I saw my heart and soul
Fly by my balcony this morning
In the bodies of a pair of geese.
They were flying separately,
But as one.
They flew across a backdrop of urban grey and cloud-filled sky,
Yet I saw only sun
Where there previously was none.
I spent the night
From my fears,
Feeding hissing beasts
From scratched and bleeding hands,
Supping them on broken bones
And hearts on ice.
No matter where I am going,
No matter which direction I am headed,
No matter the god-dammed road blocks,
Flash floods and thunder storms,
We are the final destination.
My klutzy feet keep getting caught
In the slats,
And I am falling down your stare
Your eyelashes are like steps that go in one direction, but that direction depends on where I find myself standing.
Eat me up!
30% off your first plate —
And if you finish it,
The next one is free!
I’m your 3-course meal,
I’m your all-you-can-eat buffet!
Take a nibble
Or gobble me whole
Until there is nothing left
But blood, bones and gristle.
She is not your darkness
Or the clawing in your head,
Nor is she the bruised tulip
Withering in your cupped and calloused hands.
She is not that unwritten poem
Etched in concealed scabs across your chest,
Nor is she your reason to drown.
She is more than that…
More than you will ever know.
*** Insomnia…. ***
It held me captive,
The Mound of Hostages,
And it entered me
Like a band of sunlight through the windowbox
[like a ray of ash at sunset, settling upon the worms and the dirt].
I swelled like the earth
And below —
Pregnant with moon,
Full to the brim
And emptying at once.
*** Revisiting Irish passage tombs…. ***
You touch me
Wrapped around my throat.
I left you with nothing but blisters on your split tongue
As you spat letters soaked in my name upon the dirt.
You laced your cutting saliva with acid,
And draped it in bubbly strands on the bending blades of grass —
Hoping my ankles might graze your dripping spite —
When I left you behind with your sores and your ache.
A bruised bone not yet supped of its tender marrow
Is nothing more
Than a soul tethered to the material that conceived it,
Waiting for the moment it returns
To the mouth.
It’s a smiling frown staring stark into the night-tainted sky
Without noting the stars
You’ll never know me by name —
You’ll never know me by the initials carved into my veins;
You can only ever know the exhaling and the sighing you refuse to hear,
Breaths left behind in the dust motes hanging on the breeze,
Or morsels of marrow
Left cold on a chipped porcelain plate
Outside of your door.
*** Sometimes I don’t know how poetry works. ***
He holds his pastel,
Between calloused thumb, middle and forefinger,
And rubs it into the paper,
Toiling to capture
Her beauty —
The second pronounced
Because of the first.
She was his seventh subject
What you cannot see
From her portrait
Is the source of her pain
[He added in some shading of his own]
That intensified her beauty,
That intensified the colours
He specially selected
For the curated display of her suffering —
Like a broken masterpiece.
He tosses her aside
Into a cemetery of spent pastel nubs,
And can now use his harrowing composition
To attract his next subject.
I’m leaving this place
And I am taking all of my blood with me,
In ribbons and ribbons and countless miles of ribbons,
Tied around my wrists.
*** You’re too impressionable to read suicidal poetry, Angel Eyes. ***
*** Evidently…. ***
She compared words to swarming bees,
Sometimes to dead ones also,
With their emptied eyes and yellow husk bodies.
Her infant child’s lips were animals,
Little hungry thirsty animals
Hoping to find warmth in cold institutional beds
Where there isn’t any.
*** I discovered Anne Sexton and her poetry, and it has already inspired more than a few poems. Everyone talks about Sylvia Plath…. There were other mad contemporaries just as good if not better. ***
I have been
Into door jambs
And into walls
Because my eyes are full of the stars in your eyes
And I can’t keep my balance
*** This poem was brought to you by the word “careen”. ***
She carried pockets of stones
As far as she could
Before her head slipped under the water skin
And she saw the light
Of shadowed unknowns.
*** Not suicidal. Just reading poetry by poets who were… until they weren’t any more…. ***
Moon of April tears
And the pink days before the shedding
Of seasons of old.
*** Another ode to full moons and bleeding. ***
Your viridescent soul
Tats through the chambers of my heart
A lace of lush leafy longing
Tinged with emerald,
Blinding my eyes with a verdant glow
That only you can wear.
You encircle me
[Until crushed to dust by time]
Just like the monochromatic bands
On a perfectly polished specimen
*** It better be polished… because malachite is quite toxic in its raw state, Angel Eyes. ***
*** You always ruin the moment, Peanut Gallery. ***
“I can’t have you slipping through my fingers,” he said with a crinkled brow from his silent place of speaking which found itself behind the veil.
“Well, shit.” she replied to the Aether, “I guess I shouldn’t have slathered all of this glossy coconut oil into my skin then.”
Forgetting the colours of the sky
Because the insides of my eyelids
[My eyes are covered in unseeable cataracts that devour dilated pupils]
And they were prettier yesterday
As they will be
It will be
By fire —
Burning inky black words
Charring countless pages —
Their dog-eared corners curling in the coals
And fuming with spent ghosts and emptied soul-hells
That aren’t even mine.
No longer in possession
Of those words and pages.
They are as gone as my mind was
Before I struck the match
And threw it into the stove.
*** More fire, Sweet Cheeks? Not bored of it yet? ***
*** I think I am done with fire now… but not for long. Never for long…. ***