Category Archives: Uncategorized

Uncontained

Standing in the garden, near the station, overlooking the devastation.
Standing on the ledge, hands held out in frustration. All the while, this icy smile. Charm me like an Asian snake. I sleep and I wake, and you’re still there beside me. Your arms wrap around my bruised butterfly body. This strange mix of dread and curiosity permeates me. I am galloping like a deer into the distance, carrying a forest in my heart, burning like wildfire inside me. I cannot be contained. The universe breaks into meteor showers. I cannot feel the flames. You rise up from the bed and run outside in search of stars, leaving a dark sky in my heart. I feel your absence every time I stare through new eyes. I feel this flood of broken hope surging inside, murdering my desire. I do not want this shattered fate which two star-crossed lovers create. Every ounce of joy comes with a gallon of sorrow, I break bottles on tomorrow and drink away yesterday.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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Forged from Flames

You came along and emptied me,
empty as the cradle of an expectant mother, whose newborn child lies stillborn in the garden.
I still don’t know why I dreamt you, I only know you were just a dream. You bloom up from the dirt of my soul causing me to choke on this fatal karma. I convulse with agony in our bed, deep in my head I am setting fire to all that you once touched, my body becomes a diamond forged from the flames, you fasten this gem around the finger of a stranger, proposing an eternity of undying love. I awake in the night, mad hot with laughter, knowing you will love as easy as air adds power to the flames. I laugh until the sun gives way to winter, clutching my chest where the throb of ignorance once lived. Now it’s in with the Northern winds, whose cold embrace brings grace. I am the perpetual river, whose surface conceals the corpse of cruel currents.

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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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The Cost of Free

That day they were giving out free hugs, you arrived at the station; both arms like bricks of ice in the cold winter air dangling by your side. When you didn’t accept the affection of the others, I knew you felt yourself unworthy, the same reason you rejected food, love, sex, and all the things that make life what it is, because no matter how others hold it dear, you only want to disappear. Without another to lift you up, you will fade into the obscurity of all those infinite arms never feeling accepted, all those reaching arms rejected from holding you.

 

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

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

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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Filed under Dedication, Love, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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Smiles like Sunscreen

So what if we did away with persona?

What if we shed our lambskin for wolfish fur, and a set

of fangs, bearing sharp our desire for blood, deep meaty flesh,

bones, calcium, and enamel?

What if she said “I want you on my mantle,”

a porcelain doll, where you sit collecting dust,

until she decides to brush you off and make you useful?

What if every day she stared in your eyes, and replaced those

sweet lies with a bitter, unpalatable truth?

 

What if she was cold and uncouth and her words caused

you to shatter, but she just stood in laughter,

mocking your eye as it rolled across the parquet floor,

and when she was done breaking you into pieces,

she put you back together again, buttoned you up,

told you to mind you don’t catch a cold,

kissed you warmly on the cheek, and then stopped speaking

to you again.

 

In her you might see the softened blush of redolence,

moments of passion, intermingled with tenderness,

only to end in incomprehensible violence.

But, what if, by meeting we didn’t mind the first impression,

and the pink clouds of infatuation were replaced by grey,

ominous nebula?

What if she said, “I take an enema because I am so

tense and backed up, that my body refuses to expel

it’s own toxic waste?”

What if she said, ‘I can’t let go, I never climax, because

I need to stay in control?”

What if she told you “don’t speak,

don’t move, don’t touch anything, stay very still, like unseen

particles, because I need for you to cease existing at the hour

when my anxiety is most high, which is at night, when

I think I might die?”

 

If she sat with you over coffee and told you of every

thing imperfect about her, of all her shortcomings,

and solidified reasons for being alone,

then what if she took you home,

and you knew that she wouldn’t touch you,

wouldn’t want you near her, couldn’t bear

the sound of your breath beside her in the bed,

what if she told you these things instead of

pretending to be kind, sweet, compassionate,

the one?

 

What if the sun came with a warning label?

“Might cause cancer, but may also cause flowers to bloom.”

Would we still want to wake up to the daylight?

But we would and we do, we slather ourselves

in u.v protecting cream and admire the beams

as they cut across our field of dreams,

because truth is, we’d rather have flowers

than tumours, so we ignore the signs,

failing kidneys, inability to breathe,

inability to grieve, due to the painted on smiles

we wear like sunscreen.

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Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.

 

Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.

 

She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.

 

Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.

 

You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.

 

Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,

together,

swaying under the stars.

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Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Rigor mortis

It’s funny when he sees me, he thinks I need saving, because he sees only the most tortured parts under the microscope, “sorry you hear voices, I hear them too, the voice is audible, sounds like something sinister, perhaps you might think of praying,” is what his slowly sinking gaze speaks inaudibly, and when the doctor asks, “has anyone here ever seen a cadaver?” Not one of the nursing students answers, and he, the only man with a credible soul utters, “yes,” all eyes are on him, all the freshly pricked virgin ears, point in cochlear attention. yada, yada, “I once knew a man who was a professor, who had access to a morgue,” the topic is rigor mortis, stiff corpses, as I sip my morning coffee, and take a bite out of my raisin tea biscuit, alone in the back of the classroom, because I came late, and knee boy took my seat. I mutter under soft tones as all in the class attempt to lift the heavy air with their superficial speak, and the doctor looks at me, walks closer, asks me to repeat my words, but no one is listening, or so I think, when I say, “a baby, I saw a dead baby,” -“oh what did it look like?”-” It was limp, it’s arms and legs dangled.” He walks away speechless, then the boy who dreams of blowing Adam in eden, whilst on his knees, writhing w/ a painful patella, turns my way, holds his gaze, and repeats that same sunken look of sympathy, as inside I smirk apathetically. No one dares to ask, choosing instead to stay silent, yet I hear their thoughts float through the air like disembodied voices, voices without flesh, stiff voices with rigor mortis tongues. If they’d have asked, I’d have told them, I felt nothing. I felt nothing, I saw flesh, in the places where her infancy bled through purple epidermis, and without asking, I knew why, why the paramedics kept her for over an hour in the ambulance, when she had already succumbed to  “primary flaccidity” to save a young mother from the eminent shock that she was soon to feel, as PTSD leaked through her veins, like ink from squid, a thousand miles below sea level, where no voice could ever be heard.

There once was a cross-bridge, where thirty myosin heads could be seen bobbing on the surface of the river below, instead of help, they were screaming, “ATP, ATP, glycogen depleted.” There has been a deterioration of the sarcoplasmic reticulum.

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Impermanence

Before the glass shattered, it was already broken they say, true to the Zen principle of impermanence. I think of the day I first emerged from the taxi, taking your glass hand in mine, feeling the fragility of every molecule of crystal flowing in the summer light between our glass bodies as we held eachother. I recall the glass city, yet to be explored, shimmering with the beauty of ancient temples, mineral by mineral. I pay glass money to the mosaic man, whose eyes reflect in green visions from a childhood, still seen, on the surface of sand, surrounding the Pacific Ocean, where I shattered into sunlight, collecting broken bottles, which the water shaped to resemble lost gems of treasure. Where has that child gone, her body a mere memory held in cracked neurons, sustained there between the darkness and the stars? I am that bottle, I am that eye, fixated in green brilliance, over the radiance of these shattered encounters, from zygote grin to wrinkled skin. That day on the street, when the glass savior with blot on spoon, dissolving into liquid, injecting through syringe into glass vein through semen, into ovum, the opium of my fluid existence. I hear chimes ring as the wind smashes them against the window, echoing across this wild , wintry country, the songs he sang before my time of fiery emergence. I am that bottle, always accompanying me, in the broken luminescence between light and shadow. I tread carefully amid two contradicting forces, the one with glass breasts and the one with glass phallus, anima and animus, one jagged splinter, ever forging toward the mercurial, toward the mesenchyme of osteoblast and hyaline, ever regenerating new bones, new placenta, new spearhead toward multicellular matrix fold of glass rose, glass wine, glass romance, capable of falling from the balcony where my glassy infatuation lies, already a hazard to the lovers who pass by barefoot and careless tongued. Your countenance glistens, not with the warmth of orbital, but that of ice, incapable of deliquescing. Shatter me a million times, I am already broken, broken like a blister on the lips, where we kiss away the cancerous rays of ultraviolence. Don’t tell me the circle of vibrational circumference is always gravitating further away, because if you say this, we might need to stay, held down by the force of the world, which is forever fated to break.

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Memory’s Marrow

206, and yours were in the lower lumbar, I lie in the slumber of codependency, and when the nurse walks in on me, curled fetally near your rib cage, she assumes I’m your daughter, no use in bothering that it’s 4 a.m., as the old man in room 12b calls for more morphine. Without each other there’s the great depression, you’re the haploid cell in my gene expression, I’m like the repression of two faulty chromosomes along a y-axis, which really means nothing, except that I was the girl who risked death for you. You were the sweetness of tea where the drip of honey diffused viscously between warm thighs. Deeply is how I break in your arms, where they fused steel on epiphyseal lines. I ask God why I’m so easily fractured, and she says it must be love, love like warmth spilling out. They drew lines across your body, where the scalpel wrote poetry from your inability to keep normalcy. Faithfully we love, though the heart could mend or break us. Like natural selection, you ossified and died, as I went on to evolve beyond the collagenous glare of these scars. When the doctor sketched the image of your shattered spine, I thought of majestic butterflies lining the trunk of a tree, as the first harsh breeze of autumn tore them away from each other, and I felt some day, I’ll make my way back and pour my heart out in a cup and you will drink yourself sober, wake up without balding, without the wrinkles dissolving youth, pale skin in the morning, the sputum from toxic lungs, God knows I need a way out of this.

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The Magic of Fire

In a reversal of fortune, the sea fills to the brim with fish, the trees in clear-cut bareness return, the oil sinks back beneath the earth, and the first atomic bomb implodes into itself, into nothing that ever touched this green paradise with toxic eyes of contamination. We stare on with child’s curiosity as fruit grows pure and food is not modified by science. Every man, woman, and child, every animal ever murdered in the name of progress, in the name of difference is reborn. The wires of connection are cut as the hands of communication reach out in truth to touch us. For once we are naked again without greed or malice, without fear or shame, under the brightest sun we shine as one tribe, discovering the magic of fire.

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Freedom

Your arm, thin as a syringe wraps around my ribs,

where the bird within flies,

one hundred times against the cage of me,

against the rage of me,

as emotions like steel bars locked in place

hold it from its freedom.

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Tipota

The careful lover opens the virgin, while outside on a branch, a chrysalis tears apart with the ferocity of dying things, transcending. Somewhere in an overburdened city the people shout; Tipota ! Babies break out of wombs like exchanging prison cells, and we tick yes or no in the box, as if any politician could ever make a difference in this fucked up system, birthed on the genocide of less than civilised people, but if I do my part and comply than it’s me who gets deflowered. It’s me who walked through a field of poppies back towards a time when people understood the importance of plants and had no monetary idea of anything, and it’s as if I took the gun from the soldier and shot my own ancestor in the head. I’d be better of dead than free. And yet the suffragettes scream that this was our fight for freedom, and still others say my voice matters, it counts. Tally it up. I’ll be counting the stars and wishing on dying things, all in the name of nothing.

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The Tame Bird Was In A Cage

THE tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest. They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate. The free bird cries, ‘O my love, let us fly to the wood.’ The caged bird whispers, ‘Come hither, let us both live in the cage.’Says the free bird, ‘Among bars, where is there room to spread one’s wings?”Alas,’ cries the caged bird, ‘I should not know where to sit perched in the sky.’The free bird cries, ‘My darling, sing the songs of the woodlands.’ The caged bird sings, ‘Sit by my side, I’ll teach you the speech of the learned.’ The forest bird cries, ‘No, ah no! songs can never be taught.’ The caged bird says, ‘Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands.’ Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other. They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, ‘Come closer, my love!’ The free bird cries, ‘It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage.’The caged bird whispers, ‘Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.’

image

   Tagore.

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In the hopes of sparing your heart

You say fine, fine fine. Will you judge me or will you love me still, if I become that girl? You say yes. Your voice is an arctic province in the midst of January, pure ice, beyond melting. Fine. It’s settled. I am a star that gets drawn down from the sky, see me dying? You are so frigid beyond breaking, nothing penetrates you, especially not me, not even when I gather debris from other planets and threaten to eradicate the earth of my own being, with you and everything. It’s my voice at high volume hitting a wall of silence. I’m so drawn to those stoic types,  the ones you can’t reach without the violence of a broken self, in the hopes of sparing your heart.

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Another passing thought

Some do it through fucking & procreating others through painting, taking photos & writing; it’s all just  ways of our fading and trying to immortalize ourselves.

The wise ones do it through love.

Love of everything..

Love of nothing.

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Impact

She represses her heart like a tsunami, but you look like a Japanese city long overdue for a flood. Your smile is a cavern cracked at the edge of the sea, which dissolves her completely. When she hurts planets collide and stars die. Betray her and she will feel the world subside. You could be a universe in her sky and then barely the blink of an eye. The earth falls in on itself, leaving an empty abyss. She keeps a distance so as not to let the closeness destroy her.

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The Chorus the Sun Sings Aloud

I wish I had your Greek physique, not too strong or weak
I wish I was not this obscene figure standing on the terrace of time.
Love is a crime, in which our punishment exists in loving.
It tore me away from you; the brilliant sky dissolved of all light, in the lonely night,
the shadowed desperado of my heart, the girl whose sorrow haunts me in the dark, assaults me with a vengeance of fire. I won’t pretend this is love,
above our garden of marbled desire.

To exacerbate pleasure over pain, we gain a new vision,
white birds through a pink incision, always in motion, migrating, but silent;
want was a violent song held in my throat too long.
A deep need to bleed lyric echoes so atmospheric that the planets near it cannot orbit us,
cannot absorb my hunger for you, (bandaged and wounded,) cannot inhabit your soft world, the scent of a girl out in the wild, dreams plucked from the shores of our childhood. Treasure in the hands of a woman who wants to be touched, is it too much to ask for the same rush of wonder fluttering down your spine, like fruit on a vine swallowed by the mouth of the sea that I crave so constantly?

There is no island grand enough to contain the light that engulfs her body, she is the white dove, the flock of your hand stroking a stranded cloud,
the chorus the sun sings aloud.

 

Image

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Exposure

Her laudanum lips leave me numb,
my lovely skeleton.

Dreams prophetic, antithetic, anasthetic rhythm.

morning flies through the window of her room, tormented and assaulting.

The jealous moon erupts in the sky
unwilling to live or die.

Love is an endless fury without closure, a constant exposure
to the dark room in our hearts.

image

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Notion

If thought were like warmth escaping my cup, it would float up into the mountains and engulf the city in a poisonous cloud, corrosive If I spoke aloud, it would pour down and stain the streets like a wounded animal needing attention. I won’t mention the stillbirth between us. The way the night bleeds over these clean sheets, the way we are haunted by the words we don’t speak, or how we are traumatized when we say the things we mean. I must be Orion burning bright, or a new star categorized under an ancient constellation that some strong
Greek sacrificed their life for.

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Drowned in beauty

Somehow I knew that if I crossed the impasse another gulf would await. The girl by my side brings wildfires which burn ancient temples to ash. I dig through centuries of dirt and bone to find myself alone, even in the deepest of loves. The moon bathes the sky in such a way that the darkness is alleviated and we are able to love something more alive than us .On cliffs of fatal beauty you bruised me with your calmness. This is how the sea reaches inside our pulse. I remember your stillness in contrast with the waves, and how each day a new masterpiece was painted outside the window. I could stare with longing on that endless view until my heart stopped beating. I want to swim back to that place of turquoise wonder and drown. This is how the night spills in, this is how your beauty dissolves me.

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Light passing through us

A shell cracked open, a tongue circling a pearl, in all this motion, the tide rushes in and swallows my body deep; I dream of being plucked from the ocean, dug up from the shore and slowly eaten alive by the girl with green eyes and velvet lips, to glisten on her fingertips, to be wave- struck with desire as stars shoot through our blood like fire, I want to taste the sunbeams flaring in her body, pick petals from her garden and dream myself awake. We carry our prisons inside us like caged birds, they beat against the windows until they bleed, until this house of sorrow can no longer be contained until it rains itself dry and we can no longer cry in pleasure or in pain.

image

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La mort des étoiles

A window opens to a time and place where I loved you,
or what I thought was love; the etched out vertical reminders,
the thin line between steel and pulse.

We walked along the river, on the edge of a forest, I recall the buzz of power lines, foreign voices, breaking up across the distance.

Remember the star that shot across the sky? Maybe it was my imagination,
then you cried in a way that was inconsolable,
and you destroyed the religious icon your grandmother gave you, which you carried in your pocket for luck, and that is when I felt we were broken, you were broken, love between us was irreparable.

I thought of the photograph of you as an innocent child, which you tore to pieces, claiming unworthiness. I flew back to you years later when you had done the impossible, erased me from your heart..

and I cried inconsolably.

I stood outside the shelter, praying to be salvaged from the pain,
I saw flashes of death, perhaps an irreversible plunge in the St. Lawrence, perhaps a current that would carry me back to wherever it was I came from before we met, but instead we parted as we had before, with an embrace- a little cold, a little distant, a little less meaningful than what it used to be.

You spoke to me on the phone before I returned home, saying you wished you had held me, you wanted to hold me, and I thought the same, I thought how is it you gain such courage only to lose heart?

And then someone else became your raison d’être, someone who could let you in fearlessly, and love you more gently than I was ever
able to.

You said you feared I would end up alone, you were right in a sense,
I have, I’m still that crazy girl flying in planes across oceans, searching for something unnameable, something translatable which holds the power to create me and destroy me all the same..

I was not ready to offer what love requires to
blossom, what I held was something withering, something which was far more cruel than I deserved, but what I thought I was worthy of-fleurs du mal

You would have done anything, become a vagabond for me, and I choked the possibility of us, deprived it of oxygen to breathe,
tried in my own way to be free of everything, and now
I am haunted by it, it was a lifetime ago, so brief and intense,
like that star, but I believed in it.

Somewhere an ocean holds the dreams we gave up on, the ones which never came true, they flow on inconsolably,
over lakes, streams, valleys and rocks, until they land on the edge of a forest, where our former selves sit and contemplate their demise.

We marvel at the sadness of the moon, though isn’t the death of the stars more tragic?

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