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,
where we are all
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
illusionist, clown, deserter,
sadistic fucking peasant!
dipped in the ink of sacrilege lies,
yearning for earnest
overtures which were not yours,
using the loosest flatteries,
wiping on shame with sponges,
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,
god is not real;
or he is only cheap fiction.
I saw your arms in the curves of boulders,
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
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,
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
eyes black-lined around,
until they gather up their bags,
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
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.
If I went to your funeral,
I would sweep my hair up Grecian,
and slink into a dress draped charcoal,
with gold bangles on my arms,
and jewels cascading down my throat,
and stars in my eyes.
I would not greet any strangers,
all the people who know you, but
I would kiss your empty casket;
empty, for you could not have left
without your body,
so I would dream all the visions
you sent for me and reel ecstatic
in front of crying grandmothers,
and sweat profusely with pleasures
under the stares of former in-laws,
and fornicate with your ghost
in frolicsome agonies,
and you’d see me for the first time
from the rafters.