it isnt really an island, butthis skin i'm inMore Like This
it isn't me so much
as my toes
are my feet
my fingers are my hands
my eyes my face;
and it isn't me
so much, when i smile
or cry, or fall apart
down splitting sides
it isn't me so much
these lips (that speak
for me) and i rarely invade
the privacy of my heart
but then i get lost, in
all the things that are
supposed to be (me, but
aren't), in who they are
and why (no matter
how hoarse i make her throat
with screaming after her)
she doesn't come when i call
I have Is in the back of my hedonism.
When I finish there will be a river
Translucent and cascading
I know you are a busy man, but just try to think of it from my point of view."
What, in a g-string and bra?
When I begin there will be no end
reminder to selfwhen i grow up i'm going to get bags andMore Like This
bags of seeds and scatter them in the
rain all around my neighbourhood,
chuck them into empty lots.
i'm going to get a mirror
and write you are
beautiful on the top of
it and put it on a wall
of a building on a busy street and
when i grow up i'm going
to write love letters to
strangers and big descriptions of
what i did today
and post them to street addresses i'll
make up and put toys and random
objects in people's letter boxes, like
a corkscrew and a live frog
and i'm going to get a white board
with a pen and put it in an alley way
and put a sticker saying my
thought of the day on
the bottom of it then
me and my friend, we'll
stand on the opposites of the
street and pretend we're pulling
on a big rope and hope the car
crashes aren't too loud
and i'll draw a map of everywhere i've
seen wild fennel growing, and mint and
mulberries and take you there. i'll make
you a tea that stains your teeth with
the water we got for free from the
you in your mouthi am curious about youMore Like This
of course, i'd like
to know how many sugars
if any, i think i'd like
to know how well
done. but i'm not sure
of course, if i should be
curious (or otherwise)
if it is indecent
of me to speculate
ponder how much milk
wonder what textures
maybe i should wait
for the situation
to present itself
rather than spend
these days thinking
it isn't really autumnwe taught our graceMore Like This
to fly, and it taught
us to stay
tethered to our dreams
in a frightful way
like leaves do to branches
-or no-\maybe you regret things almost instantly afterward,More Like This
maybe even before
\maybe you want to be able to regret
because in the end you still did, and you still know
\maybe it's a yes.
nothing's real to me. things just are
i think i remember basic rules of how the world works
how things govern themselves in numbers
a set of ways to be
sometimes i forget
completely forget what is the norm
and i'm left completely in awe of myself
when i forget what it is i have to do, or say
when a phone is ringing.
Lip textures on lip feathersi begin to lecture, as i do;More Like This
instruct the moon on how to shine
,the breeze to be, to breathe
the innocence of a smile to curl
.in the right spotlight.
the perfect wind speed, velocity
gravity pulling up through our feet
errant sense of middles
we all fall down.
Of what a kiss should be.Today, today I felt as if I would break. In a gentle way. With the pain of some kind of realisation. Or theory. Or delusion, fitting to such strange situations. Perhaps not strange at all—same? The acidic grind of the same wheels turning the same cogs the same outcome, the same clock striking time to sleep.More Like This
I don't think it's up to thinking about what I should have dones, how I could've changed things. What you could of… it's only blame. And regardless of the supposed weight lifted off of one, it never takes away the negation of the entire experience.
Why do we say we feel hollow when we can still feel? Sometimes it's only an overload of emotion. Not a lack there of. I think it's feeling paper thin. Part of, but apart, like tissue wrapping paper, translucent; like cellophane and just as gaudy. Made to be thrown away.
I think it was craft. I think it was a dress being crocheted, filling up with time, sleeves, neckline, bust, waist, hem… and then the unraveling, until all it was, was eno
hold me tightssometimes i think im going to break. collide with splinters and be a part of oblivionMore Like This
particles of energy renewing into another
i think it could be beautiful
breaking apart in shafts of light like a covered cave, floor and ceiling fingers cracking to view the world for once in a long stand still moment
lost in an isolation of time
the truth as otheri get the best thoughts in your boarded up toiletMore Like This
shutting the door tight and hiding where you won't find me.
it hasn't been used for years. the window beams
orange light at me through the cardboard.
it's warm in here, it's filled with spider breath, and i could pretend
i was an earl, with web-hair clumped as curls.
the air is dust and mould and 1980-something -
i can't quite pick the vintage.
i let it settle on my tongue and try my best to keep quiet
you'll hear me and if you do...
i tend to find perfect presents for people i used to know
ten, five, two years too late.
sometimes i buy these things just because of the feelings they evince, they procure. i leave them in places their younger selves might wander through.
do you like it?
and i don't do so well with thank yous as i'd like
no i don't do so well with you at all
i think it's kind of crazy to rely on one thought, one goal, one ability, one truth
and i find it kind of ridiculous that i tend to never follow my own
and the little umbrellasmonsoon luscious rainMore Like This
battering into me like chidings for
being bad, being unclean
the rain washes away
the need to breathe
fills my lungs with heavy air
so close to fish lungs
you could give me
(in the empty spaces
between each rib);
everyone else is asleep exceptOpen the back door, slide it across the metal seperator quietly, slowly peel back the doorwayMore Like This
let yourself out.
and it is quiet and it is stonework surrounding cool
careful to stick to the stepping stones
large enough for two pairs of shoes
(but i am alone)
i can feel silver on my skin
it started pulsing towards me many minutes before i had even woken
you are cool breezes susurrating on my cheeks
forgotten chatter floating from the next house
the next doorway
the next city
on a different continent where your mother is buried
i come back here sometimes
when everyone else is asleep except for the cockroaches
and the streetlights
- it is just their time to shine
and we all miss it
miss so much of it
i am bare foot and bare shouldered
i am awake
but i am entranced by the moss creeping from the ground,
bleeding upwards to the kiln, the kettle steamer, the stone
oven where you begin your parties in
i am so afraid of the destruction of it
when there will be no b
in the future. nowi cannot tellMore Like This
whether or not
it's the weather
or my toes are
cold for other
on top of me
like all the
oceans and all
and dead things
and oil spills
and a need
it is only a romantic notion
a dream for a higher purpose
special things that seperate
there was something worth it
up there, you told me
no one would ever think to look for me
(i too, deserve the sun, sometimes, sometimes)
you asked never
you asked never to
never to sing
you asked never
never to sing
you asked never
never to sing
never to sing
never to sing that song to you
watercolour my eyes a song
over the mountains
hold my ears close
and berate brush strokes - to my
solidify words in my mouth
so hard and crystal sharp
they bleed into my stomach
and grow trees up my pipes
blooming you morning
on all my photographs
a decade ago i
Myself Within MeThe stylings of myself within meMore Like This
Lead.... unto paths divided
As Edgar Allan Poe is
To Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Revolving in circles
Unveiling chasms of cataclysmic catastrophies
Nullifying enchantment and imagination
Leaving monstrosities to seek the child within
Only to embellish nothing
Of fantasy and make-believe
Duly noting this knowledge
Is it not better
To have dreams of starry-eyed playfullness
And dance upon the clouds
With everlasting joy and hope?
Seeking happiness can only come
From me within myself
And the childhood fantasies
Not so long ago forgotten...
forgotten canopyi (here) it whispering through its fingertips.More Like This
reaching over as if to bow, as if to tip it's hat in favour of me.
and trailing little soft green fingernails, gracing the wind.
a little large parasol for me to wander under.
and crunching under deliciousness in ears ringing silent.
breezes cornering a corner not to be a found.
and your braille coverings, your suit of beautiful erodings, your mantle of growing outers.
caressing me like no mother ever (w)could.
and your cool breath as i wonder, is it me you're looking for...
and these little tricklings of warmth as i see streams of sun beneath your interlacings, your cloak of sky surrounding.
i am mesmerised by your fervour, and your hidings, hidden findings.
you can stand tall in your seriousness and then break back, double back in compliance, in grace, in honour of the wind.
it is in moon breaking through, crystal slivers in your eyelids, between each graceful arm, extending.
reminded of a pact forgotten in the pirouetting faulter of you
hiddenI like dreaming about things that will never beMore Like This
Like being with
Like losing in lips
Like walking along old pathways
I suppose its just the child in me
I suppose its just the child in me
I pose i ju t t il i
su s s just the me
I supp e d
Simple Things Work BestYour faceMore Like This
a sink full
of dirty dishes.
Clatter-bang rattle; muffled
by detergent bubble mountains.
Waving sponges and scourers
like banners, brandishing
gleaming steel wool lumps;
battering rams against stubborn nasties,
wearing away soured emotions,
baked-on scum and grease alike.
Solitary domestic frolicking
keeping me out of my head
and on my to-do list.
focused on the
Regularity pausing the anxious
counting-down, broken from weeks
into days, into minutes,
ticking with booming strokes,
winding down to wind me up
till I decompose into a grotesque
collection of mushy fragments
that must be dredged from the bottom
of the sudsy sink.
batteries unincludedyou are an hourMore Like This
sixty minutes of sixty tickings
in this hour is every word
youve ever said
i have an old wrist watch my father gave me
i say old, because five years is a long time when it is a quart of your life.
i use it to count you.
staring at the straight lines and reflecting the tubed light into a dancing circle on the wall
a spotlight for an ant
i imagine a woven straw hat and cane
there was always dancing wasnt there?
there was, but it was never us that were dancing. its just a configuration.
you know, of talk.
something we forgot all about.
perhaps it wasnt forgetfulness but forced ignorance.
you know, being stubborn, like stains you can never get out in the morning.
Anyone, no?The rain sounds different now. In a way I can'tMore Like This
explain. There is just a staccato
missing another onomatopoeic place that I cannot
find again. I think
Her lips were sticky with something akin to passion.
Her lips were sticky
Her lips were something akin to passion
Her lips were s k in
Her lips were something
Ardent AnatomyPainting murals with our hearts' blood;More Like This
if that doesn't say it all
then count me as permanently unfinished,
words spout from cadaverous crater-pores
with every violent throb of my swollen tongue.
Beating out a tune on our eardrums
and if that isn't beautiful,
then count me as forever marred,
with quivering quarter notes
cascading intermittently from cartilage envelopes.
Weaving blankets with our muscle fibers;
if that doesn't swear fealty,
then count me as incorrigibly fickle,
evading knots of all types by pure texture,
oiled and sinuously writhing tendrils dangling free and loose.
Carving pendants from our bones,
and if that isn't purely love-struck,
then count me as soulless,
a hollow, brittle organic shell, without warmth,
utterly empty of the intricacies of emotion, spirit and desire.
in no senseYou're innocent in your little way.More Like This
How you let your hair frizzle into disarray in the rain. You always had your hair out, no matter the social climate. Letting tendrils fall, distracting eye gazes; questions never answered, or only ever answered with another question.
Innocent in the way you inhaled quiet carriers of later decades' surprise, so easy, as if you were born to swim. I, well… I would splutter if I ever wanted to. But I was always content to taste fires only on your tongue.
Your words are razorblades. Cutting the guilt of childhood into my veins like so many same copies of a lie. You disregard their television upbringings, their sugar-coated mass made freedom and smile at them cherrily, like roses, but deeper.
You say hue, I say who?
I told you once that I forgot what it was I was supposed to be crying about. Like the chariot of Hades had got stuck 'round the back of Zeus' place, and I just couldn't wait for them to stop fucking.
You told me to stop being ridiculous, you sa
we follow rulessometimes i cant bear itMore Like This
and to fall apart
would be to build back up again
what little of nothing
you left me with
im sorry i spoke of tuesday--
that thursday followed your saturdays
its a restlessness
a quietude that frightens me
not overtly pulling away fine wisps of sanity
as tears call toward the ground
but straying behind each errant thought
coercing visions so real
i cannot detract from them
but it is a hollow want
a flesh of feeling teased between closed eyes
of reconciling past as truth
truth as lies
lies as my disenchantment with quite a few words
whatever of a course
no matter how strong a resistance
there is always
As IfIf you can hold your drink when all about youMore Like This
are losing theirs and aiming it at you,
if you can drive your car when all men doubt you,
but make allowance for the coppers too;
or need to pee but not be tired by waiting,
or after peeing dont forget your flies;
on politics or football start debating
and yet dont look too good nor talk too wise.
If you can drink and not make drink your master;
if you can talk and not make sense your aim;
if you can still stand up although youre plastered
and shout at passing women dirty names;
if you can bear to hear the truth tomorrow
of how you acted like a total fool
and caused your girl to sob in shame and sorrow
when you picked up that tart from Liverpool
If you can take your childrens Christmas money
and risk it on one turn of pitch and toss
and lose, and laugh like it was funny
and never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force yourself just to continue
to drink another pint of foaming ale
and stay upright whe
Puerile Perforce Part 23"There can be perfection in flesh," bright bleached eyes enthralled with their lie device.More Like This
"However fleeting it is; these small moments of ears ringing silent, where all energy is focused to a fine point, all the universe is, is the energy in that moment. Where you don't breathe, don't blink, don't say a word. Perfection. You learn things about yourself, Lily. You learn about people. About the world, the universe—God. God is in me, in you, waiting to come. Out. Everything starts to become clear, the muddied waters of perception become celestial springs for one moment. Which is why I do what I do. To get closer to god—to me. Perfection is very nearly a lie. For it is only in that fleeting moment, in that half realised epiphany. And then, and then the reality of the person next to you. That ultimately you have shared nothing with, given none of yourself to. Perfection in flesh is almost nearly a lie."
I could still smell her on my fingers. Disgusting child-sweet perfume. Ambrosia: nectar
safe-house songyou tie your words togetherMore Like This
like loose thread, leaving
nothing left to trip over: no trail to follow.
your voice is shallow, heartbeat
steady as the cadence of the second-hand.
Away from the window,
admission flows forth like mercury.
yes, i held my breath. yes.
i can still smell the earth;
can still imagine the
insouciance of spring
path to dublin or somewhereThe path to Dublin is a devout nomad, wandering this way and that under the feet of a season sprinting off into a little town to smolder in the field or in the sky, to end a life turned over on its colder side. The path to Dublin is covered in dust. Sometimes it is disturbed by hooves crested with uncertain horseshoes or feet guided by a mind too shy to ask faith for directions.More Like This
Sometimes it remembers that the weight of the world once plodded above its head, curved its spine. Sometimes it just forgets and winds itself to the edge of a cliff where a lighthouse stands waving its yellow-sleeved arm in the distance, claiming to know where a road can finish its earthly sprawl into eternity.
Sometimes I think the path to Dublin is a river gone dry. The way autumn paddles desperately about as if it died drowning in another life leads me to believe this. The way the path wrinkles and scabs by simply running into a night's chill tells me that it spent its childhood on the leash of the sea, but
IndiAnna Bonesinsipidly chartreuse, she spoke:More Like This
i am a newborn revolutionary
in active first person singular;
im not in the business of sense
she wrapped her bones
into wire hangers and
(with what unwitting fingers?)
like crazed pensioners.last night i ran out into the night, telling myself i didn't know you, it was breezing tough, the trees were howling like fingernails on chalkboards, like biting down hard, acidentally, on forks. but i wasn't cold. i was angry-warm and i was crying.More Like This
i often find it funny how perspective is so inaccurate. how driving daylight past these green slats piked into the ground to keep the children away from the world, you can see right through them. but here, alone at night, with silent bipedal action, i can only see through a few slats at a time. feeling barred in on one side, feeling shadows behind me.
sporadic bursts of light careen on slick wheels, barks of laughter or bites of popular trash digested and expunged so flippantly. and if it were any other day next month the sounds would be completely different.
i am a taste of a time.
dogs moan like croaking lawn mowers, refusing to start, chugging hello to winter in lazy updrafts of elegant smoke, hyper-ventilated into brief asthma attacks.
MayflyMore Like This
When we were mayflies our wings were
worn from wire screens, but the tentative
beats of your belly chimed like iron.
And it occurred to me that through
the breeze of burning leaves our eyes
were open to wasps and weeds.
Cigarette AnalogiesMore Like This
It is four o seven in the morning and I'm sitting in the bathroom, between the twin sinks, with my bare feet up against the rough-hewn tile wall across the way. I've been watching dark rings form under my eyes for the last hour and a half. The mirror has been cold, unrelenting in its dutiful stare back at me. I refuse to go to bed. I'm trying to get your sweet cigarette analogies out of my head.
You kissed me outside the night before, the cold so biting that it made my nose sting as it touched yours. The fat flakes of a surprise snowfall drifted down around us, glowing in an unnatural shade of gold against the luminescent streetlights, so strategically placed to break up the secret embrace of an obsidian darkness trying its hardest to scare those who must walk in it alone. They came to rest ever so briefly on your thick, delicate eyelashes but melted instantly as you blinked to break the contact I was so deliberately making with your sad, sad eyes. The only eyes I had ever found to be
there Are GunsI wasMore Like This
born, a man from China,
I was born.
thatboy, I was.
(I poured the mouse into the guillotine to get to higher ground || well the toll was due)
love is like birdi think im getting a bit too fidgetyMore Like This
staring silence onto walls again
looking through people,
ignoring flickers of recognition like goldfish picking at flakes
or my fingertips
im walking with an aim of nothing
i shudder at the words im supposed to be saying
like its supposed to supposed to
and i could eat my apathy with ribbons
splattering sugar on the cement
[i didnt buy them]
i collect--much too many a thing
i collect people
in my head
short films of them
it doesnt matter that reality lies to me with
black and white shades of grey turning everything into a big mess of purple
when i like you
black when i like you
black when i dont
and everything is purple anyhow
i need no glasses to tell you i dont see the same colours as you
but i know you
and i know you dont know me
i never knew you
im suffering from high doses of pleasantry
the easiness between us, is only me playing the game the way my mother taught me
with a smile and mu
countingwe here define courtesyMore Like This
by the beauty of weekday faces
and monday mornings
wet shower hair and shampoo
ungloved winter hands and bare feet.
you look like you should be in bed,
sweet and undone,
pale light drifting 'cross your face.
and i measure time in summers and the number of repeats
a song takes before it loses its power;
the number of days it takes for me to wish you ill,
because i am a coward and a liar;
the surprise attacks of love that take place
over warmth, heads on shoulders, and nervous violins;
the stretch of realization
that we have a very long time to live
and very many years to stand on stages alone
rehearsing lines we'll never ever say
face anotherhopefully there could just be another faceMore Like This
she asked so why arent you crying?
because i lost my heart years ago
before i was born
and i had not a say
so there isnt much use crying over something i cant change
the point is revenge.
i'll kill that fucker of a moon, one day.
you are a sorrow no words that i borrow
could ever unravel
as silk does, in rewind
from spindle to worm
and when i think whatever i could manage
would only be hollow forgery
as soft satin
trailed across lips
i wonder the imprint your
feet leave on every heart you
if traces of my laugh
somehow got caught up in your eyes
or perhaps my penchant for mockery
in your hands; clutching
confetti of names
i would have to say
i have your acrid cynicism
, coupled with my own
makes for a strange mess
she asked so why arent you crying?
i said i am but it isnt from me
she asked how do you mean?
i allow every landscape to become my own
for mine is a sorry excuse
A favorite poem by: anonymousForgive me:More Like This
oh my friend let me apologize,
for not obstructing your path of wrong.
For not having my eyes open,
while i led you on a crazy route.
For letting you follow my misfortunes,
for sharing with you the drink of the devil,
for inhaling wit you the smoke of hell,
for encouraging you to hurt, maim, and kill.
For making you laugh when you should have cried,
Oh my friend how sorry i am,
for not shielding you,
for not being the one,
for letting you be unaware,
for watching you die in my arms,
Oh my Friend will you ever forgive me,
for surviving, for living,
for being the one in whose arms you died...
TragedyGoddamn it, I hate this weather. I mumbled to myself, walking through the parking lot of the local Wal-mart Supercenter. The sun is so freaking bright that you cant see a fucking thing, but the wind is so cold you can't hardly move. I wish that bitch would make up her mind.More Like This
Looking up at some of the well landscaped trees against the blue-white winter sky, I added to the bitch herself, Fuck you, Mother Earth.
As I walked past the automated doors, which opened and closed like the jaws of some great beast feasting on the offering of rednecks, snot-nosed kids and college students filing dutifully down its fluorescently lit throat, a gust of that godforsaken wind picked up. I shivered despite my long coat, jeans and the scarf an ex had given me that Christmas, one of those incredibly stupid because were still friends gifts.
Stopping at the corner of the building to light a cigarette, I took the well-planned opportunity to look around. A
generally speaking. I loveToday it is simple.More Like This
It begins with caves opening to reveal blindness for little seconds before my eyes painfully adjust. Travels on up a steep slope that jagged legs, crinkle left and right to straighten, when everything is level. Ten minutes pass (remember: Im always almost always lying about the time, but its only because I dont remember), and on the eleventh, Im wet with water that couldve touched so many dead things before it washes over my lips.
But still, morning comes with clean. And when I open my eyes to streaming water I feel happier when it is not mine; let it wash clean my orbs, blaze them fire-dance red and inject some life between me and the paramecium waltzing on my lidded hallucinations.
Its so I dont get lost in the sound of the fan sucking up all the steam of me. So I can focus on two red dots collided with blood maps surrounding two dots of chocolate indecision. So I dont have to dwell on the reason why clothes fade.
And The Months...-January-JanuaryMore Like This
is the moment
our hands met,
creeping after coldness
into hope, hibernating
in the innocence of wishing this could
be the masquerade finally stripped bare.