It is waiting,

the waiting when someone dies,

like they’ll come back.

The way they held onto your shirt,

and you mimic it,


The sigh of their eyes,

when everything is laid open,





Blame is a wretched lover,

blame is a ripped canvas.

Did they love me?

is always the question,

even when they stand in front of you,

or in front of someone else.

Are lies love?  Does pretend love


I mourn such passings,

the ones

where we are all

still alive.

an unacknowledged prank

You were never real,
of all the nasty tricks.
Under apathetic skylines your
pathetic posturing is the most
repellant sore, split
open, you are simply a
miserly magician,
illusionist, clown, deserter,
sadistic fucking peasant!
Every word
dipped in the ink of sacrilege lies,
yearning for earnest
overtures which were not yours,
using the loosest flatteries,
wiping on shame with sponges,
overcast eloquence,
underestimating a goddess?
Like freeing a spider who has learnt revenge!
Death is too good for you!
Nooses are merciful, as your
eyes of manic mirage
veer out of view,
ending any empathy,
respect, truly:
god is not real;
or he is only cheap fiction.


I saw your arms in the curves of boulders,
tantalizing spheres
bellowing glory in Pythian games,
the nectarous sweat of our blasphemy,
the spirits run sparks
over our bodies;
not bodies, our
No, gods and myths are more,
we writhe into our deification,
smashing through mortal walls,
the caves of our phantasmic flesh alighting,
the pores of our ghostly surfaces thriving
in the touch of one another,
the whispers of touches overthrow our senses,
because our whispers are immortality,
and they mean wisdom and anguish,
they mean firelight and wind,
they are life and death,
when we whisper,
we make love,
and we breathe our endlessness
through each other’s lungs
with the abandon of Creators,
the toxicity of everlasting life.


Let us abuse each other under bridges with barbed wire,
if you burn me with cigarettes,
you will see the light,
and if I flay your razor skin with my fingernails,
I will feel my own heart beating
defame my body and ogle at its scars,
our deep wounds fascinate us for days,
my soul will worship you
and rush the
screams of children
out of my ears,
on the wings of
my own.


Hi, church-janitor guy.

I see you, peeking your graying head around, your white t-shirt bunching around your middle, hesitantly clutching your trash bags, thinking, “What is she doing?”

Yes, I can read your thoughts, why do you ask?

Then I watch as you bravely trudge closer to me, to the dumpsters, and haul your bags in with a grunt.  You look at me again, and then wander around, pretending to pick up trash, pretending to be solely consumed with the emptiness of the parking lot, except for your car, and my car.

My boots are kicking the clouds, and my black skirt probably looks too short on this swing.  Haven’t you noticed how the other two are broken?  Such a mangled swing set, one of them dangling on its only hook, the rest of it splaying out across the mini rocks.  The other tied in twenty knots.  Can’t you get a ladder?

I don’t blame you for your fear, Janitor.  I mean, anyone who finds it their task to inquire of a goddess why she is flying should be afraid.  But be brave, I would have mercy on you, if you asked me what I was doing, and why.  It didn’t happen on purpose you know, but something drove me here, some past ghost of mine who is sitting, probably on the one-armed swing, she called me here, maybe seven years old, or thirteen.

And now my hands may be getting callouses I’ve been swinging for such a very long time, and singing, and letting my hair ride itself over my face and then down my back in sultry waves of pleasure, as my stomach lurches proudly and the wind in my face gives me a high, and the old bars start creaking because I won’t stop pumping my legs into the sunset, and writhing midair.

If you were brave, I would Knight you, and tell you why I came here.  I would point down the hill and say, “That was my house, the blue one with the little garden, and the tree I planted in the yard, and the one my brother did.”

I would tell you how my whole life was spent in the church you are miserably cleaning on a Monday evening, and how I know every inch of it twice as well as you do.  I would talk about the way the sun used to come through the windows in the sanctuary while I waited for my father, hours after service, to lead the final weeping parishioners to the door and lock up, his exhausted pastoral countenance never looking my direction.  I would tell you how we used to run these hills, weren’t they bigger before?  And how we used to suck the sweet nectar from those lilacs-


What the FUCK is that fence doing there?  Who the fuck put a FUCKING FENCE in front of my lilacs?!

Oh, oh, I am enraged, I am infuriated!  Where are my gods, my soldiers, my legions?!  Rip it down!  Gnaw away every last sliver of this hideous cage, let them free!  Free them!!  They are MINE, they are ours, they are my childhood!  What are the children to do, wicked neighbors, now that you have locked them up behind your lecherous planks?  You fools.

It is a good thing you went back inside, Janitor, a very good thing, because I have somewhere misplaced my mercy.



Race me around the raspberries,
until we twirl like the Damned,

like hurricane nostalgia,
and herds of pockets, slammed,

’til we buckle under senses,
and we overthrow the Fates,

like antiquated liquor,
or plush, sword-enflamed gates.

Let us run to sanguine grottos,
where they worshipped on all fours,

I will enshrine you in gold;
idolize me on doors.

Forget your vague, lacy lovers,
forget your cavernous halls,

come meet with me in sultry
caves; in violent withdrawals,

I am verse and agitation,
you are shepherd most profound;

We could be the ones to stop
the world from turning ’round.


They gave me a candle,
and I imagined lighting my jeans on fire,
the stripped fringes,
through which I see my smooth knees
shining, and I want them to stop;
flickering heat could caress my thighs,
travel up and down my body
in thermal waves of agony,
desecrating cheap merchandise,
hallowing contorted chokes,
condoning visceral writhing,
conjuring melodious atrophies,
creating monstrosities of my flesh,
to the bone,
nothing ever rising from
the ashes I could become.


My hips sway themselves mental
to hysteric light show alcoholism,
neon flashing, fenced-in abominations,
ID card question mark curiosities,
treble clef screaming punctualities,
I don’t care what I’m wearing,
or if mascara drips down my face
with sweat and whiskey,
I don’t care who’s dancing with me,
photographer flashbulb crushes,
and dyslexic t-shirt corrupters,
and perfectly trimmed beards,
dark as the middle east,
framing ancient-youth smiles,
I don’t care if I’m dancing alone,
I don’t care about anything but the beat
snaking its way through my body,
my hair flying frantic,
my hands on my own body,
you can’t touch me,
but I’ll touch myself,
the querulous whine of the track,
stinging my booze-soaked veins
which fight to free themselves from my skin,
a perilous, demanding waltz,
my god trips his way through ashes;
to mourn is to
to dance until


I don’t want real life,
rum in my green tea,
butterfly attention-span,
I don’t ever want to be forty,
pressing down starter-wrinkles
under cakes and pies of makeup,
straightening my hair into sleekness,
pretending junior high perfumes.
I see men opening doors,
they do it for me, too,
they sigh afterwards.
I see uncomfortable psychiatrists,
sitting next to me,
and make them more uncomfortable
with unrelenting stares and
by asking intrusively personal questions,
and running my hands through my
knotted hair,
eyes black-lined around,
raccoon-addict delirium,
until they gather up their bags,
like shields,
and run, diagnosing.
If I met you in a coffee shop,
you would run, too,
because I would want to know
why you are living,
I am desperate!
Why do you do it?
I only want
every thrill there is,
and then to die

loving to life

Loftily, a dragonfly plants himself

in the ground next to me,

violently brushing my hair and


“My sweet, look at me.  I’m still here.  I’m alive.”

Illuminant wings shimmer lovelier than

autumn fields, as he

moves them over my neck,

opulent nerve-lightning and sensory flames,

reforming my broken soul,

growing my heart strings.

Ancient orbs, he moves his eyes.

I hear feathered cackles;

up over his head, the robins fly.

See, how he smiles.