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I held the roseI held the rose in Free Verse More Like This
I held the rose and then I heard it ring.
I put it to my ear to take the call.
The bloom was soft but then I felt a thorn.
I'm sure there is a scratch and maybe blood.
Is this how roses are supposed to work?
Roses!
No Blues TodayNo Blues Today in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I'm thinking back now, baby,
back to nineteen seventy-four,
and the day that we came walking
up to that old church door.
I was young and you were younger,
both as headstrong as could be.
But we knew what we had come for -
I wanted you, you wanted me.
It was three days after Christmas,
but old Santa could not bring
any gift that made me happy
like sliding on that wedding ring.
The years since then are long, babe,
and they are wide and deep as well.
All the pleasures, all the pains,
I will not attempt to tell.
But two blessings I will mention -
two splendid sons is what I mean.
And we're glad about a grandchild
w
Love LinesLove Lines in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I love you, baby, like a train loves a track.
You take me where I'm going, then you bring me back.
I love you, baby, like a flower loves a bee.
I know you can sting but you seldom sting me.
I love you, baby, like an actor loves a role.
You tell me what to do and I still feel control.
I love you, baby, like the winter loves the spring.
Until you melt the ice, I don't feel a thing.
I love you, baby, like a window loves a view.
I like the way you want me to want to look at you.
I love you, baby, like the blues love a song.
Got to sing soft or loud in a world that's gone wrong.
I love you, baby, like a story loves a book.
If there is a last
colour blind.She saw him at the park once. He was the colour of dirt; with bird eyes and white, mapped palms. Her little forehead lined as she felt the bile force its way up until her saliva was acid. She counted her toes and bit the inside of her cheek, should she run? Are they fast runners? She figured this one must be if he kept himself out of jail. The dark man flashed a mouthful of pebbles and held out his hand- which would have swallowed hers.colour blind. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
'Don't touch me.'
Her hands were all knuckles and her baby eyes tore into his. He faltered and stepped away, a half mouthed sorry. He looked upset, a grin spread like fire between her dimples.
Suddenly she
asthmashe smokes marlboro cigarettes with the bedroom door locked. i taste it on her breath, lips and skin everyday after school. her bed is a mattress on the floor. sometimes we make love on it and i wonder if she'd rather have her mouth around a cigarette than me right then. she has asthma too.asthma in Short Stories More Like This
she is my second cousin. i didn't know this until two years after we began fucking and three years after i fell for her. i don't think it really matters. emily says if i ever made her pregnant she'd make me punch her in the stomach, heavy and hard. but i never would you know, i love her.
the smoking is killing her. i hid the cigarettes beneath the sink,
my mouth is filling with sandmy brother used to tell me to hold my breath until i could hear the ocean in my head. and i did, it was a soft roar of sky fighting sea. eventually when my eyes rolled back like waves, he would make me breathe so i didn't drown.my mouth is filling with sand in Short Stories More Like This
he was always there to tell me to breathe out but now he is gone and i am forgetting how to.
we were very young when our father died (fell from a cliff photographing the moon) and our mother started dating the milkman. he was gangly man with white hair but otherwise very handsome. we didn't mind him at all. he made our mother smile and brought warm milk every night. but we missed our father and his stories about sta
of storms and skysee my hair dance wild as wind-strings jerk it about//hear the ocean-wind heave itself against us all- crashing into our eyes and mouth//feel the winter-wind brush our skins in summer//then inhale the heaviness of air and sink through the dirt- because darling, you don’t deserve god’s beautiful violence.of storms and sky in Other More Like This
(it drags the tree by its leaves saying kiss your trunk, kiss it and it does; releasing with a snap. the other trees flitter-flutter violently, crying within the cacophony of rain on concrete. white stars fall where light exists, and only sound where it disappears. the sky -the colour of sunburnt skin- watches it all with hunger. a
leavemedon'tleaveme.you make me sick. you make my stomach fold in on itself and press out against the lining of my flesh. you put lumps in my throat and you tie strings to my tear glands and tug until the world is just a panoply of blurred lines, hazy colour and bokeh.leavemedon'tleaveme. in Biography & Memoir More Like This
you made me do this. you put the knife in my fingers and you told me to tear, you said you would care if i hurt myself like this. you said you’d care if i opened my flesh up for you like a gift of blood and flesh and tissue. but you never really did.
i like being small, i like being the blue eyed girl sitting amidst background noise, rubber band arms holding the necks of her legs together.
you can't feel through fabrictonight the rain becomes the earthyou can't feel through fabric in Other More Like This
falling from hidden spaces in the sky and swollen clouds
i hear it make mud of dirt, and lovers of friends
and ask, quiet, where are you going but down?
i’m not all there in the head
you’re not all there in the head, my mother says
i’m not all there in the head i repeat
sometimes i’m there in my toes and fingers and heart as well
and now - in this downpour moment- i lie on the street
so warm that i think well that’s where love’s gotten to
but where is your shirt n? oh someplace else
and is that a light flickering in the house across the road? hide!
i rush in soaken w
pretty boys break hearts.sometimes I think I’m just a mess of badly drawn lines. I’m just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice.pretty boys break hearts. in Teen More Like This
my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does.
‘why do you love me?’
‘you make me happy.’
I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back wi
d.i.di.d.i.d in Free Verse More Like This
the first time i saw her
alone in the cafeteria
mourning herself
scrap of cling film
wrapped tightly around her finger
she said
i had a friend
but she died
and now i am not the same
she is the one i love
touching the edges
of a kitten sticker
on her french notes like it was her dead
grandmother in an open casket
blanched white fingertips
saying
no i am not the same
ii.
she hurts the world and
rapes the earth and
the rabbits scream and
the trees scream and
the air screams and
she sits at the hearth with fur in her hands
i go into work with bruises on my breasts
iii.
we do not kiss
or touch
or make love
because
From Whence She CameBack down to the sea-floor she goesFrom Whence She Came in Free Verse More Like This
back to the coracle-clusters and starfish that
clamour, cling to her heart too tight,
walking barefoot towards where she
came from. It is too hard walking on
earth, the way she wears pain like a wedding ring
frightens people.
Back down, down, crawling on her belly
on the forest-floor, alive with the buzz and crawl
of worms and bird-prey. Back where she belongs with her
crazy palpitating wolf-heart, her bloody
deer-throat leaking in the snow, her yellow
eyes in the dark.
Back down, beyond subway trains, piano lessons,
falling rain, from whence she came, to the snow-covered womb
where she fir
the lonely planet's guideIt was three AMthe lonely planet's guide in Free Verse More Like This
in Bastille.
It was three AM
in Bastille,
we were talking about
being happy
and I was too ashamed
to admit that I couldn't
remember how that felt,
staring stupidly at the
piss-stained bed and then
at the ceiling. There was a moth
the size of my heart and coloured
in like autumn and pain. That's me,
I thought,
and then threw my shoes at it.
The next day on the metro
somebody had scratched C'EST
A CHIER onto the window
and it was only then that
I felt the papery beating of
winged grief in my
stomach.
You might think that it's
pretentious to write about
Paris, but that's where I was.
So
nique ta m
My Heart Always Returns To MeMy sagging heart alwaysMy Heart Always Returns To Me in Free Verse More Like This
Returns to me; cringing
Like a wounded animal,
Tail between its legs, an
India-ink river of blood
Mapped across the kitchen floor.
I blindly follow these maps
Back to myself.
Like a wounded animal it lies
Whimpering and grotesque
On the tiles, flayed and shaking,
Reeking of iron and fur.
In my arms, my little animal
Slackens, shudders, is still for a while.
In it I can bury my breath, my face
As I wait for it to howl.
You Poor ThingI am sorry for your skeleton,You Poor Thing in Free Verse More Like This
the way you carry yourself when you walk into a room
like your arms are tied and your mouth is empty and you've been
kept prisoner for a year, waiting for a bird to arrive
at your window. Your eyes are full and I spread my hands and say this;
sorry, like a man abandoning his lover in a cloud of dust. I am sorry for
your eyes, resentful like a North American river.
Sorry, for everything, for your breasts and womanhood.
You are standing on the edge of eighteen
relunctant and awkward; you do not want
to spread your legs wide and let the world drop its' pants
to fuck you. You are standing on the edge of so
it is not enoughit is not enough just toit is not enough in Free Verse More Like This
miss you. i have to learn
how to walk again; how to
live without meat and
kissing, how to sleep
shaped like a balled up
fist. it is not enough
just to miss you. i have
to adopt twins in
Africa, name them Lost
and Weird, forget to
feed them. i have to
go to every pet store
in America and rescue
all the seahorses. i have
to tattoo D A R K B I R D
inside my lip and stand
in children's playgrounds
like a broken arm, creaking. it
is not enough just to miss
you. it has to hurt. i
have to write poems
that last forever, interpret
dreams about buildings
burning down, flies who
leave their partners fo
April3 HeavyI am butApril3 Heavy in Free Verse More Like This
A heavy oil
Painting,
That will never dry.
The paint is thick
And picture
Incomplete.
But my mouth
is dry,
And thus,
I can
show you
forever
in
A
mouthful of
dust and
rippling canvas
pond.
LostWe aren't ready for this world. This world isn't ready for us.Lost in Open More Like This
We turn diamonds into coal and bury it in our own inadequacy.
Tearing down what we have yet to build.
Anti-[Gg]ods
We bite the hand that feeds and spit in the eye of the beholder.
Because no one needs to tell us how disgusting we are.
Suffocating corporations with their own profits
Hanging priest with the same ropes used to tie down whores
Irony is a bitch.
We've become Technicolour shapes in a black and white world.
Beautifully, artistically, gracefully unraveling everything our ancestors tried to make us.
We raise our glasses to our own destruction
Sweet cyanide on t
April6 ComfortSome nights IApril6 Comfort in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Find comfort in that
I am not
The only one
Who is a failure
In love, life
Writing, joy
Friendships, art, speaking
And all else.
Other nights,
A sweating, weeping
Mess, I wake.
RecreationLet's paint the sunset with pieces of our ruptured mindsRecreation in Open More Like This
Using loaded steel paintbrushes pressed against hopeful pallets.
Clouds as vacant as our eyes will be the canvas.
I'll dance through the night with you, to
Hollow laughter and screaming thunder played
On the filthy windows
By our repulsive souls.
The air is succumbing to our heavy, cold, aching hearts.
You're leaving with the man on the moon?
Ease the door shut on the way out,
I don't want to make too much of a mess.
Aftermathmy hair smells of stale cigarettes andAftermath in Free Verse More Like This
accumulated interjections as i think of you now.im pulling
out 'horrors', i want to discard 'quits'. i want to pick out 'CHECKMATE',
and fix it on your existence with large amounts of duct tape and cheese.it should be
in red, it should be in caps,it should yell out how i conquered you, noticing
the way your insides stick out a little from the neck of your shirt, mostly towards the
left.you were a triumph puff after light years without the right kind of breeze.
my feet are cleaner but dry, and i miss having them high up in the air.tomorrow's music is
getting lost in this frenzy. it has found the e
If you wish to write a poemgo to your father, tell him thisIf you wish to write a poem in Free Verse More Like This
is painful, you should leave, we should stay
in the Mississippi- the fish get tired quicker
elsewhere.Write a letter to your first grade
teacher, say i lied, i really did
Steal from the girl
with two ponies and i'm
glad i did and then let you
Teach me about god. Its greater without another
syllable but goddammit that was grief,and i respect you
for your innocence. Write to your teenage self
Stop babies ahead but no don't
fuck around.When you want to write a poem
become a month of harvest instead.Write to yourself
for every letterbox you fruitlessly dissected in your teens,
for how you rea
untitleddsgfjindoors,i'm paling bonfires and verbing the nouns anduntitleddsgfj in Free Verse More Like This
death is a metaphor.the room sighs with the afternoon
grief,the morning grief, the early summer grief saddling
nightfall. the grains in your coffeejar are a thousand
condensed nightmares imitating mine.the room sighs as
love is just a metaphor. in photographs,the eyes grow closer ,
but lighter with the loss of regard. your hands probing through
my ribs find filthy similes eating at a faint throb.the throb,
the paling bonfire, the room with no doormats, no sky,
just blood and disease- affect lunging into attempts to
hide.inside,warming up for spite, expecting
crisis in the hub,i
these things happenim peeling the soles off my feet butthese things happen in Free Verse More Like This
everything is still strange and absent and
imaginary when im walking all over it. these
things happen.my fingers are all blood and
loose cuticles.im telling you, these things
happen and they're are always watching you through
a peephole with the kind of eyeballs that
turn into a doorknob and lock you in before
you know it.this is irrelevant and it
makes me poetic.
*
this morning i was in the
toilet, singing and imagining that im
at a party with all your friends watching me.
none of them was taking pictures of me. no one
told me i remind them of someone famous.i was ugly
with tufts of hair
Talk about..this is being written as i consider suicide.Talk about.. in Free Verse More Like This
the sleeping pills know the way to the garage and might
show me out before i begin to protest.
-
Letter to myself, from a week ago:
before ever attempting suicide:
read poetry or newspapers in the hope
that either will
change your life.try dancing again and fracture a toe/
sprain a ligament/bump into someone to
remind yourself of how it once changed your life.
cry over it,
get over it.be a black bird without mercy,
join a conspiracy,kill a
bitch and say im jealous of you.stop believing in
karma, put it in a tarot card and motion blur
the shit.give up trying to belong to
borrowed wa
MuteI made love to you one nightMute in Free Verse More Like This
and came back feeling as beaten
as the bus I sat in.
I held on to the frayed seat,
the weight of remorse
bearing down on me.
Staring out the window,
I felt my fingers numb.
Hidden away like a dreadful sin,
I still wait for you.
Come, suck the sweetness out of me.
Drink me, be sated.
Today, you celebrate your anniversary;
and my weakness.
Black and whiteMy hands are pressing piano keys,Black and white in Free Verse More Like This
black, white, white, black, white.
You are there, sitting at a distance.
Staring into the Earth, tall grass and shadows and all,
dirt waiting to get into your nails.
The sun here is always either rising or setting.
This is today and that, tomorrow.
We have no in betweens.
Another one, another timeThe stereo is vomiting our every song one by one.Another one, another time in Free Verse More Like This
But there is a silence, thick as custard
that tells a story of
two lovers and twenty thousand loves.
You are here with me, listening too.
Climbing on to my collar bone,
licking my earlobe and teasing my every sense,
before you settle, lodged between my ribs.
I think always, of how it would be
if we stayed close enough to touch
but not kiss,
to discover what we loved and hated
before we separated.
I wished that in the whiteness of your room,
I found a space next to you,
just by your side -
to see the world
the way you saw it.
Staring at the ceiling didn't
feel the same witho
Four SeasonsFour Seasons.Four Seasons in Free Verse More Like This
I want to see them all in a day.
I want to see Autumn,
I cannot be if the leaves don't fly
and fall to Earth.
I want to see Winter,
I cannot be without the caress of fire
in the wild cold.
I want to see Summer,
I cannot be without the long, hot days
as round as a watermelon.
I want to see your eyes,
I don't want to sleep if you're not looking at me:
I'd give up Spring
for you to keep on looking at me.
Notebook scribbles - 1My wandering mind rests in your eyes,Notebook scribbles - 1 in General Non-Fiction More Like This
trying in vain to understand.
One brief second, and it goes insane.
The thoughts are lost in all its vastness.
They have no connection and make no sense, but
they are plenty.
Plenty enough to keep me going, through all this madness.
The portal between the mind and eyes
is now but a thin line, as vague as it is unseen.
The mind is unaware of what the eyes convey.
The eyes fail to convey the message in yours.
I wish to tell you that it's me and not you,
but my being fails to comprehend.
All that is said now is nothing.
And again,
I let it be, for there really is nothing to say.
The OrificeLost in the proses of the questions the world posesThe Orifice in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
In the dusk of autumn percipitation
And the unbound relentless frost that forms inside.
Wish to vanquish and make tranquil the greylands
and the high roads
Both in the way of crossing over to the other side.
To believe there is more to the world than fascist order
and join the pacifist side.
Walls of the labyrinth are painted with mud, honey and technicolour dreams
And on the walls there is an Orifice to fill them with stories
Stories we live through, enjoy and endure.
We are intertwined.
We are a Story.
Life is just a rideThe eerie night has crept in through the back door. Morning was spent in pursuit of happiness, in wanting to acquire lust for life. These lonely streets leave me in oscillating polarity. No pain no joy no love no hate. The calm outside is only to pose as an opposite to the sweet cacophony inside. The journey to the edge will make us realize that the edge exists till the extent of our discovery. Life is just a ride.Life is just a ride in Emotional More Like This
DreamscapesThe outline is halfway done. I want to paint my dreams with stronger strokes, with brighter colors. The outcome should not be a result of preconceived notions. It should be a symbol of my presence but should also reflect on my ambiguity. Every layer should scream of my contemplation, my journey. Now that I think about it I realize that it doesn't need an outline. It doesn't need definition. It should be painted on my shell once I come out of it.Dreamscapes in Emotional More Like This
To us and our firefliesDrenched by the luminescence under the saffron skies, beyond the train tracks and the muddy crossroads we leave our world behind to enter a simpler time. A time to be a child and be amazed by blinking lights. The trees, the wind, the sky and the fireflies will resonate inside me. The beauty of everything that day was amplified and magnified by the presence of her. Some words were spoken though none were required. Nothing could steal the magic. Je t'adore.To us and our fireflies in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Sta.sh
