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.

Friday, December 22, 2017

Lady of the Evening

Sleeping next to you has been a dagger to the throat
So tonight I'll lay alone and hope you're the one who chokes.
You're a fucking joke!
I hope find this hoax easier to swallow since he opened up your throat.
I'm stifling sobs in the bathroom, so sick and sweet that I choke.
Fucking whore!

I'd slit my own goddamned wrists before I let you back inside
Where will your lechery be put? And don't forget your pride.
I'd have let my blood run out before there was room enough
But by then you'd be bored and fucking him again -- I give up.

Where do you aspire to be?
Why did it have to be me?
I'm struggling to find my voice --
My vision's going red.
As if I had a choice --
'Cause if I did, I'd be long dead.
Your sins are bleeding out --
I see them clearly now.

Thursday, December 21, 2017

Sunday Morning, I Realized

There's something about it
I can't place it
Your arms are filled with ammo
But your heart is vacant

Well maybe if I shot you
I'd find movement
But there's something strange about it
And I can't shake it
No, I can't - I can't shake it.

Tragedy strikes the heart the fool
I knew you were too good to be true
I've fallen in love with a girl of stone
She makes me feel both loved and alone

These Words You Speak

These people; they're no good for you
They'll chew you up and spit at you
They'll wash you out
With their words like filthy rain, and calcify.

I see how they look at you
And I hear how they talk to you
And honestly,
It makes me want to die.

Where do you go from here?
I've been wondering all these years
If maybe something prompts a change
You'll start living strange.

Why can't win this war?
I've been sleeping with the corpse
Are these words you speak still yours?
Or are these just figments of ghostly paramours?

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Am I Controlling?

Falling straight down the rabbit hole, I'm sure 
You're having a ball
I wonder if you even think of me at all

Foaming at the mouth, from your lips
I've been wondering
Where exactly do you go when you take these "trips"?

This is what I get for falling in love 
With a bottle of impulse and dirty tricks
Maybe if I had stayed home
Or if I had just stayed drunk
None of this hurt would even exist

Nursing the bottle like a child --
Wouldn't it be better to just stay sober?
You can come home to me tonight
I'll feel so much better to have that closure

And I think
Am I controlling for thinking like this?
Or is this habitual thought from experience?
I don't want this to be like the last time
When you said you would be fine
And you lied.
I can't trust you with those words, those lips, those lungs
You let the hits bounce off your breath,
The liquor roll down your tongue
Until there's no one left

And you tell me not to worry
That you can handle it on your own
But you're a chemical wasteland
And you care not for your own bones
And now you're expecting acceptance
When you told me this sick was cured
How is it misconstrued context 
If you said it to reassure?

He's spitting acid from his teeth
And I have no choice but to hide it all beneath
While the fire burns next door
And he's passed out on the floor
I can't help but wonder
Who will take him home?
Who will douse the coals?
Who will fan his bones?
Who will save his soul?

Friday, December 8, 2017

Thomas is Not.


He is not a far mountain
Hidden by some congealing
Inkiness -- a fog, no, he is not.

He is not a setting star
That rests in the atmosphere, boiling
He boils -- but set, he does not.

He is not a child's glowstick cracked
Glow, by some measure, against
The pale night -- but pale, he does not.

And by that glowstick, he does not fade
Nor does he sit at the bottom of pools
And shimmer -- but stick, yes, he sticks.

Like a cat's tongue on the flesh of Earth
The drift, papery ash in the child's hair
And glows --  yes! of embers he stole.

A canary cries, but he does not sing
He howls, screaming in forgotten canyons
Oh, Thomas! -- but forgotten, no, he is not.