Body As A Burial

My body is an ancient burial ground

It gets desecrated by someone else’s

idea of progress.

When you enter me, you stir the dead,

the anger of a century in red

pours out in tainted rivers,

the Red River,

where the missing ones were buried,

floods over and curses any attempt

I might make to love you.

Your heart gets haunted

by something unnamed,

something buried

too deep to be translated.

Your hands are the only evidence

that I exist beyond this.

You frack me without a thought

for what you take,

but what hurts most

is what you leave behind,

was once so sacred.

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Sky Speak

Baby with your moonlight mouth

shine down on me

With your cloud tongue,

lick the sky

Speak in circles,

with your sunrise hips

when you sway and dip,

rising up on the horizon of me.

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Incognito

I shall not miss you when we meet under cover of night and you are incognito in the headlights

glare of rabbit snare, the train howl, the wind scowl, the twisted branches, like immortal embraces, those earth arms waiting to hold me, cold as a mother who dared not love

her only daughter and a father who made love to the steel stars which bled through the black tar highway of his arms, pump in muscle, pump out impossible. We exhaust ourselves in pursuit of ourselves. I shall not miss you, mirror of broken glass where I see my reflection pass, deep gash which leaves a scar over who we really are.

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Love Untrue

I should have known,

you never wanted love,

you only wanted to get married,

wanted to adhere to ancient customs,

wanted to appear happy in the eyes

of the world,

wanted to be accepted

like a little girl pleases her parents,

craved the embrace of this cold country,

to save you from yourself.

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Night Blossom

Once there was a dawn that made me feel like I was coming back to the final point in the garden where the natural light of your caresses were made by the beauty of nature as the tears of many scorned lives in the dark pulse of the world swam through to the sun. In the midst of this unpredictable moment before the end of the world mourned within me craving the calm ignorance of the dark, that fatal flower blew my mind as the sun descended where the lights blinded our eyes. I ached for the tenderness of your gaze in this beautiful world of the unseen where I once walked in the shadow of your pupils and sank in the depths of your oceanic mind. Now you are drowning in a world where you are lonely, but you are not the only one who hurts as I have hurt to be with someone who makes you cry for your own inner beauty and light.

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Perennials

Everything you say with your hands takes root in my body and grows so deeply that the sea seems shallow under the glare of the summer sun. Something new blooms in me everytime you touch me, as grand as the garden that we planted together, fearless of getting our hands dirty. Your lips enrich me like soil, from where the vines and the sunflowers reach up to the window and embrace the light which flows through your eyes as you kiss me good morning with all the warmth and freshness of a breeze blowing her promise that follows us through the seasons as surely as the perennials will grow again next spring.

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Black Butterfly In A Crystal Cocoon

At the height of our misfortune,

we are scarcely afraid, it’s as though

on the basis of nothing, anything

is conceivable, and everything becomes

feasible, because we have known

and understood our human limitations,

then it is as if the arms become wings,

and the feet are now unnecessary.

 

We unravel from the earth womb,

never knowing we were conceived

in the darkness of our own crystal hearts,

that our fate was a poem on the tip of

the tongue, waiting to take flight.

 

It is then that we are born, on a black night,

when no stars are yet visible on the horizon,

yet in the cave of our conscious knowing,

the answer was in us, growing and growing,

so clear that the world could see it glowing

deep within, where we waited for it to awaken

from the opaque dream of blind imagination.

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Paper Bird In A Sky Of Fire

You enter me as a cathedral,

my arms are coloured crystal,

two stained roses, whose vines wrap

around you, cutting into the artery

of your contemplation, causing

memories to shatter in the sunblood.

 

We are strangers to ourselves

in the interval, in the moonblood.

An ethereal music flows through

our mouths, with an ancient echo

that breathes outside the window,

where a foreign woman undresses

in the shadow of love’s betrayal.

 

I am a bird cut from paper

against the matchstick of your lips.

Our love is a blur of unclear glass,

a dream burning in infinite fire,

a cracked boat crossing

a river of ice in the heart of spring,

leaving us clinging to nothing.

 

There’s a comet dying in darkness,

we can see it on fire in the distance,

where we stare at the anguish

traced from the sky’s photograph,

captured during a lonely century,

in which we lived and lost all hope for flight.

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The Upside To Being Down

Someone elsewhere sees

the upside to being down,

while someone upstream

floats vertically prone.

Someone backwards

holds everything

at the forefront of the future,

meanwhile; it’s a throwback

to another time,

when something inside themselves

was somehow uplifting–

therein lies everything itself.

Someone takes

immense pleasure

in being underground.

Someone, somewhere

at sometime

could go anyplace,

someday, somehow,

despite their supersensitive

soul, and their lifelong

battle with the blackout.

Someone subterranean

strains in underdevelopment.

Someone lives in

a perpetual nighttime,

yet they still have

the ability to see the daylight,

to daydream, to look upwards,

to endure the upheaval.

Even on the blackest skyline,

they see superimposed moonshine.

Someone had an unbelievably

unlucky upbringing,

but they remain unusually upbeat,

despite the downbeat.

Someone is a blackbird at daybreak,

yet even in a thunderstorm,

they can see the rainbow

and the seashore nearby.

Someone at a dead-end

remains life-like

in the undertow and

overflow of emotion,

despite being taken

by the undercurrent.

It’s as if their spirit was waterproof,

as if they were superhuman

or had a superego made of steel.

Even amidst this swift snowdrift

of whitewashed wasteland

before them, they continue

to overcome the setbacks.

They seem set on making

continual comebacks.

It’s as if they held the handbook

on how to survive,

like they had the foresight

to envision sunlight

and withstand the comedown,

like they made a turnaround

from lowland to highland.

Even in the backlash,

they kept on the warpath,

like nothing whatsoever

could ever keep them down.

They must have been a thunderbird,

to have gone so downward,

yet made such an unreal uprising.

They were skyward when most

were wayward and earthbound,

like their foreknowledge foretold

of a fateful foreshadowing,

yet this forewarning

is precisely what enabled

them to keep it together

in spite of everything,

because anyone else would

have long ago drowned,

would have lost their lifeblood

and been without a lifeboat

in the underbelly of hell,

and yet, even Lucifer

was once an angel in heaven–

someone might say,

even God had a shadyside.

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Coming Home

How when you come in from the bitter winter,

your body hungering for warmth, a nakedness

 

pulsing beneath the heat of the flannel sheets,

or how in summer when the heat, unbearable

 

with stickiness smothers, and you choke

with thirst for water, feeling like you could swallow

 

an entire Sargasso or sleep on bricks of ice.

Walking in after being in the Sahara,

 

the air-conditioner on high, the cold gust of it

hits you as soon as the door opens, and you feel

 

that home must be a shelter from the extremes,

a sanctuary for the body, but most of all

 

a temple for the mind, where thought smoulders,

rooting you to the bed, and music moves through

 

your blood, flooding your body with ecstacy,

smothering your pleasures in feathers of down.

 

You have returned to that place you have longed for,

a queen to her homecoming, that spasm of opaque joy

 

in the syncopated void, where dreams empty

from your head, clearing channels for the dead,

 

for you know in your heart the land of the living

can only be a lie, like a drop of honey falling,

 

which you lick in the hopes of forgetting the abyss,

or a kiss from the one who loves you, or claims to

 

in her veiled sweetness, which blinds you to the bitterness

of the truth; that this house is made of mercury,

 

a silver flicker of beauty, which betrays permanency

as surely as the body is cut from the umbilical,

 

and led towards the grave, yet while you are here,

it feels secure, so you stare up at the moon,

 

hoping men won’t conquer her too,

for conquering her is futile, her sterling brilliance

 

breathes a maternal liquid impossible to contain,

and in your bones you know, deep in your marrow,

 

you will all your life, (in every woman

or man she has birthed), forever be coming home to her.

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The Plight Of The Fawn

As the huntress approaches, arrow drawn,

I contemplate my final dawn-

relentless in its fatal beauty,

emitting an erotic melody

utterly captivating to me beyond any

hope to be captured by my small song

 

The beat of the obsolete moves in me,

quickening it’s pace with no trace

of the star from previous night’s

forlorn intermingle of light,

spilling now into a vision of absolute grace

 

I surrender now,  listen!

Hear the intent of her hunting heart-

the lub dub thud of terror,

as something in the distance draws near

 

As it drew near, the realization

seized upon me like a great revelation,

here now I could shoot, and in the killing

become the killed, else I could save

myself, and in so doing, spare the fawn

 

I ran through the forest with no thought

or desire of ever turning back,

to lose the wolf in my tracks,

when just then I caught sight of it

clutching the terrified fawn by its throat

 

Her deer eyes glistened like glass

seeming to beseech me-

you sought my body,

as this forest has sought to be one with me

so shall you hunt my spirit

 

Returning to the site of the ill-fated fawn,

I gathered the remains of her,

creating a pair of deerskin gloves,

which I gave to my love,

she beckoned me to follow her to the forest

 

We lay on a bed of moss

breathing in the scent of cedar,

she guided me deep inside her

with her hands of velvet leather,

as she let out a howling cry,

which echoed through the wilderness

and high up in the sky.

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Dance In A Buffalo Skull

We rise in flaxen grass as the sun peels back,

revealing primeval wounds which congeal in the shadows

of our eye holes. Kŭt-o´-yis.

 

This field was mine, it belonged to a thundering tribe,

whose hooves set fires thousands of miles across the

gold-lit prairies.

 

Now they are gone, chased from the skies over Brokenhead.

They drum their songs in my skull, where the wigwams sway

in the slaughtering wind.

 

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Reclamation

You with your moonstone mood,

your chameleon heart,

a worn keepsake

from a time when love unlocked the door,

as I have locked you out–yet still

continue to keep you w/in a finger’s reach

 

You, at the crux of lower medulla,

your kick of solar plexus

a melancholia of sexual appetite,

that oxycotin/oxytocin capsule of my need,

with her moon in Aquarius,

and Scorpio rising

 

You, who remind me of a walk on the beach,

your hand outreached

with sun-bleached capillaries

that burn me in their venous return

 

You, who remind me of those we crawl into,

through the loneliness of abalone shells

with their pearl-essence of

punctured palms, torn alabaster

 

You, the earth bastard with your home-sick ache

traveling through circular nerves,

the cobalt snake of my rami-communicans,

your splanchnic & adrenal pathways

sinking back into the red cerebral sea of me

 

This is how you occupy me;

at the abandoned

alter of my sacrificial childhood,

a home not meant to be inhabited,

an unmarked grave of forced embraces,

with the thrill of hand on thigh,

swallowing me alive

at the cyclone of the mother eye–

where entering you,

I reclaim myself.

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The Girl Who Always Cries

Perched in darkness the owl can be heard to cry;

there are no worlds great enough

to contain the immeasurable anguish

issuing forth from that invisible soul

 

I peer towards the canopy of black sky–

starry, crimson, infinitely incomparable,

hoping to catch sight of she

who always cries but never can be seen

 

I sense her watching me,

her sharp gaze shining in clairvoyance,

her foreboding wings opening and closing–

as they cleave towards the quartz center,

where these parallel fates hold us tethered

 

All the world hangs from that tree,

and the moon in bewilderment also,

an enchanting tapestry,

whose binding synchronicity

is the conduit for our pain

 

The earth prepares herself

as if in nocturnal wait —

her mouth a clotted wasteland,

her hair a metallic river of blood

in which the muses drown

 

Heeding her perpetual cry

the tongue is paralyzed,

succumbed to muteness,

there is no language profuse enough

to convey her bruising music-

this is what I am made up of;

 

this dark matter reaching into eternity,

this pitch of perennial sadness

bitten through the birch-bark

which is her birthmark–

 

Of all the girls I will ever know,

her cry is the only one which will always

baffle me with its beauty,

because it was as though

I could feel her sorrow chiming

in the cathedral of my veins,

winding its hymns through my blood,

never knowing precisely from where it precipitated

 

Was my cry her voice or was her voice my crying,

and why did other girls believe they could compete

against such an occultic force, such a mythical bird as that?

 

I will never catch sight of her, it is impossible-

she nestles behind my eyes,

she chants through my temples

in synapses of charred gloom,

no divining stick, no mirror will draw her out.

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The Phoenix

To lovers born to me that now are dead,

I become that other thing,

a burnt offering, the phoenix of new beds

 

Every dawn I rise,

like an early-bird casualty,

minus the worm

 

Free from the hook which dangles

torn from the root,

which strangles

 

I’m burning like volcanoes,

on this field of scarecrows,

letting only the blackest birds through

 

this is what happens when they love you,

when they love, love, love

until your hands turn to onyx

 

When they cremate your kisses,

when they incinerate your caresses,

until your love

turns charcoal,

turns molten,

turns furious,

turns to dust,

turns to fentanyl,

turns to spider veins,

turns to an abscess,

turns gangrene,

turns obscene,

turns promiscuous,

turns to Jesus,

turns to slot machines,

turns to rye & Coke,

turns to a joke,

turns to switchblades,

turns to serenades,

turns to balustrades,

turns Parisian,

turns bohemian,

turns Bourgeois,

turns kamikaze,

turns to classical music,

turns tragic,

turns to death glares,

turns Greek,

turns to a woman,

turns to a man,

turns intellectual,

turns transsexual,

turns to PTSD,

turns to LSD,

turns to pyromaniacs,

turns to panic-attacks,

turns to chain-smoking,

turns to choking,

turns to BDSM,

turns to therapists,

turns to artists,

turns to Carcinoma,

turns to a college diploma,

turns to dyslexia,

turns to anorexia,

turns to insomnia,

turns to candle holders,

turns to cold shoulders,

turns to sinew,

turns to a Jew,

turns to frost,

turns into a holocaust,

the sort of holocaust that

only a phoenix could survive

 

nothing will extinguish my flame!

 

To lovers born to me that now are dead,

I’ve turned into this other thing instead,

the firebird who makes of your pale offerings;

 

something incandescent,

something iridescent,

something phosphorescent,

 

something glowing,

 

something growing in spite of your wrongs,

something with deathless feathers

and tattooed songs.

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The Lotus Flower

I am gathering breadcrumbs on my way to the witch’s house,

she feeds me on Yeats, Auden, Hughes, Sexton, & Plato,

with scraps of Bishop, Thomas, Joyce, Lowell, & Poe,

Hansel & Gretel are living w/ their father & his mistress in Soho

She invites me in for tea as she immediately

tucks a towel under the door, sealing us in with Death & Co.

 

Her cottage is a white palace

Its crystals a little poultice,

hidden away from the flammable sun

preserved by the carbon monoxide

ether of her undoing

why is it so quiet, what is she hiding?

in the room off the kitchen,

that black, bellowing chamber,

her jars filled with amber,

her “breasts and hips a confectioner’s sugar

of little crystals, titillating the light,

while a green pool opens its eye,

sick with what it has swallowed”

 

 

Suddenly a starving swarm covers

the panes of glass from outside,

while through this our faces reflect

from the mirror in honey-combed brilliance,

“a bonewhite light, like death, behind all things…”

 

Her drones returning home from their long wintering,

their “lightless hibernaculum,” their Auschwitz,

buzzing in tandem;

“I am, I am, I am.”

seems to offer some “backtalk from the mute sky”

 

The black boot of her brute daddy,

stomping on his daughter’s

restless grave, that autoclave,

in the cave of her burned out chamber

where the slaves get disinfected

 

She prepares the oven

the pipes seem to hiss

in their seedy blackness

I am more than this!

more than you, more than this Jew-linen,

this lead paper-weight,

“this dark thing that sleeps in me; ”

its “malignity” screaming for a way out

 

This dark flesh of fruits,

this rotting orchard fermenting in the backyard,

where the gravestones bob like bald heads

in the dark red of their mossy earth-womb,

even amidst this hell-fire the lotus flower blooms.

 

–For Sylvia Plath

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Petite Mal

Your lips on my lips,

your hips on my hips,

your breasts on my breasts,

our nipples hard-pressed,

as two ripe grapes during wine season

 

The flicker of your tongue,

the way you bite the edge of my lip when you kiss me,

your mouth agape as you moan into me,

like an Inuit throat singer,

your voice vibrating my ribcage

 

Your legs a colossal snake forbidding escape,

pupils dilate then decrease, spasms increase,

your uterus grips like a fist w/

its spontaneous contraction,

giving way to intense satisfaction

 

Light flickers through shadows

from the candle-box on the wall,

one vivid lotus flower blooms

in the middle of the room,

as butterflies twirl

from the ceiling fan,

like frenzied ballerinas

 

You grip my head, then pull my hair,

forcing my tongue deeper

urging my fingers,

as my entire hand thrusts

rhythmically inside you

like an instrument

I’ve learned all the chords to

 

When the music’s over,

the butterflies retreat,

the lotus flower floats away;

you lay there

twitching as if you’d been stricken

with epilepsy

 

I tease you with my touch,

then blow gently

on your naked body,

cooling the fire, which burns so incessantly

 

Plumes of smoke,

blow circularly,

like two entwined rings,

engulfing the flowers,

that cut a path through the glass,

overlooking this arctic oblivion

 

I can’t feel myself, can’t feel you, can’t feel the room

 

I feel on the verge of emotional hypothermia

as you attempt to return the gesture,

knowing in advance it’s not going to lead

anywhere, pushing your hand away,

then rushing to wash you off of me

as if you were tainted blood

 

I return with a smile & a kiss,

before surrendering to the emptiness,

& the blackness;

the sad twitch of burning souls

among cindery neural synapses.

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Grim Pickings

To whom it may concern; blah, blah, yadda, yadda. I am writing in regards to your posting for the position of patient transfers here at the local hospital, by which I am aware I am to move critically ill patients, equipment and corpses to their assigned places throughout the hospital, such as the intensive care unit and the morgue. I feel I am qualified for this position because: each dawn I am reminded of my intense internal wound, and I long for the day when they take me away to the morgue.

I hope you will consider me in this position as I feel I have much experience as a critically unwell, soon to be corpse, who belongs to the existential ennui under which we shall all one day be buried. I am aware there is only the gaping earth which hungers for our flesh, and the wolfish winds who cry for our ashes. To this I say, let them howl and growl, and allow me to be their attendant!

Regards.

Your qualified reaper(ess).

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Winter Bouquets

 

Where goes the freshness

of a miracle once flowering?

From the talon of a bird gets pried,

the heirlooms of those times

we tried to plant our own happiness

 

In the earth’s cold chest of promises

the Perseid of our hope lies fading;

all those tears we cried

are saline to dehydrated days,

resurrected as dead bouquets.

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Tepee In The Sky

Day 3 for the tenant who lives above me,
It turns out her crying was intermingled with retching,
it sounded like someone forcing herself to vomit,
now I have a bulimic neighbor,
or possibly an anorexic,
who cries over her inabilty
to make life perfect.

I am reminded of a quote from the “Little Prince;”
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly,
what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

I bring nothing, and consider pitching a tent made from animal hide,
into the roaring rush of this sad and empty wilderness.

My heart is throttled with loneliness
the kind of lonely that leads to an endless absence,
it seems no person in the world will do,
except you.

I cut my wrists and paint a bloody buffalo along the tepee walls,
hoping someone out there will find these scrawls,
and understand the symbolism.

There comes a day when you have to decide,
whether to survive or stay true to your tribe.

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Demise

 

If we had a baby it would be stillborn,
laying cold where the sheets were warm.
If it survived, it would have come out                                                                                      cursing instead of crying,
furious at its own existence,
it never would have lived to see the light.

If it thrived, it would have comitted suicide,
we would melt in its cute smile,
pondering who it most resembled at the
hour of its demise.
It would have returned to the salient darkness
of our loveless loins.

I would have saved a picture
of that timeless grin,
and kept it in my wallet,
to show to the other procreators,
and when they asked me how old it was,
I’d say it no longer existed,
that it had tried once to be happy,
but nothing ever made it smile aside
from that day of deliverance.

That incredible day of demise,
when the moon shone bright in the skies,
cumming all over the darkness,
like a broken sac of shooting stars.

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Egypt

Keep the rose and give me your thorns she said,
I have no need for the red of those pretty petals,
my own blood will suffice,
and as the pyramid grew tall with betrayal,
all the love she sacrificed,
flowed over and flooded them under
deeper than the Nile in Egypt.

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The Dreamers

Bear’s blood spills over the trees, staining the leaves with a variance of rustic colours. It takes the bravery of the bear to sacrifice his energy and intensity towards the shifting of the seasons, just as it takes immense courage for the human soul to adapt to the altered world of shapeshifters and dreams, most of us choose to stay asleep, rather than allow the vision of the sun father to enlighten us. Those who sleep walk the narrow path which continually leads back from start to end, while those who awaken, journey around the circle gathering wisdom from the branches, from the stones, and from the animal kin who speak with the song of the wild within. Those with courage learn this language, for those with courage have the deep wisdom of the wind, and are able to taste the minerals of her movement. The path of the dreamers is one which allows us to listen as the sleepers merely hear, to see as the sleepers merely look, and to soar as the sleepers merely walk.

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Violets

She described his eyes like drenched violets.
From where did she gather her inspiration?
When she woke in the morning, what motivated her?
I sometimes wish I’d been born in that era.
I sometimes wish I could live in this one.
Instead I am most alive in pleasurable sensations.
or painful ones, the absence of sensations
leaves one feeling numb.

The current way of life
has more bars around it than in her century,
and yet she needed to escape it
less than six decades in, but was she escaping
the time, or was time escaping her?

Her thoughts were not meant for the
common reader, and today the mainstream
flow of ideas is so common and lacking in that
passion which flowed so freely from her clenched fist,
as she gripped the quill in a mad flight
of passion, and let the words fly from her
purpled hands like a flock of birds set free.

She wrote outside her century,
to such a degree that she still exists
in this one, more alive
and relevent than if she had
still breathed.

She described his eyes like drenched violets,
and I can see him walking elegantly
up the path leading from the garden,
a fist full of freshly picked chrysanthemums
and a sprig of delphiniums sticking out
from his ear, like a blue fish,
swimming in the wind
from under the brim of his decourous hat.

Imagine that, she wrote of a woman
and described her like a man.
Together they walked the dogs across
the English countryside, and found
a quiet spot on the grassy hill,
a shaded corner from which they could seek refuge
from the intensity of the sun,
a place where they could allow their affections to flow freely
while engaging in unrepressed laughter.

One was forty the other a decade younger,
but in those simple moments,
the chasm of age and time,
that which leaves the crease of bitterness and
betrayal, of broken promises made to onself,
to float off like the ashes of a cigarette,
when one inhales the potential
of the mind, beyond the limits of the body
and the restrictions of the hours.

Here in this world, the schedules suffocate,
as much as they may motivate,
more so do they tend to
annhiliate one’s vision.

Yet there they sat in careless laughter,
staring off into the wide open
countryside,
whose only concern
was to mind the seasons,
mind the sun,
the waves of simplicity
and beauty,
whilst marvelling at the
way one’s eyes could resemble flowers
glistening in the morning dew.

lg_6b9620-vita-sackville-west-virginia-woolf

Virginia Woolf & Vita Sackville-West

 

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Blindness

You lose yourself
when you cannot
remember
the love
reasons,

when you
sense
the gaze
of sad
shadows
retreating
from
fiery
nerve endings,

when the sky is stolen
by a blood vessel’s
sudden swell,

when you realize
we are in hell,
but the blindness
is deceiving.

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Beast of Burden

No one should know it
I have this dog
She stays close by my side
No one should see her
She is invisible to others
In the morning I feed her
and in return she
feeds me affection
In the night she whimpers,
I let her out
She wakes me from dreams
this little dog called pain,
reminds me of that day
when you cried with me
because no one
ever could be good enough,
because we were cursed
to suffer this lonely
hurt in silence
and invisibly
until it became
untame.
until it bit like a wolf
at our hearts,
eating away
our affection.
until it mangled
our connection.
Sweet little bitch of pain,
murderous little beast of burden.

Written November 9, 2017

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Cathedrals

You hold me through the night,
Your arms are branches reaching
out for the wilderness of my body.
I taste the secret of time in your eyes.
She whispers from the river and
cries down the rails in sparks of fire
caught by the ice crystal currents.

I cannot fathom where we began,
I cannot envision an end.
I see sculptured cathedrals
cut across the cold crystal,
which can never be penetrated.

You enter me so fiercely
it makes the stars shatter
into glass fragments of
light, which bleed
through the night.

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The Passenger

I’m a passenger on a train with no destination, stopping at every station.
When I arrive, I hope for a reason not to depart. The nature of my travels keeps me roaring with loneliness down the rails. I pass by homes late at night, whose lights are in need of repair. I stare through windows into the lives of others, people with lovers, fathers and mothers who care. When I arrive, you’re not there. The steel grinding halt of this heart causes sparks in the dark.

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Laughter is a Lie

In the silence of words unheard and the world of the unseen, that’s where I held you, in between awaking and a dream, it’s where I hold you still when the world falls away. I’ll always hold you here, even if it’s only a memory.. without you beside me, dreams lose their stars, wishes all die in the frozen sky, laughter is a lie.

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Analysis of a Kiss

Science has gotten funny… today they did a new study on the analysis of kisses and what they mean. It’s the way the eyes are fixated and the way the world is moving out of reach from the lips, the way the planets pull down from the cosmos, altering our sense of time. That’s the way you kissed me, but what did it mean? It meant you could orbit earth or teleport to another realm, it meant that we were inhabiting the same star, and it didn’t matter how far, I’d still imagine the perfect kiss, even if we hadn’t shared it, because time becomes vastly altered just by the desire for our mouths to meet in speechless brilliance. This was a taste of what was to come between us, it was delicious and I wanted to savour it in silence, and to laugh at science, because they could conduct a million different studies, and never make sense of the intent of my tongue, or it’s warm, wet dance inside you, shameless in it’s fluency, and eager to create a new universe.

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Among The Poppies

I will sleep with you though you are the enemy, in an alley in a vacated city full of people who are intent on doing, with no patience for being. I will walk along the shores on an island where the blood of the one who began me first pulsed with the waves of the ocean. I will ponder on how you died there across the water from where she first breathed, and imagine the stars as they carry me in my loneliness. I will ask you to hold me, though my body will revolt against your arms, whose tracks could carry trains from hades to heaven and back down to earth again. I will cough and bleed pink love from green skin. I will eclipse foreign lines, foreign voices, who scream out with joy, pleasure, desire, passion, fear, anger, and ecstasy. I will take these foreigners into me, through the main line, and try not to waste a drop of it, try not to let it seep out of me when the dawn comes like a mournful mother, which no amount of obedience could calm and no amount of goodness could cure. I will die there for you and be born for her, I will live for myself out there among the poppies, where no amount of flowers could ever atone for the agony.

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Starry Night

When you were a child, you were laughing in the garden.. you carried this incessant joy to your mother, only to be met with a blank & empty gaze, this is when your heart broke, and from that day you went searching for that smile in others, but it always fades, and when it fades, your sense of devastation is incomprehensible, you feel this soul scorn, so you leave your love alone in the garden with a blank and empty gaze. You see this world as a cold & empty place, and you think all the ones you meet must hide this secret hostility, but in truth, it is a projection of your own inner rage, the sort that has you seeing forbidden images of death, these destructive visions, which seem to arise out of nowhere and leave you with the thought that if others could read your mind, they would run away from you. On the surface you carry this smile, but within you a murder takes place, it is your true self dying, the one who died as a child, while searching for the light through the darkness, a small glimmer of hope out there in the night sky, a starry night in the eyes of the universe.

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Narcissi & Echo

Staring in the water, I find a flower, white petals surrounding a yellow bud, this is the immortal flower of my Narcissus, the adored one who died of starvation while transfixed by his own reflection . He has been resurrected as a gentle flower and his beauty floods the forest. My hand reaches out with longing, but the voice of an ancient sage echoes back, “if you love a flower do not pick it up, because if you pick it up it dies and ceases to be what you love, love is not about possession, it’s about appreciation.” All my life I longed for you to hear me, my voice could not exist without your words, when I approached the pond, my heart fell into it’s murky depths, sank to the bottom and remains there now, unable to love without your deep voice echoing back to me. Now you return as this beautiful flower Narcissi, existing only in silence. So shall I become mute and dumbfounded by your brilliance. Your thoughts will be but a whisper on the wind, haunting my dreams for eternity.

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Narcissus & Echo

The sobs of Narcissus are buried in my chest like an endless blackness, the dark shadow which he never can capture as he lays enraptured by his gaze. I feel his heart on my heart as his flawless body rests on top of me, spent from the endless pursuit of penetration. He enters me, yet nothing ever enters him, in that sense he remains virginal, searching the lonely sea within me for his own reflection. His perfection is like an unbreakable glass mirror, where I remain shattered. I don’t want him to see how much I need him, how deeply enamoured I am by his every movement, and equally by his stillness when his eyes gaze off in the distance, unable to focus on any one person for too long. He blinks and the butterflies flutter. He cannot tell a single truth, for he knows not his true self, a God-like being annihilated in infancy. I want him to know that I will not leave him, even after he abandons me. I want him to find his true vision like an infinite mark of hope tattooed on his soul. I want him to know he is more than this body which forsakes him in his time of need, oh Narcissus, hear my eternal echo, see how I keep myself afloat when you drown in the massive ocean of these other worldly expectations. Can’t you see my ability to die and resurrect myself in spite of your fatal envy? You will hate inexplicably of this I am certain, and yet your hate is only an illusion of your real identity, which got lost in it’s own reflection, and never given the chance at self- expression, never given wings to fly, the unhatched egg of potential, which burns with all the force and passion of an atomic bomb. I drown myself. I do this daily, every time your voice becomes more distant, and yet I resurface again alone in the silence where our world’s lie forever separated.

21192427_10155764459172664_171303452211299534_n.jpg

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Trying to Fly

Life is a detestable mess, where you are forced to dress, show up and give what’s left of your best, what the world has not yet taken, what has not yet been forsaken in the name of all this false freedom, and they fuck you for trying to fly.

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Things More Grand Than Money

When they think they can just say sorry and make up for centuries of red hands then someone has to take a stand so sorry man,, sorry for the ones who are not here today to have their say, it is we who remain who must be the voice for their pain and triumph, fuck Trump and Mein Kampf, and all the years of human oppression, fuck the recession and the epidemic levels of depression leading to no other way out. When you tie your tie and button your collar higher, don’t forget there’s still a raging fire, a towering inferno too high to survive the jump from. You take pride in your flags because it shows another conquered nation defeated, but don’t get too conceited and forget the air on which your own blood relies, it comes from the trees and skies, H20 is more royal than any CEO or sovereignty and don’t forget spirituality and having the responsibility that comes with all that power, or the right to silence when those who are met with violence have no choice but to raise their voices in protest, and hail the civil disobedience, and civil unrest of the slaves of your great nation of corporations, but don’t doubt we won’t take a stand as a people against your plan, because there are things more grand than money on this land worth dying for.

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Where Can We Go To Mend?

When the fireworks sound like bombs dropping on this land and the shouts are like the screaming of our red skinned brethren being torn away from home, when 13,000 years get swept under the red and white carpet, we are banging on drums and linking up arms to say don’t forget we were here and we still exist. You can’t bandage these ancestral wounds. What you are doing to the others that came here from afar, we still carry that scar. They all have a place to seek refuge in our home and Native land, but where can we go to mend?

Who will protect us from our government? It’s a true testament of the Aboriginal spirit that this heart knows it’s own truth no matter how deep you try to bury it.

 

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Canada, Canadian, Cree, First Nations, Freedom, Genocide, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Ojibwe, Pipe Lines, Poem, poetry, Political, Rape, Spirit, Suicide, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, writing

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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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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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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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.jpg

 

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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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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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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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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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