books:water :: men:wine
I take no stock in holy books or the promises of always disappearing men, as they are mostly the same thing. the difference is in the texture, but the taste remains acrid and constant. We are felled trees, on our knees with no conviction but to beg
for hope when we run out. it is sparing, a stipend that is hardly enough to braid into a wreath, stretch into a harness, or knot into a noose. and so i see no use
in tripping on my penance fluttering out behind when it is torn and soiled and close to the ground regardless. and frankly, I prefer the honest sting of kerosene to any liquor a man of god might give me. I’ll have no communion
wine, no holy water. no blood of a man whose crimson is already on my hands, or so I am told. The pages of his books are spongy
and take to fire well.
11:59 am • 16 May 2012 • 1 note
Symphony in C
pale knees
pale teeth
pale cheeks
pale chins
pale thighs
and not a single step outside of unseen lines.
these wire dolls convulse
with calculated poise,
and beauty prances in
when they are not all breaking.
8:56 pm • 15 May 2012 • 1 note
I wear shoes that clack loudly on sidewalks
so I can always hear myself coming.
My shadow cannot slink behind unnoticed,
I cannot lose my place. Each day a dog-eared page
in a book with a cracking spine.
12:47 pm • 12 May 2012 • 4 notes
Untitled (For now)
Plow furrows in the dunes and
sew rows of white crosses
for us to find in a year or two’s time.
It is a slow-growing pain that thrives in salted sand,
watered by slate sea
when there are no misty-eyed onlookers.
Plant a cross for each flag buried
wrapped around a box of pine – a blanket
not warm enough for any lump of life.
One more son gone,
one cross more for the fault lines to bear.
Pace the rows and remember single gloves
and other things lost or incomplete.
Lost:
a life;
tying shoes with both hands;
warmth to occupy the other pillow;
choosing fight over flight.
Pile it all in a mass grave,
and cover it over. Cover it
over, again.
Watch blood dripping from the radio
pool at the foot of the bed,
the smell mixing with coffee, the taste
buttering your toast.
Twelve more crosses. Twelve more,
dead.
Wear the blame around your ankles
until you find where to place it.
It won’t stick to greasy words
put forth by smirking figureheads,
or apologies laced with ulterior motive.
Bury your feet in the sand with those crosses.
Hold your ground.
But as the crosses breed, and the dunes disappear,
as the blood clots and the graves spill over
don’t look away. Keep your eyes trained on this cross –
the one you planted for me.
10:48 pm • 12 April 2012 • 1 note
Recollections: England with Eyes Open
our fingers were cold soldiers marching poppadom coastlines.
indonesia, you said, and crushed greasy flakes between your palms
because they crackled like sparks to keep us warm,
and the smoker outside had a foot in the door
to let the drafts in.
two strange boys carried my lolling cousin between bare arms.
they smiled at me, as I was undressing and caught
by surprise.
next morning, i made pancakes for my cousins to taste
and for one to fill his skull with sponge
and soak up the secret that made his head ache.
10:18 pm • 11 April 2012
Anonymous asked: Do you self harm ? Do you consider yourself a person with problems? Do you think your perfect ?
don’t self harm. everyone has problems. no, I’m not perfect.
7:59 pm • 8 March 2012 • 1 note
Anonymous asked: have you ever been in love? and i dont mean this in a "teenagery" way...i mean have you ever looked at someone and felt this deep visceral feeling that is so overwhelmingly powerful that you're left feeling empty without it?
yeah. i feel this way currently. but it’s not romantic. so maybe not “in love.” let’s just go with I love someone quite a bit. why anon, anon?
12:11 am • 7 March 2012 • 2 notes
A certain taste of Heat
There is a certain taste of Heat -
Summer subways -
That embraces like a close,
talcum powder bosom.
It is a reminder -
Weighing down rushing moments,
Making us know our Closeness
to one another -
A heat so viscous cannot be found - must be felt -
filling each pore so that even sweat
cannot seep through -
sent of us by dank tunnels and parted lips
When it rises with metallic odor from the caverns,
Time itself is choked - watches strain to advance the seconds -
When it subsides, it leaves behind
a cool, glistening layer, salty on the tongue.
11:51 am • 6 March 2012 • 1 note
Sonnet - Charity
And when the day undresses,
her gauzy adornments clutter the horizon.
Workers taste winter. A father blesses
the evening meal, and he can hear the cries on
the streets below. We are beggars for snow
like makeup on a harsh face
to make us pleased with the season. We walk in rows
to empty shelves and hand over grace
on flimsy strips of paper. No food today,
they say. Meanwhile we dream
on the taste of clay
and clotted blood, or clotted cream.
Both leave guts churning.
None satiate the hunger, the yearning, the burning.
6:10 pm • 28 February 2012
Plummet
The moment between
when you jump and when you fall
is a fleeting gift.
6:00 pm • 28 February 2012 • 10 notes
2-23-2012
Reflections on Sunset During Sunrise:
The day undresses.
Swathes of gauze are shrugged off. Pooled
on the horizon.
2:00 pm • 23 February 2012
2-23-2012
Ambitions
To be a poet
and have no great cause but words,
is not free of guilt.
12:00 pm • 23 February 2012 • 2 notes
