Category Archives: Crave

The Enigma

Each day I am becoming,
I am also unbecoming,
becoming who I am,
unbecoming who you want me to be.
The hero in you, is the hero in me,
cut flower bleeding pure.

I am steel gaze of blazing spirit.
I will myself into what I envision.
Puff of opium, syringe of heroin,
this clean body, that never
succumbed to the dragon.

I am wizard woman on mountain,
casting spells to bring you out of
your last heroic nod, poppy seed
in eyes of foreign God.

I will learn the art of resuscitation,
resurrect the fallen, the street man,
who held my photograph in his hand,
wondering what I might become,
the mystery man, with braided hair
and dark skin, the one who never
found his way out of the stem.

My father, the enigma.

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Filed under Addiction, Alone, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Death, Heroin, Loss, Memory, Overdose, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sobriety, Sorrow, Tragedy, Truth, Unwanted, writing

Holocaust

You tie your laces and pull two faces,
one for the stage, one for social graces.
Your black shirt stained by a silver star,
symbolic of the vertical scar on your wrist, flickering in tandem with your pulse, a passing ideation, a vulgar fascination with love, a holocaust, a permafrost of blood coagulating like strangulating sunflowers in a field of hate. You awake again at 4:48, the world disintegrates, nothing stays in place, it all unravels like knotted lace around your jugular, dangling at the end of fascination, the end of circulation. You see a silver star and follow it, it floods the stage, blinding the audience in awe, there’s a long pause followed by a loud applause. You exit with no memory of the tragedy. A beautiful amnesia drowns you in silence, waves of violence wash over your face. The mask falls and shatters, cutting the crowd from view. If looks could kill, there would be a holocaust in my heart for you.

For Sarah.

I had a dream on July 28/15. I was riding in a bus with a strange girl. She had a dog with her. She told me a story of how the dog once bit her. As she recalled her experience  I stared down at her exposed skin, her chest and arms were covered in scars and needle marks. She told me she just let the dog go on biting her because she didn’t have the strength to stop it. I recently read the complete plays of Sarah Kane, which are very horrific, intense and annihilating, but also poetically brilliant and beautiful. There is a play she wrote called 4:48 Psychosis in which the female character spirals into a psychosis that inevitably results in her suicide. Sarah Kane titled the play based upon a time in her life when she was undergoing immense psychological agony. She kept awaking every morning at 4:48 am. Eventually she lost her battle with depression and hung herself in the King’s College Hospital with her shoe laces.
On the night of the dream I was sleeping with her book above my head. Afterwards I awoke and stared at the neon numbers on the clock, 4:48 glowed eerily through the darkness of my room. I shivered with dread and went back to sleep again. My girlfriend in Greece attended the memorial of
Λευτερηs Βογιατζηs , a remarkably sensitive theatre director who adapted her work for the stage in Athens. His memorial was held in the theatre, his coffin was set up on a stage that had sunflowers rising up from it as was written in Kane’s plays. I watched the service via an online newscast. My girlfriend and her mother looked so morose in the crowd. She told me she had a surreal  dream in which she was in a theatre and she saw Sarah Kane. She went to kiss her and Sarah put her hands in front of her to stop her and said “there’s no point , I can’t give you anything, I’m dead!” It’s so haunting  how these coincidences happen. I don’t believe they are anything less than synchronistic fate, a streaming of the psyche into waking life. The title of the poem was inspired by this dream and also by Sarah Kane’s play called Clean, which was written with the concept of love being like a holocaust.

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Filed under Cleansed, Crave, Depression, dreams, Poem, poetry, Suicide

Without You

The whir of the air-conditoner,
the taste of cigarette smoke,
tea, honey, milk,
a warm inner glow, a cool exterior.

The lights from the building
across the way,
myself alone this way.

A book in hand,
opened to a world
that only exists
in my mind,
like you and I,
and our
verbose love.

What about silence
and the body,
with it’s vast vocabulary
of expressions
and meanings
that come as real
and true as this
moment, now
without you?

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Filed under Alone, Coffee & Tea, Crave, Desire, Emotions, Life, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Self, Silence, Solitude, Soul, Technology, Truth

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine

 παρακαλώ,
 παρακαλώ.

You are mine.

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Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow