Reflections on Nursing 

 

You are like me, it’s how you’re supposed to be, so smile and be free says the bird in her, to the cage in me, creaking silver rusted memories. Abduct and adduct arms fast like wings, to fly on out of this place. Your mind is without limit, flapping like a fish on earth inside your body, and as such your spirit laughs in the face of this absolute powerlessness, the absurdity of a weakened system, which fails to reflect the stirrings of a child within, who knows eternal strength, uplifting. Infantile and so, deemed useless, without the ability to prove oneself worthy. Yesterday centennial celebrations, in a society who is not keen on decay. “I’m lonely,” lady of Italy, who spits out the soup in distaste as I spoon feed her lies, in an attempt to comfort her, silence her, in the kitchen, where they gather our incompetence’s, small checks in boxes indicating our failure to thrive. She says she is lonely, this is the pathos of the human plight, and I without ability to heal, provide the most basic of human needs, company, and a spoon, where her hand has failed to hold, and her mouth refuses to open save for spitting obscenities, which amuse me. Hot blooded Italian from the old country. Her family come to visit, and her granddaughter gives me the once over, a power dyke, and me in white, all white, as though I were pure.

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Filed under Aging, Alone, Loneliness, Loss, Malady, Medical, Memory, Mortality, Nursing, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Reversal

Where once dreams,
death of dreams, alongside dreamer
Where once pulse, now erratic rhythm,
Rhythm who wakes me from sleep, to sea of salt from fault
In amygdala.
Where once stars over café in Paris,
now carnage in mind is blacker than the sky
Van Gogh once painted.
I know the tumult of unsteady
sinking ship, incapable of relation.
the heart dissolving where once was song,
the heavy fall of silence and uncertainty.
Catching the sky from rain of pink clouds reversal,
cupped hands empty of all colour, fluidity, and purpose.

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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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Filed under Confessional, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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Telos

My hands are sad, they speak deep between the lonely crease of love and loss. My eyes are empty, close blankly, refuse to see light and dark, my eyes say these lacrimal glands need to empty out, empty out the countless drops that make up the oceans, leading toward this lonely shore, far from what I’ve come to feel familiar, arms around my body, that say, they love me, arms that say they cannot wait to embrace me, do not speak myths, only articulate truths in sinew, flesh without limit, as though at anytime these arms could learn the way of flight, should I need them, to travel outwards past the clasp of the one who orchestrates a symphony of birdsong, loon cries, geese departing cold Northern shores. Say we are the same in our birdness, that the stars shine with the vigour of burning Gods and Goddesses, for the sole sake of making our dreams essential, or imparting hope that burns eternal. The cup says I am empty, it is mine, I know this because my hand communicates the need to fill it, fill my hand with the glass, fill the glass with water, the water craves my mouth, my mouth craves the water, in this craving, we belong together, are essential elements directed to the common goal of fulfilment. I am a filament, a wick of candlestick, fire is my companion, and the heart a dark organ, that chooses this restless passion to burn. My fingers miss being entwined, I need another hand to fit like a piece of missing puzzle, made of bone that wants to grow, instead I am cramped in my own loneliness. Books line shelves, unread, who say they feel neglected, my eyes visit them, briefly, my mouth utters their contents, sentences fall like strands of hair, in tattered snippets, resembling a person, who wears a braid, and plays a tug of war with words, which never say their true meaning. The clock says follow my hands, I am in circadian alignment, a master of flight. Time says he is angry, a father who died before I knew his eyes were mine, a lover who awaited my touch. This interval in itself resents me when I dress, when I rush out the door, in my hurried frenzy. My legs say stay, my hips pull them back into bed, like reins, my eyes close, and I remember to dream, I see you then, dreaming me, dreaming my veins into rhythm, my nerves into a fevered impulse, butterflies dance down my spine, flickering like candles in the dark, a hot breath of recognition lands on on my neck, from behind. Outside in the garden a rose grows thornless, in consideration of your delicate beauty.

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

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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Filed under Cancer, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Repressed, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Sad light box

Look inside, all the sun is contained in this box.

Open the lid, let it out, the song changes for each season, a musical wind up game, turn the handle, slowly unraveling melodies. When this opens, who determines what flies out? Pandora pandora, a bat, a bird, a rose blossoming, a frost flower, a hurricane? They say the mind creates it’s own world, and in the box of these thoughts, I hold the night sky, out among the stars, one firebird rises, the rest of the galaxies cry molten tears of obsidian. I turn the handle and your image rises above me in holographic beauty, you float down above me, your lips touching my lips, your eyes like small flames from candles that the dark can never extinguish.

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Dissolution

Though the ocean may be beautiful, it’s tumultuous, unpredictable.
When you pull from sand, the shell of me, I sense you hear
my heartbeat on sonar blips, from far away ships tracking dolphins,
but as I follow the cry under darkest depths, surfacing is empty,
empty, as a photograph of a woman’s feet on the shore,
taken by another woman,
a sinking feeling, as she walks a path,
where no trace of me exists, the sun is pointless, a burning orb
of agitation.

Sleep is futile for the sterile woman, holding a novel, whose
characters were invented on star dreams, dreams of death.
A few words spoken between strangers can mean more than
a decade of silence between the beloved.

Each stranger represents a new world,
her face is a new dream envisioned;
I tell her love is my religion,
that our discovery of eachother was like
the birth of us, and our meeting
will be the baptism.

The things I don’t speak, are truths caught on a hook,
by a small child, with the sunset rising in her eyes;
that the poet is a thief and a sailor,
that the one you most want to attract,
is the one you toss back.

Toss me back, full-bodied, and I become the siren.
I master the ability to swim, my legs become fins,
I am the mermaid others swear
they have seen, I swim downstream,
far from your dreams,
and arrive at a rock on an island.

Until the tide returns,
I am nothing.
You are the tide,
always rushing through me.
I was never able to stand still,
my feet next to your feet,
an image burned in the mind,
like tree sap tears,
the crystalized lachrymose
on a fiery spoon,
of black
dissolution.

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Morning frost

Tracing prints of you, outlines in snow, the depression of an angel centered under pine tree, the snow art made by your body, hopeful of flying. Red sirens, i.v lines, injection of Demerol, the cup in your hand is my hand, shaking, weak from the hunt of keeping up.

Don’t drink water, don’t hydrate, morning rushes in like pin needles around a limb, poorly vascularized. Ice crystals like small white veins, crawling on the surface of glass, branch out in an arterial tree, dangling dorsally, from your deep roots, where I wait to be received.

abduction adduction, abduction adduction.

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Gunpowder girl

Leaden you are, sulphuric, charcoal- eyed,  mandibula chewing on curiosity, facts & figures. Small child you are, thin arms dangling, doe-struck. Saltpeter, potassium, elements equating to lethal. I am a torso cut out, χωρίς κεφάλι, Winged Victory of Samothrace, red target centered on heart, positioned sagittally.

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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

Stalemate

I don’t understand chess, I never learned it, but I do get that there are Queens and Kings and pawns, and I understand the concept of a stalemate. I think all my past relationships ended that way. “I can’t make any moves, seems like a dead-end here, you copy?” “Over and out I read you, no moves to be made, all possible moves cancelled out.” It’s like being on a two-way radio playing chess. How the hell did this happen? Fuck my life as they say. I’ve never had luck with women and I never had a real desire to learn chess. To me it seems like something old people do, like golf, golf, chess, and ballroom dancing. If I ever get that stale mate, check me off the board. I’d rather not continue, I’d rather find myself at the end with no more moves left to make and a pocket full of memories of how things used to be fun, and I’ll take those and sit in the sun with a drink and a book, and stare at hot young Greek girl’s asses by the beach in Mykonos, no wait that’s something my ex girlfriend did when I was with her in the sun on a Greek island. She told me quite frankly, as we watched a young woman walking on the beach. “she has a nice ass,” and I thought this girl sure doesn’t hold back her thoughts, but she was right, I suppose, only those things never much mattered to me, maybe when I’m really old I’ll miss being young enough to imagine waking up in a spoon position with some Greek girl’s tight ass against my pelvis, but if she’s one of those carefree bitches, I’ll feel worse rather than better, and if she’s got too much of a tortured mind to have fun, then I’ll be equally tormented, so who cares about her ass, it’s only good to look at and imagine something better. But I got her back later at the café that evening, a lovely waitress came out to serve our coffee, and as she walked away I declared “wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman so hot in my whole damn life, what a Goddess!” And my ex just looked at me and said “thanks a lot.” I aim to please I guess, but then you know, we hit that place of no going forward and no going back, and as I reflect, there was never anything for us to go forward to together, and never a reason for me to go back, except maybe to sit in the sun, on a gorgeous Greek island, and enjoy the view.

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Filed under Aegean, Alone, Break Ups, Challenge, Cleansed, Comedy, Conversation, creative, Greece, Greek, Humour, Lesbian, Loneliness, Loss, Memory, Message, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, travel, 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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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

On reading the diary of Virginia Woolf

A small bird flies into the pupil of her eyes, from where it begins to rise, as her tears fall. The wooded path, down which she travels, on her late night rambles, where the colour of the deer match the brambles. It rises there in green light,flooding through thick curtain, collapsing, wingspent on the forest floor, where it comes to rest in the thicket evermore.

Yesterday she was gold plated, gold is not meant to crack in thin line, where falsity falls from fingers, grasping at quill, until this sentence takes flight, by a height of such altitude, paving way for a depth of demise. The bird in her eyes does not rise any more, will not gather in tangled domesticity, will not show signs of sanity, i.e, does not behave obediently.

She shines the silver carefully, and minds the manner of her tongue, lest it be kindling for flame, as smoky sentences rise from pages, where she leaves behind traces of truth, until the waves open the sea, swallowing her heavily under. Outwards and inwards, with no warning of the incoherent tide within her mind.

New dress replaces old, she says she inhabits it for 10 and 11p, at the table forlornly, she scribbles down her reality, what to me can only be a memory, preceding an emotional Holocaust, as the gas chamber glare of her vacant stare, goes unbroken for a century.

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Filed under Feminist, inspirational, Journey, Lesbian, Life, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Virginia Woolf, writing

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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Filed under Death, Memory, Poem, poetry, Science, travel, Uncategorized, writing

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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Filed under Heroin, Identity, Illusion, Loss, Memory, Poem, poetry, Time, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Deference

No baby, I don’t think it’s that you are incapable of being happy, I think you just have more receptor cells for sadness. The little molecules of joy float away from you. The reason it hurts is because your threshold is low, and you’ve built a tolerance for sadness.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, writing

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 Battlefield of Music

I am your song, bury me in the coffin of your guitar, then once you come to the end of the bar, strum me hard. Strum me through the streets of downtrodden, strum me where the spiritlands are, in cedar and bark, in the steel echo of heart, strum until your fingers bleed crimson, strum me slow, strum me imprisoned, then when you find yourself at the end of loving, strum me free. Strum me the wings of ravens, strum me eagles and vultures. hawks in all cultures, strum me Hispanic, strum me black, strum me exotic on islands where girls wear dresses made from leaves, strum me electric, amplify my soul, strum me hungry and full, with a handful of change and some tea for the tillerman, strum me like a busker who plays for his favourite shot of rye, strum me high baby, strum me high, then bring me down a key, like a Southern comfort melody, lay me on the grass slow and melodiously, in the oppressive summer heat, play me through all seasons, play me without reason like I’m going to die, because every song has a refrain, refrain from touching me, leave me alone, then let me vibrate in the carpal memory of your bones, where splinters and marrow record the solo pitch of my soul. Coda, codine, codeine, crave and despise every chord, but the one that takes you out of this world, honey that’s the one you gotta find, find it and hold it, cradle it from neck to navel, then strum it alive, strum it like neurons sparking through dark, let it resonate like a scream, like the death cry of a warrior on the battlefield of music.

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Control, Alt, Delete

You are born in ethereal light, funereal flow through vessel of heart, where  room holds caskets, bassinets, tourniquets, places to sleep, to dream, to waken. On the day of your departure from veins, warmth of crimson, rush of celebration, permeates receptor cells, life the mournful fall, death the joyful rise, pulling coins from your eyes, toll for the boatman, an atheist bent on sinking, cargo of karmic, a vessicle of rebirth, bursting forth, dissolving the old self and its former memories, dreams, hopes, and procreation. Reversal of ego, the fluidity of self. They give you a name, a place, a face, a position between two poles, a selective offering of chromosomes, and then they take it all away, leave you as a blank slate, you the great author, illiterate, inarticulate, mouthing desires, forming fears. Before you get here you are complete, experience erases data-
control, alt delete.

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Before the Abyss

Somewhere on a mountain in India, you were learning about the particles of sand in the rocks that expanded from the boulder of your aspirations. Speak nothing of the weight of it, small unrelated sibling of brown skin. Don’t carry the weight of the world, crossing continents, shifting from what we spoke of as a caste system which broke open and slowly became something of a mineralized memory, chiseled sharp as a surgeon’s instrument.

When I was ten years old I felt God enter my bed and lift me toward the sky. I may have at one time cried over the death of birds. Never once would I imagine an unborn soul’s karma would meet with mine to rise up into the white of discarded feathers, else pull those makeshift wings over her own small body and fly.

Truth drizzles from the tongue in crowded corridors, where from behind the girl without a circle flocks towards my side in tacit approval, smiling back lost decades, where among you all I would have been unrecognizable. Her and I are the nuclei of free radicals, I laugh at the open door for rebels to pass through, gaining entrance freely. I hear your own laughter echo back to me.

We all started with a dream. Today that dream dies. Today the scope of practice is spoken of, and the post trauma of seeing small children, like smashed eggs on the sidewalk, where the yolk of what we become gets burned beneath the sun. My heart, my heart lies lateral to my body. My soul, my soul, lies proximal to the sky. Skip a beat…

listen for the atrial flutter of a butterfly, inflating beyond measure, auscultating systolic pressure.

120 over 80 mercury, retro to distal, the parietal of my hand reaches through the ventral of the darkness, separating the opposing sides of a funnel cloud in utero, tapping on a stethoscope.

The eyes open as light floods the pupils, dilating variance, ascertaining vision, a flash of recognition, the first stranger we meet,

our first lover, the keeper of our primary impressions. When acceptance or rejection tattoos the future on our small dangling feet.

The first spanking or christening, followed by the first kiss,

Before the abyss, and after the abyss.

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Memories All Fade

At some point the sunset gets gold, gilded circle, arc of fire, burning liar! Telling time like the crime of the century. I am still that girl of twenty, staring at another girl across from me on the sofa, high as a kite on green. She asked me how old I was and when I answered she said she liked the sound of twenty, the way it rolled off her tongue was pleasing. My partner was thirty something. This girl had come to visit us, she was a few years younger than me and gay as a rainbow painted on a unicorn, and if I’d have known better, I would have kissed her. These are the things we think about as the years get plated in karats beyond 24k, and we have to wear shades to keep the rays from revealing the wrinkle of age. We stop apologizing. Hormones and a taut physique are soon wasted on promises we never keep. Looking back I never kept my virtue in tact, as a matter of fact I lost it to people far from those I desired out of fear of not measuring up. It seems I was fated to fail at pleasing myself, the queen of self-sabotage, true masochist, here she sits nearing her fourth decade and her thoughts get more obscene, she begins to ponder what it all means. I am no more or less pure or tainted by the choices I make with my body in spite of my heart. I’ve had it wrong all along. Now my body fails to live up to what my mind can only imagine, fearless feast of fantasy, and here my heart comes trailing behind like a heavy little tugboat, cargo of care. I want to let it sink, tear off the ropes that bind, splash down deep and let the waves take me anywhere, but a still wise voice says, you know better, you know from experience, never give up your soul like a fair trade deal, make it real, stop and feel, before all feeling fades into a silver coin of memory discarded like a fleeting wish. Next time you will kiss. You will kiss her in every currency  known on earth through every century in which humankind ever created money or some form of trade for energy, trade for service, you will exist without sun, sans lune, χωρίς φεγγάρι, χωρίς αστέρια, without anything to enlighten your dark dreams.

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Filed under Poem, poetry, Sapphic, Sex, Sexuality, travel, writing

Shadow of a Bird

Bird from the blue, the lapis lazuli outside my window, flying in.
I catch the shadow of her wing
on the wind.
Prettier than a peacock, with a thousand eyes seeing through the dark and the light in me.
Bird who cries, how I hear her sad song, wishing I could fly to her, be a bird also, but two wounded birds make the most dark companions, so alas I wait in the light as she passes by in the shadows. I follow with my fingers the bark of trees, stare up at buildings too high to reach, crossing the same streets she passed through momentarily. Hatchling heart, mere sparrow I am, the wash of rain over pavement, the outline of a shell, where she once stood broken. Waiting by windows, deep through the night, for glimpses of her as she flies by. Tracing the map of constellations and migrations, willing the stars to align, for her to land in my hand, to reach my palm with her fingers of song. The world opens like a rusted cage, love fails even the bravest of us. Bird from the red, the crimson ache of a window pane beneath a paralyzed sunset, the ruby roar of these arms that soar in the empty silence of your absence. My soul is purple, yellow, jaundiced out and black on the surface, like a bruise. I push down on it, agitate the center where my words in stasis stain the flesh of our friendship.

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Inconsolable

I will remember when you say don’t forget. I will remember the motto on the license plates from Québec. I will remember the grinding sound of steel on tracks, the two young men who came in to serenade the crowd of Athenians on a winter day, as we rode out to Kifissia, their strong fingers strumming steel strings, the song they sang in Greek, the amused look on the faces of the passengers. I will remember the way you implored me to listen when I shut down into a catatonic state on the train heading back to Kypseli. I remember how we rushed back to your small apartment, the sound of the meltemi blowing hard against the canopy covering the balcony, as though the world was being torn away. I will remember laying close as you held me while I cried deep and inconsolably, knowing I’d be going back to the frozen nothingness of a vagrant existence in Canada. I will remember the seasons of time that passed as they bleed out and wash away again. The final image I hold is a negative of you standing on the terrace overlooking the Acropolis, you were as loved as anyone could be that day, and I was more sad than anyone could fathom.

 

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Canine

You enter others dreams, a sexy slip screen. When I close my eyes at night, I can hear you scream. You have entered into others without intending to. She tells me her dreams of you. You hold her tight from behind and squeeze the life out of her body, not so hard to do considering how small she is. I’m in love with a masculine mind trapped in the confines of a feminine body, nothing is more alluring than she who being so fragile in physical form, has her true power taken for granted or underestimated, her entire being is a massive understatement, and yet the way she grips your thigh in the dark, as she enters hard and deep, the way her pupils magnify what sliver of moonlight bleeds across your body as you stare down at her thrusting eyes, you think a woman is akin to a wolf and none would imagine the way she is capable of swallowing you alive. Then in the afterglow as she slowly dissolves away into the distance, you feel the remnants of her lingering with you, as though she has marked your body with her scent, to accentuate her territory. She strays but not from others, she strays from her self. This is what it means to love a shadow, her lips are the velvet slowness of a tortured animus. When she kisses you it hurts. It hurts where life begins, it hurts where life ends, but it is the hurt you crave from being enslaved, it is the hurt you beg her in silence to settle. It’s that secret swell of never spoken words, whose expressions die exquisite deaths, relentless deaths, contracting, swelling exasperating deaths, where bite marks and claw marks outline the places you were initiated. She doesn’t ever say it in the light of day, only in dark whispers, and you watch her with this strange mix of terror and desire, as she goes about her daily life, washing dishes, mending clothes, planting seeds that will one day grow into something beautiful. They mistake her for something tame, but you know better, you know better and you know worse and as she talks about the mundane, your mind travels back to dark territory, nothing she says or does is ordinary. You wear a goofy grin, and only when reality slaps you cold and hard across the face, do you realize how stupid you must look, walking around with an invisible leash on your hips, a magnet in between your thighs that draws you to the silver of her. Your friends say you must be whipped. But who are these friends? They are humans. They are human only human, and you are part canine.

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Filed under Bondage, Desire, dreams, Enslaved, Erotic, Fantasy, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

The Copper Century

Back in my day they used to say “a penny for your thoughts,” that was before pennies and thoughts became obsolete. “Thoughts can’t become obsolete” said the young one, “oh they can and they have” said the elder. My thoughts are a sou noir. I haven’t a red cent to go on. Not a penny to my name. She had copper hair and money green eyes, and all the guys loved her, or that’s what she thought, when thought was an “in” thing, now as you know, it’s nothing. So here’s a nickel for your notions then. Very well, don’t spend it all in once place. “Impossible.” said the child in 1858. We bleed copper. I lick the elements off my cut finger in a dark corner of a polished bar, where men gather their pence, and come to their senses, down in the days of des pensées. I reflect on a penny, cast aside in a well that leads to hell. Too much drinking or thinking gets you in trouble with the crowd. Your thoughts are better kept quiet than loud. Deep dark red, stain of rustic river, rouge, rojo, desire red, fire red, scarlet, and crimson, ruby, maroon and blood moon. Set the sky aflame with these copper ponderings. There are not enough pennies for how deep the well goes. “How do you know?” “I come from that time darling, I come from the days when we checked the year of a penny for luck, and if it corresponded with your birthday, it meant you should make a wish and hold onto it. Those born in Canada after 2012 will have to settle for misfortune, knowledge fades, they will worship the nickel, we will call them the silver ones. Their thoughts will shine brighter and bolder than ours ever did.” “I guess I’m one of the last remaining penny bitches then, there’s something to be said for that,” smirked the child from the copper century.

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Mosaic

“You seem so distant” she said to the woman who on the same continent watched her fly abroad. “No one ever stays,” laughed the gypsy. It’s the transience of flesh. I take a breath and waste away or exhale a massive solar plexus of hurt, longing, desire, hate, infatuation, covetousness for what in a box carefully wrapped, gets stowed away for a time of maybe someday perhaps we might join hands and unravel this, like a meticulous mosaic maker. Your eyes in this light are my green medicine, plankton over sea, moon filter at quarter tide.

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The Hunger Artist

Ashen morning of gray, the city awaits the assault of winter upon her body of steel rising centuries. In this hour of eternal certitude, of frozen chaos, the stillness drowns in, and I think of you, my father who art in heaven, and my father who art on earth. The way you said to me what he could not speak, on dead lines, where  a breath was an entire lifetime. Busy is a bandaid, tear it away, pick at the decay, schedule in another cancer treatment between lunch and Christmas dinner parties, between two jobs like nooses that you wear tight as a tie around your neck, tight as a tourniquet from paycheck to paycheck. Open fridge to find a passage into another realm, the dark, lightbulb dead for weeks, too poor and lazy to replace, light is not needed to see nothing in this place. Open my cupboard, much the same scarcity, open my account, red marks along a dotted line of debt, open the wound where they poured the poison in to kill the black mark that entered you malevolent, malignant, more hungry than a wolf or an artist. Spark a cigarette, take the ache away. Rings rising and interlocking like the endless tail of a dragon I haven’t the strength to chase. Close your eyes. it fades away, whether you run or you stay.

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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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Women of the waters that are never still

The missing and murdered indigenous women all gathered together at the lost city of Atlantis.

“No one believes we are real,” said one to the other, “they will never try to find us here.”

“If they never believe then we are free. If they start to remember is when we have to worry.” Said another.

“Yes the great spirit has made an ocean of oblivion and in all their crossings they forget..

They think their cities are real and ours is a myth.”

“Yes.” spoke the chief.
“We are safe here.”

They are distracted by the stars. The stars that died centuries ago.
The apocalypse has happened already. They just don’t know it yet.

They are all dancing together in a Matrix of dreams.

They wake up with new scars and wonder how those wounds ever healed.

“Sometimes they forget to hurt when we touch them,” spoke the child of agile deer, “and they mistake this pain for pleasure.”

The turtle will rise once more. When the time is right.

“The time is close,” spoke the hungry hawk girl. I see rust over the towers of progress, it stains their rivers and kills their fish. The white men in their polished houses laugh louder now. They laugh with terrorist eyes. And all the world is quiet in disbelief.

We are safe for now, but it won’t last. This time when they come dressed as brothers we will know the truth in that horse’s eyes.

We won’t drink the fire.

We won’t accept their dirty blankets.

We know how to keep warm. We are the keepers of the fire. We must never forget who we are, even if they have. They have all fallen asleep. When the sun rises it will be too late.

“It has already come to be,” spoke the ominous owl. It has already been written. They will burn the treaties. There is no honour in sickly pacts. They are a lost tribe.

“We have already been found what is there to search for now?” The sad squaw pleaded.

We must find ourselves here. We must honour our mother and father and give our respects to our grandfathers. One day all our relations will come together and they will lose their blindness.

Only when they have regained this vision can we be one again.

“One tribe under one sky” spoke the eager eagle.

So it is has been spoken.

They passed the peace pipe from hand to hand as they gathered around the roaring fire and danced.

You could hear the echo of their drums in the lost world where the rhythm of life was mute, their voices carried in the cries of the wild.

The forgotten ones were there and they remembered. Some of them had wolf eyes that lit a path through the dark.

You could never go hungry if you followed them.

But the eyes of the others were a deep abyss surrounding an ancient island, where they held a sacred vigil in honour of our fallen sisters

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Among the Alphas

Orion burning bright. Star dagger, star blade. Her arm dangling by his side. I cannot bear to watch. Her smile is this anathema kiss of meaninglessness. Walk along with trail of light behind her. As a child in school I once liked a girl who was mine until she was lost to the crowd. Outside out loud I pulled her down and dragged her home kicking. This was a daily occurrence. Flashback through the years when the neighbors threatened to call the police as my brother dragged me down the street. In those days you could get away with “fuck you and mind your own business she’s my sister.” Knights in armour slayed. Funny but her awkward brother liked me. I submitted to liking him, experimental awe of galactic green. One day his sister’s friend threatened me with a baseball bat. That was the end of the prism on her lips that kissed my siblings. I remember the jealousy in my stomach twisting tight as a fist when my brother kissed her. And her brother kissed me numb. I imagined her through him, femme and frail, the skeleton children above my bed danced and played night and day. I gathered their pretty bones up and made a coffin of my heart. I still feel his hands around my wrist, caught in the tangle of my soul. I am prying with the force of steel, this sick possession he passed on to me that came directly from our fathers and all those fathers with women and daughters who gripped tight what they claimed as their own, parabolas of pubescence in crescent curvature, a star map of the sky to a whole other world where girls could run free, instead we spent our lives with the push and pull of tides, falling prey to our fatal curiosity. Those girls grew up and had babies. I grew up in grim disdain of all things they called natural. No Nephilim kin for me. Deer, dog, Osiris, hunter rather than hunted, hungering on the trail of wolfish women, fighting for my territory among the alphas.

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The girl who played with fire

I sense your eyes, reminds me of a magnet drawing coins. The way one enters you suddenly with so few words, your searching stare speaks infinite sentences. You put up a noose and slowly hang me there. I asked for an O, can we please go now? Run out in the snow, lay side by side under the stars. You are majestic in clandestine shadows, makes me dream of fire, a slow, cosmic burning. You take a piece of fabric in your hands, it’s as though you touch my hand, my eyes follow your every motion, you sense my gaze and laugh. We speak of things to break the awkward silence that is too loud for our quiet mouths to contain. You brush a feather away, pick it off my sweater and make me feel better. Few can do that. Few can make such simple gestures equate to this profound serendipity, but that’s how you effect me. I watch you dance away. The words you say, and the ones I give in response seem inane, but I love our interplay. Sweets given, space you enter with purpose, ideas shared between us, an affinity for the simple things. You hate technology and you’re bad at math. You were born in December. I remember everything, nothing you tell me is trivial. You have the patience of a saint you say. I believe it. Your gentle and calm nature are something akin to my own. You call me friend. I let you in, save a place for you around the fire where my small tribe gathers. Your words matter and then your lack of words. I speak to others with the intention of being heard by you. You read my mind like a clairvoyant. I pretend not to notice or see as you draw closer to me, flame to a moth, my desire for the girl who plays with fire, rising out into the smoke of nothingness, choking on ash from the ones who surround you.

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Emotion

Sad, sad I am for no one can understand or hear me. I am in this hollow realm of empty knocking to be free. The scientists cannot reassemble the egg of smashed misfortune. Sad are your eyes like the fountains of a great sea, where released ions absorb the sun into salt. Sad is this wound where you rush in and out of me, leaving empty memories that dissolve in the sad sea, surrounding the saddest island in all the world. I wake up laughing at sad dreams. You say I am a masochist. Show me real then. Show me some emotion.

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Crystal

You are more than inebriated rush of desire whose midnight trespass forces hand, more than these love tattoos I wear around my wrists and neck. You are more than this jangle of keys in door. More than magnetic hours of heavy pendulum sway. You are more than these copper thoughts cast worthlessly in holy water, where rust contaminates  shine, dulls the stars, ejaculates empty dreams over the surface of sheets. More than these wrinkled lines of a forced smile staining the truth in my eyes.  She said to the man with her daughter in his mouth, that she spit out. Walking past a shop after sundown, captured by a glare through the dark, in a window through her DNA molecules, hidden in the chandelier near the end of a free-loving decade that shone like crystal.

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The Seer

Oracle of voices. We gather round your fire, smoke plumes rising, intuitions dissolving into air. This one is more fascinating, skin and bones hold aesthetic allure over yours, over your too soft, too round, too white visage, of a failed body. This heart is a better bleeder. This faith I bestow in words is as substantial as the wind, which bears to hand the fire on the torch of the truth seeker. All the world loves you for who you are, accepts you as you are, their love is equal to your own, forthcoming with the same untamed passion and determination to meet you where the two flames cross into one eternal fire. What use of cold nights, what use of this loneliness? Let him take you, let her consume you. All the while I am oblivious, careless to the arson inflicted on you by these nightly intruders. I am a cup of water in a dry desert. I evaporate into mineral dust, blow out with sand, form into cold hard stone. All the love I’ve ever ever known is written in this rock, chiseled into fossils, found in future centuries, discarded under sea. Vertebrate and invertebrate. Tongue into dagger, finger into blade, eyes into death glare. The warhead of a loveless soldier, whose final kiss is bitter with the poison of its charm. I take her arm, wrap it around another, walk away, orchestrate from a distance this sad and fatal intercourse.

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Violation

A voice is an echo on the shores of a river, cry of the loon. It is a new moon, a full moon, followed by the long snows moon. Ice encapsulates our memories as we tread the surface of a deep forgetting. To remember is to drown. My heart lives in this perpetual spring, melting into currents that violate the very rhythm of this cold season.

image

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Filed under Ice, Identity, Introversion, Journey, Life, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Mortality, North, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Seasons, Silence, Snow, Solitude, Soul, travel, Winter, writing

Lost

I awake to my breath in a ghostly cloud above my head.
This white clarity blinds the city.
Unable to rest, unable to dream.
He said our people, the Anishinaabe were possibly the lost citizens of Atlantis, true Atlanteans crossing the Atlantic. Thousands of years ago the Mediterranean was more like a lake and less like an ocean. The land mass of Atlantis formed a bridge from North America to Athens Greece. My kin, the Algonquins migrated to the ancient city and throughout parts of Europe, including Britain and the East. Is it possible the whites were decendants of us? Is it possible an old seed buried deep split open and released a very ancient desire to reclaim itself? He speaks of Sakimay as a place where our people originated. This was the land of my ancestors. He speaks of the seven fires prophecy and the crystal energy our people harnessed, which led to their own downfall, the sinking of our island, the melting of the glaciers, the light that flooded in like razors on our skin and stained us with the red ink of Indians. The turtle island that sank and swam down again, lost in the reaches of time. Oh Turtle, teach us of the truth sewn in hand with the ilk of our ancient medicine, until then we are lost like a city under the sea.

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A language for what we speak

They set dynamite and explosives , a fine copper, a chiseled lead and the trigger at my finger said; dead, the bullet shrapnel dread of thought. Where I was fullness of earth and sun burning red, I became that other thing instead. White, Black, dissipating into pure, crystalline, granular dust. This karmic rust, this mind shed. Now I am no thought. I am no heart. No body. Your hand as it reaches for me becomes open cut, becomes decomposed mass, of unrecognizable. I am dancing with your skeleton out here in the dark before I’ve learned how to see. I am blind and hungry. I am empty. I am empty before the rise of day, the soft petal of your last word now blows off the tongues of green. This cool morning mist, the singing crickets, the shuffle as we make our way towards the end of what we are. Each dying star reminds me of the day I buried my entire life as a seed, it didn’t matter how it grew, what mattered was the thought which kept it hydrated.

Look she said and I agreed;
“they don’t have a language for what we speak.”

The small child smiled. The sun rose. She pointed to something indiscernable, a flower, is what they told her it was, but that was only the word they used to describe their understanding of it. It was a word that carried across the earth in a thousand unbreakable dialects. She pulled it from the soil, another voice said “it cannot be reversed now.”

We cannot dance clockwise or tie up our binds before the fire in the hopes of clarity. This sprig of coniferous wonder will soon perish with the bitter season, leaving in its wake a painful pining, pins and needles under this white reckoning of a frozen soul.

Out here your howl is my music, it is the wet of your palm in mine, granular, warm. It is sand into fire. Bone into flesh again.

It is bird now. They call it migrant. It rises beyond and lands here.

The girl holds flower over grave.

Over the land we inherit. Ash.
Ash palace,
Volcanic temple on pulse, aligning spine. Stem. Brain stem. Thorn.

Home in which we’re born. Cave into grave…

where the smile fades.

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Filed under Silence, Soul, Spirit, travel, Upheaval, writing

S’agapo

Dear Mrs. L, I do and she does too, but we are careful not to let ourselves slip in front of you. Your face is kind, somewhat shy, demure, and pure. Your hands hold the wheel as though you’ve always known which turn to take, in the mad rush of seasons in a city full of malakes, recession, and malaise, your kindness is a palpable presence that one can not articulate. The many lives you guided and led into this world, a rehearsal for your own girl, who would for a time be my girl, my cat, my kitten, my angel, my baby, my sweetheart, my joy, my madness, my agony, my pleasure, my ecstacy, my hurt, my love, agape mou. Thank- you for all your quiet and generous suffering. For the kisses on the cheek, for the Christmas sweets. For the sun and the absence of it. Dear Mrs L thank you for my heaven, and thank-you for my hell. S’agapo.

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Filed under Break Ups, Broken, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Greek, Loss, Love, Malakes, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, travel

Time

Is a river that rushes onward
Is a vein that ruptures inward
Is an emotion that stagnates
on the cuff of bloodied sleeve.
Is all those who leave me
Or allow me to leave.

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Filed under Pain, Poem, poetry, Time, Trauma, travel, writing

Yucca

Petals of many colours, you lure others with, and the yucca is unresponsive, only one type of flower for one type of moth and so many flowers are cut, but this flower is cut for her. Lines are rigid, pollen astringent, if the yucca flower could speak, it’s lurid voice would frighten away a meadow full of butterflies, saying don’t and won’t, can’t, only nourish me then fly away, I’m not meant for your hands to hold.

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Filed under poetry, Spirit, travel, Unwanted, writing

Rupture

The day love turned abiotic is the day my corpse lay in bed and did not move for a century. In that century a sentence was written, that contained the entirety of what I felt. The simplicity of a ray of light, wherein all the sun was contained lay in the secular shadow of the curtains that hung like death waves over my window, each time the wind blew, the tide of my life pulled out, then in, then back away from me, and as some wish to recover this, I did not. I slept for a moment, one could not measure, yet in that moment, eternity, and with it all hope, all desire or need of ever waking. The velvet box in which my love lay, they shoveled upon it the earth, on the outside, metal latches and mahogany, within no scream, no dream, no vision, simply velvet mouth where words never fell, velvet tongue, where thoughts dissolved like acid, turning the light into sharp particles of memory, of a time when we walked near the ocean together, and your hand, as I reached for it, became black molecules of star dust fading. The earth, which I used to revere suddenly seemed absurd for being here all these billions of years. Why did it go on regrowing, regenerating all that dead mass of emptiness and decay, If you were only going to go away? Go away, then return again, as this blade, cutting into me, in the center where my heart once beat like the wings of a bird flying home. I’ll stay here clutching my head, my heart, my body, all these things you wouldn’t hold, these things too big for this world to contain. I’ll choke and hemmoraghe, I’ll convulse, my eyes will grow weary where they once shone. All this will take place in a moment, and in that moment each part of me will surrender and retrace each part of you back through time, until it’s as though neither of us were ever here. I’ll erase those parts you said were forever young, replace them with wrinkles and routine, the carefully constructed silence of these walls, this depth from oceanic to a measured distance of six feet, of a life compacted into fragments and unwanted bones. I’ll do all this alone as I walk and breathe, smile and attentively seem to be here, the world won’t know otherwise. It will be my secret. One day a patient will say, those nurses are all so jaded, it’s as if they’ve seen life, watched it fade away day by day, but never cared to make it stay, and I’ll say nothing, I’ll smile and donate my blood as if I always loved and never knew the feeling of a heart break.

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Filed under Freedom, Hypocrisy, Loss, Love, Pain, Poem, Repressed, Sorrow, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

The Sorrow

Your hands, your fingers, the bones in your forearm, the anatomy of which I’ll soon come to know precisely, the scars, the glassy glare of strangers cutting them fresh, peeling them back like mica memories preserved in an age so distant, the one who lives there seems a foreigner to me, unable to adapt, she mapped out her emotions with a razor, giving you directions to her heart, there in the dark, where you scorned her sadness, the deeper your scorn, the deeper her cut, until there was no more depth, only hollow, fine slivers of silver memory, a corded line, the horror in her grandmother’s eyes when she saw the long- distance bill. The pills scattered along the floor, while her blood ran thin and lost sugar. She ate chocolate, candy, the sweetest things she could gather, even in your bitterness you were insulin rushing into all four chambers, you knew every room in that organ of fire, a fine stricken sulphur you were. The moan of you, the sorrow, your hands your fingers, parting Babylon, your kisses, deep as Euphrates.

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Filed under Past, Poem, poetry, Sorrow

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 Storm (A Narrative)

“You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others. And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” —Haruki Murakami—

That’s what the storms all about.

That’s what dominates me. That’s part of the condition, “its my disorder honey.” I tell her again and again, ad infinitum.
It’s this sharp ache in my spine where love threw a fist and broke through my heart. It’s every part of me in agony.

From the heights of the Alps, I once flew over, where peering down, I watched dolphins point up their smiling faces and open a passage through the sea. It’s that lost gateway of a dark unknown island that suddenly opens before me.

I have this feeling that I’m on top of the world. I’m in love with life itself. The birds are singing to me.

I love you, it could be as simple as the way you hold your leg up, and your muscle makes a flex that stimulates a sexual desire. It could be the way you smile and flick your hair, or just that indifference you exude that makes me crave you, even though we are absolute strangers.

Deep within I am dreaming of the perfect love, the ultimate one, craving affection and dreaming of perfection.

I never show my face, I keep up this mask, I alter my colours, a constant sense of fluctuation, of adaptation. I blend in, I seem in place, as in place as the furniture, until someone breaks a table or shatters a glass, and the whole scene melts down like an oil painting and dissolves. Then I realize nothing is in place, nothing at all.

What do you want me to be? How should I act? What words should I speak? I feel I am one word away from total dysfunction, total annihiliation. Choose the wrong word and the hammer falls. It’s a guillotine conversation. You have been judged as deserving death. I came to have fun. I came to relax. And the blade draws ever closer.

What I feel is a raging storm inwardly. What you see is a calm smile of acceptance, of defeat, of grace and conformity.

I want to sleep with someone, anyone who looks lovely and gentle. Please I just want to lay by your side. Hold me. If you touch me, or let me touch you,  you’re in danger of becoming God, most wouldn’t mind being held in such high esteem, but I assure you, you are going to fall. Every God falls eventually. So just lie very still, don’t move. Be like a statue. You are so beautiful. I don’t think there is any one else on earth with such beauty as yours. I want to stare forever in your eyes, please don’t leave, if you go away, it all dies. It’s all going to die if you show me your human side. But then suddenly it may all come back to life again.

It’s like you’re a stone Goddess, who only appears to those with the power to see such magic. You are pure magic to me. Every single strand of your hair must have been placed there by Midas, look how it shines, so golden. You must not care, don’t get too close. Just let me admire you. Don’t admire me back. Don’t feel, be like stone. Like a statuesque masterpiece. Be all sentiment, be gentle, when you kiss me, mean it with every drop of blood that flows through you, be sensual, be passionate, if you don’t mean it, I will sense it, and then you will shatter again. Please don’t shatter. Please love me. Come close. You’re too far. Touch me. Show me that you love me, as no one else ever has, as no one ever can.

The temperature in hell is too hot for our instruments to record. The blackest black, like coal has covered over everything. I am alone. I can only think of one thing, how to die. How to die fast, quickly before the moment passes and I lose my courage.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Everything has stopped. Everyone is gone. The carousel is broken. Nothing is free. The guards have imprisoned the very song that inspired movement in us. We can’t dance to utter silence, to the sound of desolation. There’s no reason to go on. Stop this ride. I want to get off. It has stopped? Why don’t I feel anything? I have no sense of time, no sense of existing at all. It’s numb. It’s hollow. Nothing is real.

Be my friend. Be with me. Say you’ll be my friend and really mean it. But tomorrow it all stops. I lost my money. I’m all out of lucky coins. This world takes coins to make it go around. I must find that Goddess, the one with the gilded hair and perfect beauty. She really loves me. Everything she touches turns magic. She could make the music play, she could cause the earth to turn again.

Don’t look at me that way. You look at me as though I’m from another world. But something in your eyes, it’s like you have put my soul into an x-ray machine. I have to leave now. If I stay I might die.

Who am I? Maybe I am made of stone. I need something anything hard, anything sharp, to see if I really exist. To see if I can feel. If I can feel I must be real. But I can’t feel anything. But it doesn’t matter anymore. The numbness is gone. I feel pure euphoria.This is so beautiful. Your eyes are like rare jewels. The way you look inside me makes me feel like I’m standing before the Taj Mahal. It’s nothing my love, just a little blood, it didn’t hurt, it felt good. It means I am real. You must forgive me. I got lost. I got really lost and it went very black like the darkest tunnel and then you smiled and it’s all better now. The birds are singing for us, the music, I feel the music. It’s like someone opened a very old cage where all the beauty lived. And now that it’s free, nothing could ever be ugly. Everything is so alive it is as though the rhythm of all life flows to this music and its all interconnected and so beautiful, so incredibly beautiful I think I can’t even stand it. It breaks my heart.

I want to move away. Anywhere. Baudelaire once said that all life is a hospital and he wished that he were anywhere out of this world. Will you go with me to that place? If I have to go alone, I will. I’m not afraid.

I’ve forgotten what I came here for. I was working so hard to make it shine. It’s just dull. It lacks something. I know I said I wanted to be something, but I forgot why I wanted to be it. So you see, none of that matters anymore. Take back the coins, stop that annoying noise and tell everyone to go back to wherever they came from, forget it, you can all stay, I’m leaving.

The woman with the gold turned into a psychopath. She never loved me and her hair was not real gold, just some cheap drugstore dye that came in a box. I gave her everything. I lost it all.

I laugh furiously at the trials and tribulations of this sad stranger, who rides along with me. Who the hell is she and where did she come from? Why won’t she stop tormenting me with her needs and her dreams? She’s always making me jump through fire. I’m tired of getting burned. It seems we are fused together. I have no idea how it happened. I just wish she would leave, but she needs me, I’m kind of like her oxygen. We need eachother to breathe.

On the one hand I love her fiercely and understand her every move and motion, she’s like my best friend. I have never loved anyone this much. She knows everything about me. Exactly where to touch me, when to let me be, what I want and who I am. On the other hand she has no clue, and I think she’s an enemy. She doesn’t deserve the same air, she must go very soon. If she goes I go. It’s a deal then. We don’t belong anywhere, were just drifters, just a couple of lost little girls in a big scary world and it’s ugly out there. People are monsters. No one truly gets us or loves us, its just words they use. It’s all lies. They don’t even feel. They don’t know the first thing about what it means to feel. They are all fake, they are all just polished people with rust in their souls.

I loved her. I really loved her with all of me.

I don’t even know who I am. I’ve forgotten.

If the whole world forgets, I will be okay, as long as she remembers me.

As long as she knows I was real. I was real and I loved her, once upon a time, when the world shined and her eyes were paradise, they brought me around the world in a moment, and when she held me, I came alive, she came alive, everything was magic and music, everyone danced and opened their doors to welcome us. We were royalty.

I don’t know what to do now. Now that the music has died and all the magic has faded.

I think I’ll just lay here. And imagine her by my side. It’s enough to know she exists and that she was once mine. And though I may never find anyone else like her, one can always dream.

I woke up to a storm today. Else it began sometime last night, I’ve lost all sense of time and meaning. I don’t recall who I am, or where I am meant to be. But I’ll put on this costume and pretend I’m happy, because I know how to hide better than anyone. This mask is like a second skin, I wear it like a chameleon.

In your world you just want the best types of players who get along, put on a smile and know their role, know where to be and how to act. I can be that for you. I can be whatever you say I should be.

I am nobody after all.

Hello I’m nobody. I come from nowhere. I am going nowhere. I have a dream but I don’t know why. It’s not my dream. Someone gave it to me as a prize for making it out alive.

And then. Well then we die. Right. Everyone dies.

But it’s okay because I seem to fit well here. I seem to really blend in with the ambience, no matter where I go, or who I’m with, there I am. I’m home and you are my favourite person, no wait, she is my favourite, you are just a substitute, but you’ll have to do. All of you, I love you and you adore me, until I say the wrong word, or a hair gets out of place, or I get too much in your way, and then your love is a razor blade, it cuts me open and I bleed gold, and the colder you are, the richer I become.

So make me shine, because it doesn’t matter, the glass was already shattered. It shattered long before you or her or anyone else. It shattered inside, and I gathered all the pieces and filled in all the gaps with gold, like kintsikouri, and you said, look at her she is so together, but you had no idea I was a million times broken, and I smiled that broken smile, and you mistook me for one of your own. It all went well until it didn’t go well anymore. For ten solid years I came each day at the same hour on the bell, and then the bell stopped and I howled like a wolf and made my way back to the forest.

And all the dreams I carried in my basket turned into bees, scorpions, vipers, stinging things, that poisoned my pure heart.

Then you spoke in wolfish tones, and offered me your bones in exchange for my body.

And my soul broke off and rose above me, like a hungry bird, a vulture. It circled around me and screeched in my eyes.

Halting. This. Life.

I lost all vision. Blacker than the darkest depths of the stormiest sea.

And when I emerged, I was free.

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Borderline, Broken, Emotions, Narrative

Camouflage

“Do you like my shirt?”she asks..

“Yes it’s brown, perfect fall colour.”

“No it’s not it’s army green!” She says.

“Oh then I guess I’m colour-blind to army green,”

“well what’s the point in camouflage?
I am better off not hiding.”

“No I see it as brown.”

“This explains why you see my eyes as brown and I blend in with the trunks of trees, and how you crave chocolate.”

“Yes precisely;

Sometimes I just crave chocolate and
Sometimes I just don’t want to see you.

You’ll never know the difference. Unless we walk into a war zone, and then well…

I’m a goner.”

Our conversations are the most surreal ever in existence says the girl with the army green eyes.

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Filed under Colours, Humour, Poem, poetry