Category Archives: Uncategorized

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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Filed under Flowers, Freedom, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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.

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Filed under Identity, Illusion, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Mortality, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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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

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

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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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

The Other Her

You worship statues:
weak
flaccid
men
who
masturbate
to Jesus,
whose towers fail
to keep erect
when Muslim fires threaten.

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10mgs of joy

The Prozac nation
stopped at Grand Central Station
and rode the main line to oblivion.
No one saw the rust on the tip
of the syringe
from a generation which burned
through the veins
like wildfire
in search of its own happiness.

 

 

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I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

The Call To Serve

Eccentric hoarder in dilapidated mansion

RN,

gives me advice on survival.

Says I stand at a new plateau,

in her time what was known as controversial

was abortion.

In my time, assisted suicide.

holds up her hands in the shape of a triangle,

epic symbol,

for the fundamentals

encapsulating our scope of practice,

like an exoskeletal prism.

You think naively thus?

No.

The doctor only writes the

script,

the nurse follows it.

Thus, the needle,

through the administered I.V,

of a prescribed O.D.

 

Sudden flashback, lacking LSD,

I see myself in recovery,

my first gold pendant, symbolizing one year

of sobriety, with the ever familiar

polygon, encased in a circle

representing wholeness,

teaching us to give back in service,

but my question has always been

this:

who am I serving?

In this case the vulture

in the syringe.

As I turn to leave, she looks

me firmly in the eye,

through the blur

of her cataract,

says she admires my calmness,

something she never had,

instead she screeched her way out of

service.

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Filed under Nursing, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

In vivo veritas

[In vitro:]

Crystal violet sky where the sun sometimes rises,

shining light on these molecular emotions,

magnified objectively in a laboratory.

[In vivo:]

The microscope shatters,

obliterating field of view,

blurring my subjective vision of you.

In life, there is truth,

in glass, distortion.

In wine,

both.

Drink the sky, shatter the glass,

stare opaquely

into

these negative particles,

dissolving

in Methylene blue;

these warm drops

of humoral immunity

& emotional sterility

fall blankly,

 

singeing the stitches,

which hold the

child together

inside me,

a severed

suture,

bleeding

into the future.

 

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Confession

I got the results of my x-ray back today,

there are roses growing in me,

and it seems they can never die,

they found butterflies on the thorns

where they made cocoons,

only our lovemaking can heal these wounds.

[~C]

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There are roses growing in you;

I will always remember that August morning when you told me that there were roses growing in you.

Since that day, when they need light, I give them the sparkle of my eyes transformed into sunlight.

When they are thirsty, I empty my body of blood and I become their dew.

When they feel lonely, I serenade them under the full moon

When they are hungry, I offer them my tenderness,

and I cut my arms so they can keep my caresses.

Today, I have a secret to reveal to you; there are roses growing in me too.

Only my roses can live in your garden and yours are always welcome in mine,

but never offer roses to a stranger and never accept roses from someone else’s garden,

because the pain in my soul will provoke thorns to tear my skin off

and a rain of petals will cover my empty & naked body

that lies lost on a pyramid of thorns amid a sea of blood.

[~M]

Written by Crystal Kinistino & Mada Rose

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Bondage, Confessional, Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Hemlock (Truth#1)

I found in you, ephemeral but indelible, this bruise
purple as a twilight sky before the thunder,
where black around the eyes, as charcoal,
accompanying a crimson smear,
your cheek was stained by the memory of my presence.

Each day I arrived to see you sleeping,
bandaged, scarred, and profane, the words
never came, the sentences were anesthetized.

Your disdain grew like a tumour.
Inside needless cells,
carrying comets towards
hell.

The first truth was as bitter
as hemlock in the trial of Socrates.

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Endless Maze

Knowing you is continuing to do pirouettes with two broken legs without feeling the pain and even after the music has stopped; it’s flying in circles with no purpose, with the fall leaves and not feeling nauseous, lost or dizzy; it’s starting a new painting every day, using the same colors, drawing your portrait for the millionth time and still being amazed by this original work of art.

Loving you makes me feel like an innocent, pure, dreaming child, like a cherry blossom bud that already spreads such a deep and unique perfume, like a newborn butterfly that uses its last strength and broken wings to knock on heaven’s door.

You said to me that being with me is like walking through an endless maze every day. I will reply to you that discovering you is like traveling from the sky to earth disguised as a snowflake, falling slowly without being afraid to melt because if I melt you will melt with me and we will be just one, one happy little drop full of desire, peace and love, forever frozen on the stairs of paradise.

written by my love, Mada Rose

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Butterfly 

​How another soul slips out from the cocoon, and blooms into a fleshy body of brilliance. We know the butterfly won’t linger always, perhaps this is what makes her beauty so sweet, is that she comes in full glory, with variance of colour and softness, sweetness and ecstacy, beyond what any constellation can inspire. You have waited a lifetime to touch her, and then she flutters away as suddenly as she arrived, leaving with you a feeling of completeness, fullness which satiates what seemed to be an eternity of hunger.You think she must have always been there in a state of metamorphosis, waiting for you to catch her, and you sigh a deep sigh of relief, which feels akin to flying.The ache inside you where she lives, where she grew into what she is.

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the ghosts of the one’s who were wanted

You see all the things I am, see this radiant image glowing, I want to burn my wings slowly in the sun, become earthbound, trip over a stone and fall in the water, cut myself on my own reflection, I want these silver scars, don’t want to tell you how the shine of them, carried me through the darkest moments, but you came to me in a dream, so it seems we were fated to believe the unimaginable. You don’t want to see me sad, like it’s your new occupation to make me smile. You say I should sleep, should eat well, should care about myself. I feel I want to, I know these are words of kindness, not like before, not leashes, or latches fastened. If ever I wanted a leash, it would be a way to the moon again, before I burned out the belief of so many good days, days when the potential was in me. I would take it, take that gasoline, take back the pleural inhalation. Evoke a strength, envision a way to unlatch the fingers which interlocked, the one’s that made time stop. The smash of a glass, the way human’s hands can become as savage as beasts, tiger claws, and poison eyes, snake venom love, the kind that dissolves you, and leaves you paralyzed. I have smoked the biggest crystal, lit it up, watched the ghosts of the one’s who were wanted, hurting to be touched, unable to even sense it.

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the way the sun betrays

5a.m broken inner clock, the way time stops you dead in the night, and feeds you the light of the morning, but it’s a force feeding session, and in your deepest depression, you lost your appetite. Hurting yourself was a way to control the pain. I understand that. I did that too. It’s like being immortal, only to be told you will die. You think it’s a lie, they all must lie. When the one’s who were meant to protect you have all hurt you, you lose the desire to be protected. Someone comes along and says they love you as much as a flower in fall, that forgot that summer ended, that kept growing in spite of the cold. They tell you they will always protect you, and you think of the way chlorophyll fades, the way the sun betrays.

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Everest

I need to hold you, need to be held, then you empty out like a dark cloud, and the sky is always falling on our dreams. It’s falling on our dreams, as it bleeds into the streets, crowds with surgical vision, cut an incision between us. I can’t feel anything, must be the anesthetic, maybe I am pathetic for wanting, for needing anything, but it isn’t that, it’s the way your arm is held back in the past, by someone who fed your need to be conquered. Now you’re like Everest, climbed and forgotten, a peak, a climax, that lasts only in photographs, long ago burned.

This poem should have ended where it began…

“I need to hold you.”

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the ticket soulward

Blackbirds line the plexiglass of the perimeter down Attikus, a bounding pulse, riding through my chest, like an untamed mare, striving for ventricular leap; the streets lie empty as a wrist at the end of a long kiss, and leave me like this και πάλι ένα μαύρο πουλί, landing in the black night, among the cypress trees, calling, swooping, downward, toward the slopes of green, leading to Kiffisia, where the splendor of radiant seasons, throbs like a thousand hearts under one temple, ready to open, ready to thrust away the grey of winter, replace with this, your soft hand, virgin of labor, likened to the flush of sunset that covers the sky in a shy smile, forges the earth to be still, while the cataclysm in my body, swallowed by the Aegean, washes up through the years in the water garden, where her gaze, the gaze of heaven, her lips, forming constellations, which surpass the beauty of a thousand stars when she smiles, her eyes, a deep reflection which sees beyond my waking vision, path of petals, sweet and vernal, where she counts in anxious expectation the moment of our merging, merging beyond blood, beyond time, where trains pass like veins, towards the heart of eternity, you did not board, you did not purchase the ticket soulward, and I thank you for this, in a murmured Latin tongue, which you reject like love.

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The burned out house we inhabit

In the vacant house,

charred wainscot

a flash of memory

captured as a photograph,

where I come to greet her in the foyer,

she keeps that smile,

until my hand reaches to caress,

her face as wax melts,

her smile drips

over the windowpane,

forming stalagmites,

blistered fingers, burned out heart,

her hand emerges from the

ashes,

“holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.”

in absence of identity,

personal keepsakes,

years of collecting ourselves,

kept in boxes, or

displayed on shelves,

soot where our souls once burned

with the vigor of starlight,

caught between rocks,

we push together,

one breath, hot enough to burn

the braid of us,

the knot tied from

infancy to

senility,

somewhere, on the chart

of our development,

we failed our goals;

trust was replaced with mistrust,

autonomy with doubt,

identity with confusion,

intimacy with isolation,

and productivity with stagnation.

We were left with these bodies,

whose faces are as familiar as strangers,

jagged teeth, fading ivory,

loss of skin’s elasticity,

hollowed eyes,

lacking glimmer & glitter,

we decorate our souls,

when we can no longer attend the

celebration of who we are,

but as we fade far,

know that the soul never forgets

it’s purpose,

we came born with a song

and a reason to sing it,

who among us can content herself

with a furled feather,

clutching a long sleep,

if we never care to dream

or awaken?

My wishes blown out,

one final sparkler

lights up the dark room

like a fiery organ,

I multiply each breath,

resuscitating this smothered heart.

Little girls again, we run together,

past rolling brooks, leading to

the water’s edge,

here we walk back,

retracing ashen steps,

I pour lava into the places

where we failed to grow,

forming from ebony pitch,

a shiny onyx tear,

we walk the path of tears,

and reach the ocean

of our separation,

in hope of growth,

tossing these in the salt water

and brine of

rejected kisses,

cold arms,

stern faces,

meter sticks,

belts,

brutality,

and

broken hearts,

we come back none the better,

none the wiser,

the same fleck of

green,

same dark sense of loss,

covers the forest in moss.

 

But I love her,

as I love the

earliest memories

I have,

the ones where hope

thrived in small

corners and

tables were set,

by our imagination,

with no real food,

no real sustenance,

nothing to nourish us,

no hydration,

but the one seed

planted,

was enough to

assuage our thirst,

to restore

the air again,

to allow for flight,

and we rose without thought

or fear of falling.

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