with -
a mother's final wish
to keep out the winter
But I will wait,
the flaw and beauty
of your youth
painted across your palms
as you hold up
the moon to meet me.