Dissolve

There are times I feel there is no soul on earth with whom I connect truly.
Everytime I get close the rainbow in my darkness turns into an oil slick, and though I should feel appalled, saddened or disappointed, instead I am like a hitchhiker who stands by the roadside staring deep into the oily puddle, where this emulsification of self and other dissolves. I just want to dissolve dissolve dissolve. Drop me like a hit of Acid before a violet light show.

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Your Tongue, Your Heart

Close but I want to be far,
far when I want to be close.

Loneliness is a gun- I shoot it
at everyone.

The bullets are the kisses you
resist giving for fear of the
consequences.

The longing for the physical
persists in this.

A longing for the depth
of your tongue
and your heart.

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Confession Part II

I got the results of my x-ray back today, there are feathers in me. They wait there patiently to take flight again, but they are not tied to anything, and you need not soothe this soul rip, it was never your responsibility to heal me. I am the sea of blood scorned by a million thorns and I wish for no suture nor dream of any future outside of this red current. It flows on freely without any knowledge of time, it never even knew you were mine.

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The Unknown

If there was a self to return to in this ever-shifting existence, a familiar center, like a bonfire that I could create in the wilderness, I’d gather sticks from the forest and set them aflame, then I’d chant my own name as I walked in a semi-circle clockwise, opening the channels to that realm of altruism that I romanticized as a growing girl. I’d remove the glasses from my failing eyes and focus my gaze upon the center of the flames, where they burn most intensely blue, and I’d cleanse myself of you, I’d travel in reverse to in -utero realms before my virgin skin was ever touched. I wouldn’t yet belong to anyone, and my lungs would breathe in liquid. At this moment I’d emerge in ethereal form, and float upwards to a different planet, one that I could consciously inhabit without any knowledge of anything on earth, I’d experience a rebirth more profound than any human mystic could fathom. I’d have no reason to be heard or seen, it would be serene and cosmic, the stars would be beacons leading me to my real home, a place where the word “alone” was not part of the language, where there was only thought without words, because communication didn’t require a vocabulary to be understood. I’d meet the true soul at the center of this raging fire, then I’d cease searching for comfort to eradicate the agony of my ego which burned through this mortal being with a death desire. I would not have to worry about hurting anyone by leaving, because there is no such thing as grieving the unknown.

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Ashamed of the Sky

I was reading a gruesome story of a girl who was abducted and kept as a sex slave to an old man. Imagining what it must have been like to live each day as a strangled bird, until finally she was set free by some miraculous twist of fate, but by then she had already lived in a dark cage for her entire childhood all the way through her teens and twenties. I then saw a positive post that said “we choose our own happiness, so it’s never too late to smile.” I imagine what that woman would think or how she would feel being told her fate and her own happiness was a matter of choice, how if she could sit there and smile, we all might be convinced by her joy at being rescued, but inside she would be cut up like red confetti raining down on a white wedding. While all her former classmates were living their own version of happily ever after, she was submitting to a man old enough to be her grandfather as he taught her what it felt like to be a woman in the body of a child, and now that she was a woman, the child in her revolted at the joy that society exuded, the blind, wide-eyed animalism hidden behind a smile that says be nice and mind your manners, while out there the wolves of the world were clawing there way up and the innocent ones were kept captive, and forgotten about. We left a flower where your girlhood was, we knew you’d return to pick it, but when you did, it was too late, nothing could ever bloom again the way the world was once pure in your eyes, a time when you learned to obey what they say, a time when that smile went away, further than the stars could be seen on the blackest night no one else could feel, not even she could feel it, but when she gave birth to their children they felt something kick back inside their stomachs and pull them home again, pull them from the side of a road where they wandered alone, oblivious to the danger, and when the cage opened and they were told they could leave, they didn’t run, they didn’t fly, they sat there plucking out their own feathers, ashamed of the sky, ashamed of you and I.

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Goodbye

White are the untruths-like the clouds I touch
when I fall through the sky as I get rejected from heaven.

Hades is too full to accept new arrivals,
so I stand at the departure gate
and kiss the cold lips of an unknown fate,
goodbye.

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Rain Over Bright Cities

 

Spit ashes
I eat these ashes
I’ll come for you
when the whites of my eyes
hide the iris.
when you will
me gone.
Rainbow ring around carotid,
all the failed attempts to belong.
I swallow the black cloud now,
rain over bright cities falls.

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Filed under Borderline, Broken, Dark Romanticism, Death, Depression, Desire, Displacement, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Oblivion

Something about the mesh black where
your skin dances in olive grace
against the shadow & light,
peaks my curiosity
You wear a semi-veil
made from this same fishnet material,
and your eyes are painted
midnight blue.
Your lips protrude in a pouty mauve
juxtaposition, where your pointed jaw
juts outward in chiseled brilliance,
resting under your pensive brow,
and I think now I could easily
forget that I ever existed.
Your obsidian gaze is sharp,
as if the fire of a thousand volcanoes
cut through you
straight into my heart.
A black arrow shoots
through me,
piercing my soul,
your long hair is tied tight
and you just sit there
like a normal human being,
totally unaware of this
artwork moment
that made the Tate
mediocre.
It’s moments like this,
I wish that I knew how to paint,
but I’m certain no canvas
or talented hand of genius
could ever do you justice.
I don’t wish to be seen,
I only desire to watch you
as the light dances in and out
from behind the blinds
where you sit and drink
your wine,
redder than any passion
this feeble and mortal mess of flesh
could muster.
If a woman could be drank,
I’d sip you in the dark,
where your neck meets your shoulders,
and your collarbone points
toward a beautiful and endless oblivion.

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Immortal

It’s like something from a shadow realm
I cannot overcome.
my heart is burdensome.
The light aggravates
the tenebrous stirring inside
these dark chambers,
where it hides.
You wanted to alleviate my loneliness,
this caused an uproar
in my solitary veins,
the echoes of past attempts
at intimacy,
mocking and scorning me.
A sad little demon
laughs from inside my
artery, curled there
for eternity.
He says you are not my blood.
We are not related.
You did not catch stars
in your stomach
and push them
through me.
You did not
You would not
ever
be
mine,
but one time,
you mouthed these
words, like
a historical
comedy,
“My girl.. ”
and inside I believed it,
for the fleeting moment
before reality
cast her dark shadow
over me,
and set me free
again.
I shudder to think
I might have belonged
to belong
is to
die.
You are my soul’s
mirror,
and we are
both terrified
of looking,
for fear
we may see
in eachother
something
immortal.

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Rue De La Visitation

I dream of this alternate universe,
where you are not afraid to exist,
this warm state of bliss,
flowing as an endless ocean which
you cross to meet me.

In every story I lose you,
like a Venetian mask,
whose face is always changing,
or a city on the water,
which sinks
in pursuit of it’s own reflection.

On the Avenue of strangers,
your gaze leads me home,
as a man on the corner
smokes a cigarette
and flips a coin,
I land in that
lucky world
where my sames
are your sames
and the opposites
in each karmic knot
become more loose,
like the muscles
in the organ
at the fifth intercostal.

The house in which we sleep
cannot keep quiet
it creaks like the bones
of empty homes,
whose lovers lie
together alone.

When I wake,
I find myself
In your arms,
which for me
could be
a world less lonely…
(if only.)

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Anemia

I was once loved for what I did
and rejected for who I was,
so I stopped doing,
and started accepting
myself.
I was once told I was loved
by someone who
wanted to make me happy,
so I stopped being happy,
and learned to love myself.
I was once loved,
where I did not exist,
like a vampire staring in
a mirror with no reflection,
craving the blood of another
to make me real,
I soon discovered
that people
can shatter,
and that their
projections of me
did not matter,
so I embraced my
anemic pallor.
And loved the blood back
into my veins.

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Antidote

People are like viruses,
easy to turn away
with antiviral meds,
this is a revelation.
When you don’t
desire their connection,
up your dose of vitamin C.
I up my dose of me,
and swallow the beautiful
antidote to you.

I do not dote on others.

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Made for Love

Crescent moon I love you full,
I see you whole, even in the shadows.
I stand beneath this canopy of stars,
and breathe in this rejection,
I take it like an injection,
10ccs of light shooting through the dark,
filling the empty space
between lovers,
that place where I was unmothered,
suddenly shines
like crystal through the gaping
chasm of a deep cave,
and I think I must be so brave,
my heart must have
been made
for love.

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Anahata

An ache in my vagus nerve and a misaligned 4th Chakra, the green glow of the growing season, the malachite morning, the sage burn and rainbow glare of abalone. The quest within, the sun flooding through the vertical blinds, on the cusp of surrender. A life at the breaking point, fragile as a branch in the wind under the chaos of an uncontrollable storm. 4 decades and a misaligned Chakra, the midpoint, the Anahata, a struck, hurt, crepuscular space in need of a full circle, in need of truth, facing the Gorgon in the mirror, dancing in the shadow realm, embracing the darkness of my own soul. This is what they call a midlife crisis, this is what I call coming home.

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The Pallbearer

Sleep is mediocre if you cannot dream.
Music is a bird fallen from a tree,
Food is ice in the arctic of plenty,
scarcely can you see me
without a prescription
for isotopic vision.
Scream out at night,
the knot around
the kite,
the kink in your feathers
holding you tight.
And then you just breathe.
a dyalysis of air,
filtered through
bruised veins.
I will be your pallbearer
said the lover
to the virgin,
carry your​ body
back
to eden.

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Equator of Empty-Rien part I

At least I held onto the dream,
held carbon poison
in my tar-filled lungs,
held like a fish in the gills,
hungry for steel hooks
held lonely eyes
gaze of possibility
before the decades
danced up behind
my back and shouted surrender!

Nobody can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase,

Say “hey, this one is
going to be defective,
an endless series of
impossible starts & stops,
that never come to anything
meaningful.
I advise
you to let it go.”
At least then
You’d know.

Wouldn’t have wasted 39
years attempting the impossible.
would have been successful
on the first go,
as much as you’d always been,
Yes, It came to this,
now release these dead
parts of me.
I tried to tell you
when I was very
small,
I never meant to
be here.

It was a dream,
now let me wake up.
I don’t want to keep
walking into
walls.
hitting my head,
gnashing
my teeth
to be seen.
Laugh at me.
Laugh at me.
I can’t walk
straight..
I never could.
this world is dizzy.
I don’t want to
spin…
Don’t want
applause for success,
want instead a way
to step off the edge
of the equator.

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Dark Matter

Sulphur butterflies
let go,
be sulphuric,
trust in the elements,
in the minerals:
let lithium in
to dissolve your inertia.
Embrace your own dark matter.
Black powder beauties,
fly free.

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Mercury 

Mercury in my head
mercury heart
leaden stars
shiny bullets
shooting
through the
dark.
igniting a spark
on Jupiter.

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Paradise

It was easy to find,
to keep these tiny
particles on hold,
to gather as much
magic dust as was needed,
until I was ready to fly.

I promised I’d
take enough
so that
Narcan
was as pointless
as reading the final
rights to an atheist.

I was good at keeping
my word.

I was also fortunate
to have someone
in my circle
on methadone.

Now I have a bottle
of euphoric elxir
to wash down
with the magic powder.

It was easier than
I thought.
a little money
can buy
you a one
way ticket

to a non-refundable
paradise.

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Walking The Dog

You walk the dog every morning in the crisp spring air, and throughout the passing seasons.
At first he’s happy to be walked.
The beginning is always a power struggle,
A game of leash and master, leader and follower.
The dog takes an alpha stance, so it seems at times he’s walking you, but you learn how to be more assertive, to show him who is in control. You tug at the leash and shout out his name, as though barking. You reign him in and command him to sit, to stay, to behave himself accordingly. The dog has his own complexities, he sees himself in alignment with his territory, sniffing at trees, sensing the mood of the bitches who passed this way, knowing if they are fertile or spayed. You only know the dog in relation to yourself, so that it’s as if he has become a sort of non-dog, something tame that you have taught to obey, but this is the subtlety with which he has mastered you, convinced you that he has surrendered and become domesticated. You walk the dog and expect that he will always go on this way, following while you lead, paying heed to your commands. You walk the dog until walking him no longer becomes an option, until all that is wild in him reveals itself. It manifests as an arthritic leg, he no longer can keep up without limping. He growls when you pet him because he has developed a pain in his back from where you pulled him towards you, held him down, kept him from running free. He whimpers when you urge him forward, he resists your attempts at leading him. This time he stays when it suits him. His fur gets matted and begins to fall out in clumps, the places where the moon touched, the light you cannot fathom through the dark. In the Autumn of his discontent, he snarls and bears his teeth, you see this as the ultimate betrayal. He has moved backwards to the wild thing he was before you. He shows signs of straying and you begin to doubt his loyalty. One day all that unconditional love curls up in a ball in the corner of the yard and refuses to move. He no longer comes when you call him. You think back on his puppyhood, how he seemed the most happy dog in the world, how his affection was without limits, pawing, nuzzling, and beckoning your touch, giving you those eyes, bearing witness to your life, the various partners you let in, mates you took on with the intention of gaining what the dog so freely gave, love without question, love free of cruel intentions, the way he ate your shoes and chewed your panties, trying to warn you, trying to take your scent inside him. Now he has passed beyond the realm of obedience. You get a new puppy, hoping this will awaken his spirit, hoping he will welcome this. He shuns the other, he shuns everything. You cannot possibly see where you went wrong. You call the vet and finally the day comes, when you have to put him down, because he has taken to biting you and threatening the pup by clenching his small neck. You saw in him, your best friend. You hold his paw as the needle is injected, he lets out a final whimper, and his eyes glaze over, fixated on freedom, on that wild place from whence he once came. You walk away in tears, no closer to making sense of this final betrayal, comfortable only in the knowledge you were once so happy together, and that he once belonged to you, mine you call him, “he was my dog.”

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In Absence of Your Hands

The way I touch myself is not the same since I loved you. The way I am alone is different than before you touched me, before you left me, with those searching eyes that pierced inside and kissed me. I couldn’t​ touch you, and you fell beyond my reach, but the way I touch myself now is the way you touched me, and it never fails to satisfy my need. I can go on forever, remembering your hands, the chaos of your hands and the magic of your fingers, this will follow me as long as I live. I think you must have practiced this to perfection, like playing an instrument feverishly until every note was mastered. I can never have the same kiss again, the one that awoke all my chakras before swallowing me deep, but I will always know your touch as my own, even in the absence of your hands.

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Filed under Lesbian, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Rien

Nothing can hold you.
They never tell you,
But they should.
The doctor should
whisper it in the ear of your
mother when she
enters the Luteal Phase.
Just before
the big bang
of nothing.

“let go…”

Nothing can hold.

This should come
as a warning label
On a box of
contraceptives.

“Nothing can hold you.”

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Smile When I’m Gone

Tonight you send a bird
you send a dead bird
it falls from your hands
your mouth
those dusty edges of fettered
time,
and I smile at it,
because it is nothing.
Tonight I consider ways
to be that bird.
I know they will wonder why I
say sorry to those who cared,
because
I was not one of them.
I couldn’t be any,
but this featherless
joy,
decimated.

the-bird-may-die

 

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How To Love A Flower

Many a manner of flowers, bewildering in their beauty were passed through your hands, encoding zeros.
At such time, I was the one.
perfect beauty
no other flower could emulate.
A stunning blossom, grown from your desire.
The moment you reached for me, the darkness ceased.

You picked me from the womb of earth, and
I was given this new birth.
In that fatal moment your eye flickered,
and the sun screamed for me.

narcissi….

Your appreciation
is the weight of the rock
Sisyphus knows…
constantly pushed uphill,
until it rolls down
too heavy to bear
Itself.

Your eyes were immortal orbs of power, which melted molten into ash…

Tell me we can have them back…
!!!
Take the obsidian,
make it shine again..
make you mine again.

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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Dancing on Line 2

“Your version of happiness makes me sad.”
sad the ballerina
as she pirouetted
through the gap
of the metro,
into the oncoming train.

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A House in My Arm

They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
took out a mortgage on my elbow..
these osteocytes are working overtime
for the corporations,
blasting bones to keep the banks full.
This needle is where my entire
foundation was built.
I got engaged that day you wrapped your
warm soft body around mine,
couldn’t imagine a better feeling than this.
I bought you a ring made of pure gold and shimmering
with diamonds, grown
in a dark cave,
which a slave picked
in your name.
I became so big,
watched the neon skyline
fade,
while my name
lit every billboard in the city.
This all came
from a 30 gauge
shooting straight
into my arm,
it all went into my arm.
I carry my house, my wife,
all my dreams in this syringe,
it shoots freely through
the blue network
of misfired circuits,
and abandoned
commitments.
I would have sold my only child.
I never held her,
she lives in my bicep,
the only untouched
wilderness on my body,
which I left clean for her.

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Filed under Addiction, Heroin, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Widow

You in I as in I in you as in me,
and we both have that same tendency
uplifting
and then
burying
our beloved.
I sometimes feel I am that
hungry spider
spinning
herself upwards
creating the perfect
net
to capture
these small morsels
of non-self, then
marveling at their
naivety, their
stubborn simplicity
that insists
on being seen,
on being eaten,
and finally
on being embodied,
on being
spun anew
in silky brilliance
to be
loved and
left
widowed.

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Violation

Violated is
how she made me feel,
so for a time I considered
erasing what and who I was,
in a bid to protect myself,
but then it occurred to me,
there is no privacy
for these words
which bid un-caging.
Some people use you as copy
some people
use everything as copy.
One day maybe
some people
will wake up
and see that what is real
can never be replicated,
they leave you feeling violated,
and then you realize
they were never anything
but painted dolls,
whose colour
faded
from the place where
they once held
a ceramic smile,
and that all the while
they were only
glass,
capable of being smashed.

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Sun Over Saint Lawrence 

There’s no place left for smokers

The manager of the building left a note

on my door, saying

“not on the balcony,”

so I cannot even enjoy the purpose of having a balcony,

the simple pleasure I derive from a drag of a fag

and a sip of a coffee,

as I stare out from

my balcony

has been stolen from me,

by these environmentally conscious

fuel burning freaks.

The girl I love in Paris

does not love me back anymore,

the flame became an ember,

and then ash.

My father started immunotherapy

for cancer

one day before his birthday,

and there were no balloons

swelling to the point

of red rupture in her

chest when

I left her,

but we still have

hope

for the sun

over St. Lawrence.

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Graduation Day

Maybe in your world, to graduate meant that you would obtain a degree, this means you succeeded at mastering something.
Maybe in my cosmic twist, graduating looked something like this;

9 years old and drunk on tequila we stole, watching the world spin…
Waking up in in a hospital, a mix of faces, both stern & concerned. Later, my mom said she would not nurse us back to health, if we were thirsty, we had to get our own glass of water, take them beats hard, take them spirits heavy.

11 years old, 2 joints of marijuana, they left out on the table.
I left for school and smoked them both on my way there.
Later my mom defended me to the death when the principal told her I was high. The obvious signs were there, the missing drugs, the red eyes, the way I suddenly became so social when I was always the loner in class, the outsider, the one they spoke of in hushed tones.

That feeling of alone which cut like glass through my soul.
Later I would do lines on the strip..We called it the strip,                                                                   it was seedy, dark and defeated.
I succeeded in learning the ways of being enslaved to the white crystal,                                       the powdered kick, the fast morning hit….                                                                                               my own fists against my own unrecognizable face,                                                                          the hatred which wanted me to be wasted.

I tasted the seas of strangers as they entered me, incapable of erasing my need.
Suns were enemies which burned our morning faces.
We danced like we meant it, but then we’d lose balance, forget who we were holding, watching the shape-shift of lovers enclose us, eyes flickering in multicolored brilliance, only to fade to silence and blank stares, or inexplicable rage.

They could not love you, when you were a stranger, but you always felt the hero was somewhere out there on the next big trip, you kept taking it, and he never came, or he always came, but he never arrived, maybe he was too high, somewhere in an alley on Hastings, maybe he was wasting away, the black tar laughter in your DNA, waiting for that proud day you graduated.

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Filed under Addiction, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Fall From Grace

Don’t with my hope in your back pocket.
We should be breaking down walls,
not building them more tall.
Don’t where the line ends, take
that step,
from which
laughter erupts
like a life
abruptly ended,
under the suicide sky,
stay and watch
the sun rise from
behind grey clouds,
like cocktails
chased
at the end of a day
where we
fall from grace.

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Watercolour Existence

Everything is smeared with this veneer of tears

that washes away the colour and leaves

a dark streak on the canvas;

streak of black,

of nebulous,

of aging,

& fading time.

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The Bird That I Once Was

When I returned to the cage, I noticed one of the bars was bent, and the scent on your feathers was not mine. It smelled of roses from another garden the garden of a stranger. I plucked the thorn from your side, and the suicide began within me. I took a pretty little blood bath for you, and killed the bird that I once was. There’s a pyramid leading to heaven, it’s steps are built on all the lies you fed me.

(Written in past tense..) -not true to the present state of affairs.

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True Love (In Retrospect)

“Does true love even exist anymore?” The blue serpent slithered and hissed her entreat. It was a way to lure in the vulnerable, to deceive the dreamers. “True love is when you are willing to give your kidney away,” she’d say. In the morning when I woke I checked to make sure I still had all my life-sustaining organs intact. Kidney -check.. Liver-check… Heart… that was somewhat questionable. The answer I’d whisper alone in the cold dark of my room, when she was thousands of miles out of view was; yes it exists, but like God, it is irrelevant. I would have given you my kidney but you made me wish I’d never had such irrelevant organs.

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Honey & The Abyss

As I watched you lick honey from a spoon,
I thought of the abyss and how we all hang there,
from the branch of a tree, where life
drips it’s sweet nectar,
how we can look down
into the abyss,
or open our mouths to taste the
ignorance of bliss.
I thought of your incredible kiss,
taking my breath away,
and suddenly breathing didn’t
matter.

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The Girl Who Loved Bones

I can’t reach you, it’s as if you fell a thousand miles below the sea. It’s as if I’m drowning here on earth and you breathe aqua.

I can’t reach you. It’s as if the moon were a sun and the sun were a strange planet from another universe.

Can’t reach through the dark.

You left me holding this undressed wound, without a bandage to cover it. I push and push on this skin and I feel nothing. Where the wound is you make tea, clean in silence, attend a party.

Where the wound is I plan a life that makes sense, looks organized.

Where I am alive, there is a void so gaping wide within that the wound seems nonexistent.

We see to our routines, and carry on as if we hadn’t just been attacked by terrorists. Where my arms were I once held love and my chance of survival increased. Where my skull was before the steel melted, I once held happy thoughts of us together, now your stomach is like the remains from Isis where my life is; a hollow wasteland, burned out and detonated.

This is because you ate the bones of my affection, chiseled them with your sharp teeth, crushed my hope like herbs in a mortar, took the pestle to my dreams, made dust from my kisses.

I know I know, how you love your little bones. How you celebrate your skeleton.

I danced one night with your skeleton, you chose a song whose lyrics I couldn’t comprehend.

Later you told me you hate music.

I thought it was fate,
but we were dancing to your hate.

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Filed under Alone, Anorexia, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Incubation

You lose yourself in the void of loneliness, a souls pilgrimage, all the while I disembark from the sky. once she said “we are the same bird,” a voice in the sky , that yolk of a cry, spilling from the shell of me. Here on earth two wings are pulled in opposite ways, and no one stays. Build a nest. You know I’d leave it empty. Your hand on mine in the dark speaks to me from infancy to the ruby worn inside of me that shines beyond these lonely pines, yet in the realm of spirits and dreams, we know no difference in our relations no separation to our incubation.

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Out of Their Minds

Yesterday you told me you graduated from pink pills to purple pills, they upped your dose of antidepressants. You chase after men like some hormone crazed teenager and I wonder is it a side effect or just loneliness? How much of what people do is done out of loneliness? A mother having a child, a couple getting married, a new friendship blossoming, and how much of this skin is really worth the abrasion? The scrape of crowds or the disinfectant of this silence, is a choice that comes down to how comfortable you truly are in your own naked flesh, and how long you can go on tolerating the insult brought on by the energy spent from your own blood spilled out for others, indifferent to your type; A negative, AB positive , type O, some rare genetic defect where the minerals we smell in the air draw us to eachother. This one is deficient, this one lacks the calcium to allow for a solid spine, she will define herself by the power she gains from your calcified spirit. That one is toxic, avoid her at all costs, she is not authentic, she is a chemical spill on the roadside, where your car breaks down at night and you find yourself alone. Be careful who you hand the syringe to, not all want to heal you, most are just looking for a way out of their own bodies, a way out of their minds.

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Hurts To See

 

Hurts to see, that’s what I call you, eyes that are more like wounds than eyes,
hurts to see the misery, when the sun burns like an injury to your soul.
It may rise in your country, but here, when I wake, I am cleansed by something pure, and when I find my vision is slanted looking in the mirror, it’s as if a knife incised my pupils, haphazardly, I splash water across my face and the ugly disfigurement is healed, but for you, it’s a genetic reality, and it really hurts to see. It hurts to see that creation can be so imperfect as to leave scars in place of beauty.

 

(for the girl with Asian eyes who tried to burn me.)
*an observation, and a metaphor.*

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Genocide in the Forecast

You quit smoking, but not the SSRIs,
and now you’re taking sleeping pills & Xanax,
you went into hibernation mode,
and I did the same,
we are mirror souls,
without the chemicals,

Since that first day
you struck up a
conversation,
a match was
lit within me.

and now the long
frost finally
shows
signs
of thawing.

So, here’s my friendship
here’s my honour,
go on keep these,
you might want
something
to look back on during
our next deep freeze.

This means yes,
I anticipate
a holocaust
of white ash.
This means
a genocide is
in the forecast.

…no socializing
while winter lasts

(For D)

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Ambivalence

When climbing high and getting too close to the edge, then being cautioned to be careful for fear of falling and breaking something, is followed by the thought that there’s nowhere left to fall and nothing left to break. When you are awake too late, always tempting fate. When the one you adore lives a very structured routine, and you think it’s obscene how people seem so capable of order. I cannot explain why I am a night bird, why when the whole world sleeps, is the time when I am most at peace. Why I come alive with the moon rise. I do not care for yoga, Pilates or vegan. I have no desire to go raw and drink my dinner through a straw. I won’t be found in a gym, on the treadmill of the world, trying to keep pace. I will be the one who fell from grace. When you mouth the words of a girl who brings you motivation and positive inspiration, by putting roses in quotations, I am the one who reminds you of the thorns.

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Stars

I was not created in the image of any God. If I could create myself in anyone’s image, it would not be a Western deity, nor Eastern divinity, nor any entity from Greek mythology, it would be carnal and perfectly imperfect. It is said that we reflect our desires, and that each person is like a mirror manifested by our psyches. If I could, I would create myself in your image, because in you the most merciful Goddess exists, and also the cruelest devil. I could have salvation and damnation in the same breath. My deepest erotic longings  are realized and contained in this one divine being. Your body knows no flaws, even in your scars there is a profound grandeur to surpass any sense of heaven or hell. I want to attend a funeral everyday for the entirety of my existence, just to mourn your mortality. It is the most wicked lie I ever heard, that you will die. I want to go back to the day my first ancestor was born, and drown them in the river, eradicate my entire bloodline, just to erase the moment I learned you were made of decomposing stars.
.

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Dyade

Peering in the mirror, I see your reflection in me. It’s always the one who is closest who leaves her imprint on my soul. The name that was given to me at birth was apropos, clarity and light, reflecting through dark, the image of that which is cast upon her. Deep under earth where thirsty roots, like small beings , conscious of their need for the tree, hold deep this vein which replenishes jugular affection. I want your black hair with blue undertones, want the blue haze surrounding you in me, like a cloud of vapor, inhaled and exhaled. When you say I should be things, like the orgasmic thrust you feel in your ilium, this is what I embody. I want your skin as it deteriorates from lack of nutrients, to be my own canvas splotched red, and for my pulse to be your pulse as it leaves your wrists where the indents of my sharpest desire are worn as a bracelet, swollen on the surface, where the ancient ache escapes, to become rain for the desert between your thighs.

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Annihilation’s Bird

Each bird in its place, caged.
One is set free daily.
Extended arm like a runway for aviators.
The broken one sits there envious of the sky,
It will never abide by suicide.
Buddhist principles of non-violence
forbid it forgiveness.
Instead it commits a thousand
silent murders within,
homicide,
genocide,
any form of annihilation
afforded by the imagination,
to spurn the body.

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Dysrhythmia

Loneliness is a legacy, she said.
A tattered, unanticipated heirloom.
My grandmother is a lonely lady,
as is my mother, wed to this solitary
existence.
The heart is a muscle, and like other muscles,
without love to keep it pumping,
the heart atrophies,
likewise, if overextended,
it will also cease to function,
tetany shall set in,
as systolic and diastolic
pressures deviate
from their natural rhythm.
Perhaps this is why
I suffer such arrhythmia,
from the starts and stops
of a heart that wants
in a body so
habitually alone.
Maybe the fierce way I love
causes an atrial flutter
in my overstimulated AV node.
These rapid signals
of ventricular longing
and arterial need,
rush full speed
through my vast & empty arms.

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Filed under Loneliness, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Reaper

​You were beautiful when you took my hand in your hand, when you held that black cape open, enticing me. You were 6 drinks in 60. You were a pile of white powder that I inhaled, in the hopes of feeling, the tissue soaked red from my efforts. You were lonely bridges at 2 am, bent over rivers, deep as whores. You were strange men who drove by and offered young girls a ride out on the wide open highway. You were razor blades stolen from hardware stores, when I was let out from the ward on a smoke break. You were sutures, charcoal, and the threat of stomach pumps. You were 20 meter jumps into nothing in the hopes of hitting something hard. You were there in infancy laughing, you were there on my first day of school, when I learned what it meant to be different. You are that look in my supervisor’s eyes as she gives me the once over, questioning whether it was really the right thing to hire me, then excusing my weirdness in place of the quality of my work and the level of my seeming dedication. You were the mark on a card indicating my identity, where the line was left blank. You are that thin tipped syringe that hits the vein perfect every time, the one I sometimes romanticize. You are the failed attempts I made, and all my partners who live/d too far, who are incapable of intimacy. You are that mystery man who comes cloaked in high fashion ready to take me on a date, but you never tell me the time. I will never know until I meet you, and then what if we are incompatible? You are always there, waiting in the shadows. You are there when I catch my reflection in a mirror. You were there today when I failed to be perfect, you will be there tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. I can’t starve you out, love you out, buy you out, or drink you out. I can’t write you away or procreate you away. You’re here to stay, ever the immortal victor to my corporeal existence.

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Continental Chasms

​Those eyes I won’t see, fixated in hazel brilliance, as the glare of a European sunrise greets us, and we lie parallel as faultlines whose hearts are tectonic. The tender lines etched like velvet, the crease of deerskin in her virgin smile, the fierce way she loves me in the dark until I cry out for the axis of the earth to stand still. I ask, “will you stop turning?” Please stop for a moment, just long enough for me to hold her, long enough to believe she is capable of holding me. At the equator of my need, there is only one world, and no such thing as continental chasms. 

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Atomic

 

In many variances of light & dark,
or lumination she could have walked,
instead she trails in the shadows.
Unable to surpass the barriers
between one world and the other,
she exists on the periphery,
with one foot on earth,
and the other
in the afterlife.

Some might say she lives to defy
life, others say it is to spite death.

She knows no attachments
to the realm of physical,
save the suffering contained
in her own skin.

It is a strange combination
of pleasure & joy,
whose only guarantee
exists in the fact
it is fleeting.

There the sun, here the moon,
there the ice, here the formidable
flare of atomic.

 

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Rebel Rhetoric

Living is radical
when they prefer what is
predictable;
carefully calculated
algorithms adhere
to interpolated
parameters.
To live is to
extrapolate,
expel yourself
from the radar
refuse
rules,
rebel in
response
to
repulsion,
revolt,
rise up,
redefine yourself,
reawaken
the
revolution
register
as an earth refugee
apply to go
to heaven
apply for hell,
anything
is possible
outside the
realm
of this
robotic
reality.

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Battle Scars

America never belonged to their forefathers
It belonged to your fathers
and your father’s fathers.
Never forget that.
They drove a strong, proud, red nation
up into Canada,
where they cut off our tongues
and surgically removed our souls.
Red, white & blue
are part of you.
The blood which rushes
through your heart,
which they buried at wounded knee
could not be
without France, without Britain,
without the great red nation.
The enemy is in you,
and the warrior too.
Smearing paint over her cheeks,
she walks free
into the wild country,
bearing their battle
scars within her.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized