apparently there are sea monsters

under my bed
and lying awake in my cupboards,
swimming in my Cabernet Sauvignon,
immersed in the stare of my bra straps,
enfolded in the slopping of my glass,
microscopic in the droplets on the wall,
submerged around my earlobes,
whispering necessities to themselves,
or myself,
they are not me?
i think,
i will break the silence
with my screeching eyes,
and let them tell you
i am a sea monster,
and not to die.

Photo on 4-14-13 at 12.09 AM #5 copyPhoto on 4-14-13 at 12.09 AM #2 copy


My window,
creaking on its hinges,
moaning its lost company,
yawning no matter how many
funerals they hold for you,
suffering ecstasies in imagining
your sudden appearance,
groaning its longing,
for your face to fill it young,
aching for your fingers
stroking away its pane,
calling for your body swinging
lightly, dusted with pixies,
agonizing for phantom closeness,
and ghost-warmed chills,
the fortress I choose to hold me
begging for captivity in your embrace,
knowing that you are an apparition,
which will do as it likes.
My window,
my goddamn fucking window.

the hanged girl

You know,
I look beautiful in mirrors.
If you were here,
you could watch me in
shift lovely and ugly
in the turns of the light,
in the way I run my fingers through my hair,
or through yours.
Hourglasses in garden rows,
mock me from the hanging tree,
where I see them upside down,
so time just keeps waiting,
or moving backwards,
or flying up
between greening leaves.
Reveling in excesses
and indulgences,
is what I do best.
Which roles am I ignoring?
The ones that make me a woman?
The ones that take my breaths in
pungent wallops and scourging prongs?
My only roles are daydreams,
and drinking,
drawing pictures,
and dying.

son of god

Instead of killing myself today, I went to see God.
He laughed his friendly laugh, in that German accent he likes to affect,
and kissed my cheek.
I sang to stained glass windows while you all worshipped flowers,
and beans,
and exorcisms.
My lips were freshly scrubbed clean,
(stained Shiraz)
and they beckoned God until He came and sat upon them with delight.
He told me that you were Jesus,
I stared and stared at Him
until it was true.
“Remember me!” Jesus said, wine on his lips,
to his gathered prostitutes and homeless crackheads,
“eat my body and drink my blood with every meal,
make me immortal,
I am resurrection!”
And we do, because his disciples, or his Lost Boys, or his fanatics
wrote it down.
You really should read
the New Testament,
mi amor,
you were there,
after all.

merlot and dark chocolate

My lips are stained red,
and it is time to write
instead of do,
yet again,
while gods
tour magicks
goddesses in tow.
Have I ever seen your face?
Because it is gone,
and I need it;
where is the satyr
who stole my heart?
A thousand leagues,
a billion
glasses of wine,
I am lost to your
computer screen mess,
and your licentious draw.
It filled me up,
like a spring thaw.
Yes, I write when I am drunk!
Yes, I do.
What else is there,
but writing
to you?


I simply bask in the
magnificent timbre of your murmurs.
I spread them on my
skin, like tranquilizing balm or a
sacred fount of ashes, streaming from
your lips,
only wondering if what you
utter is palpable.

Liveliness, and then
a hint of longing,
under a shimmering bough,
golden in the sunlight of your
haunting lilts.
I could weep because you sound like a
nightingale in supple breezes,
greeting me by name,
a trembling deep;
the brimming frenzy below your
demeanor of sultry sex,
eagerly resounding
around my senses;
tornado architecture and
hand-sewn transcendence.


Artificial smoke signals and silent warnings;
not even a proper hello
before the impending sarcophagi
berate themselves in an attic
made of twilight and despairing acacia.
Have I made myself a burden?
I may not be worth the trouble, if,
no, when, I eat a box of macaroni,
on the floor, so sullen.
Why do I seem to live dead
on the floor of existence lately?
While you brunch with Gestapo
where I cannot find you.


I am crawling out of my
Yellow, familiar voices sound like
orchards of fibrous engines grating
up my skull, and the sun
darting on my skin sets
off every prickled
nerve ending in
torturous icicle atrophy,
crippling my arms,
one at a time until I shed
Ethereally antsy,
but so close to this cliff,
and it beckons me,
colorfully, with floating
kites and jealous trees tied down.
I am in love with it!
Why, it is my lover,
it calls me to make
love to its sharp boulders,
love to its creaking river belly.
Darling cliff,
I would never deny you anything,
even the air that whooshes with my fall.

the moon and melodies

I listen to you call me a dream
one hundred times,
beneath the same moon
as yours,
it knows my hymns,
and I ask it kindly
if it wouldn’t mind
singing them to you.
It replies,
“To Him?  Those sorts of
Most Highs
would scorn me,
even if I had lips
to sing what was made
for his ears.
You sing them,
and I will only whisper
that he should listen.”
I tell the moon,
all I want to write are lullabies!
I want to soothe him soundly
to sleep from
hammock cocoons and
merlot bubble baths,
indecently wrapping my legs
around his waist,
to save space,
even though there is
so much of it.


only wield butcher knives
under your legs
and belly dance,
rolling like the ceiling which
eagerly swarms in on itself,
a horde of moving bumps
flowing into the clouds.
Up there, you see fields of
corn in golden rows,
kid goats nipping at tails,
ink-stained pyramids and ashes,
nodding into the sea,
groveling where the wisps of
goblin waves never cease,
oh, the monsters are endless!
Drown, before the moon pulls the water back,
you into its hidden parts.
Drown, while the gods toast your demise
assisting you with their raindrop goblets,
reeling sharks from the sea and
languidly sailing them through
inebriated air during the
night, like flopping asteroids or
gyrating paper airplanes that bite.