Saturday, June 2, 2018

4:45 A.M., Post 3 Hour Internet Chat

Its is a black ooze.
A shadow on the face
A slimy obscenity
A ripple in the fat flesh,
Jaundiced.

Blood terror, eye-stripping
Venom-winged whorish thighs.
And the vision distorts again
A new face, the old face
Not your face.

Your face. It's a plague. A funk.
You wish you could pick
it from your cheeks.
Believe me,
I wish you could too.

As much as I love that face.
The face I fell in love with
Things change. And stay the same.
You were always the same.
At the cheekbones.

It's late. I should sleep.
It's at times like this the poetry seeps
Creeps across the page
Like black ooze -- wholly unrelated --

Maybe I just need coffee.
Or a hot demon chick.

Friday, June 1, 2018

Ourboros, Domesticated.


Coiled, like a cat in the morning sun
You become the mark on the wooden floor
The circular burn on my skin
Like a bruise from the mouth of the leech.

Why the cat? Why the leech?
The mad bliss of the sun's bleach?
He stalks away for the night
Only to return when the pickings are bright.

Coiled, like a snake in the stalks
You are the guardian of these weeds
And you bite the tail, the tail, the tail,
The mouth. Repeat. 

If death be eternal, so be your stain.
Carved into the earth of my barren plains.
Scourged, scorched, scoured. 
Until the dawn of dusk, to dust, devoured.

Monday, May 28, 2018

The Ramblings of a Lovesick Girl Who Often Experiences Existential Crises

Meaning and life really are inconsequential when you boil it all down to
time, and relative time.
For example
Exactly forty-three minutes ago, I watched the northbound train inch from the station stop
Like a slow caterpillar, fat and full from garden leaves. I remember that
In its dripping mouth,
You
breathed its labored breath onto the glass.
And with a gradual resurgence of vigor, it carried on, leaving nothing behind but a
Rumbling
Like a hungry stomach.
I think I once read a children's book about a very hungry caterpillar.
Time, and relative time.
Memory, and distant memory.
You left anyway.

Eight hours ago, you were curled up in bed beside me while I wasted the day away with my
Pleasantries and vices.
Books -- Fiction, mostly, but it's all the same to you.
Not that you don't care. I actually quite value your
Attentiveness
To my books, and characters, and passions.
Even while I stoop under their weight of their words, like a beggar beneath the hemlock
From which the pages I turn,
You always pause to offer a penny for your thoughts.
But you were ill,
and you napped, and you coughed, and you sputtered like a coal engine.
I was reminded of how you would leave me that night.
And pictured the lazy crawl of departing taillights.
I reminded you of how much I loved you
You asked me to remind you to buy a train ticket.

And so life remains inconsequential, even if you believe it is a singularity, a constancy.
It is a circularity.
Though time may tick through an immeasurable number of units to describe it, name it,
And though possibilities are infinite, and often
unpredictable and
unreasonable,
And though matter and science are riddled with
sentience and
error
You still take the 8:35 P.M. train every Monday night.
Just like how I never fail to find holes
in the leaves of the hemlock
outside of the room which holds
the pillow you sneezed in earlier.

--

Just like how, at 8:37 P.M., every Monday night,
I watch you leave.
And though time, and relative time,
memory, and distant memory, all whisper
their condolences,
their reassurances,
their promises,
I wonder if you'll ever come home.

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

60 Second Poem Challenge!

The pains of a heart beating
Are unimaginable
Where sorrow does fill the gaps
That flesh cannot fill
Around the black that rots
About the edges, trots
And humbles itself to decay
Of jaundiced, bubbling growth
That reaps blood from flies
And fills that void
Where sorrow does lie

Monday, February 26, 2018

To the Woman in an Artist's Studio

Immortalizing her in paint so she can never escape him
It is a twisted color that binds her to the page
A vile blot that traces against ill parchment
And wrinkles under weather and rage


She is of solitude and of man’s craftsmanship
Snatched from her room like a flame snuffed
Enough of his careless penmanship!
Words will never speak for her enough


"And if folly and fae do tantalize the mind
I hope to sink in it’s dreams with her and
Ensnare what is left of our logic and rhyme
Until we breach the caverns that lay under land"


He paints with a brush as thick as his brow
And he scorns the page with his gaze
The male, he knows, applies the pressure of stroke
And brings to her the weather and rage

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Three Feet to the Left


I feel like I'm living my life about three feet to the left
I'm seeing through eyes that see myself as a joke
My ghost follows close to my body, it points and laughs --
And yet my lips stay pinned to my teeth

I grasp my own ankles and I pick up my own feet
I move my own mouth with my own thumb and forefinger
Functioning is meticulous, and timeless, and hard
So much so that sometimes my stomach forgets to rumble
Or my brain forgets to sleep

And so bruises rise to meet my skin
In places I've never known my skin to bruise
Once purple and hot, they yellow like daisies
And I run together, muddy, like a watercolor

I don't want my stains to touch you right now
You've finally washed out yours to a pale pink
And my colors will bleed into yours again like the last time
And the time before that

Because where my absent body kisses your blank skin,
I see the red feathering like ink on wet paper
And I'm helpless to the paths it traces like plague through innocent veins
I wish it would just stop so I could help you blot away the worst of it

But it's hard to move your hand when you need a hand to move it
And it's hard to blot when you can never remove it
Because every time I place a finger to your frame
It blossoms with color like a mark of my shame
And no one can tell me that these colors aren't vile
Because the reds taste like blood and the yellows like bile
And I know they're unnatural against your pure shape
Because the garish procession sounds like rape
So I keep my hand to my chest and to mine alone
Because my colors already run down to the bone
And my ghost is the keeper of my tainted fingers
To smother my inks in my own drowning figure

Friday, January 19, 2018

Untitled

Of course you'd have to ask. Of course, I'm upset!
I've been stepped on, screwed over, take your pick from insults --
Your promises breed paradox
And my self-possessed mind is conflicted as a result
Both truth, and untruth, they bite at each ankle
They shackle me to your purgatory
And I'm choking against the chainlink
Just waiting for it to get gorey like some cheesy horror movie
When you know the black guy dies first.
How about you get your fucking story straight first?
You speak in these tongues, and riddles, and twists
I'm so sick of these justifications
And your rambling bullshit
Fuck your logic. Fuck your cognizance!
You think you understand the inner amalgamations of the universe
Because you took one class in philosophical metaphysics
The Divine Will is strong enough on it's own, dear!
It doesn't need your heroic opinions to build it's glass throne
Because all you do is bitch and moan and groan
About how glass does nothing to soothe your aching old bones
No silk, nor cotton, nor plushy ottoman at your feet
No grapes dangling from vines to touch the tongue you named "sweet"
No chicken soup for the soul, no ambrosia for the conceit
At level with the moon shines the second face of deceit
I'm fucking over your tiresome strategems
And your delicious distortions
Take your pick from insults
But don't you dare take more than your portion.