Sometimes the world ends when you are sitting inside your yellow house, wrapped in a white robe, taking your coffee black. You are gazing out the window, thinking about all the things you don’t want to do today, wondering why the sky is so bright. You think perhaps you should call home. There is a quiver in your voice as you whisper goodbye. You’re going to miss the starry nights.
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Fake Plastic Grass
The grass we lay down upon
is artificial
One day, you say it will blanket the whole world
The moon becomes stuck
in its waning
as if someone had tried to shoot it down
The TV blames it on the cosmonaut
which probably means it wasn’t him
Sometimes, there is no rebirth from death
Sometimes it is just rot & ruin
The fake plastic grass
will never understand
& I will never be who they want me to be
and it wears me out, it wears me out….
Purebred Monster
I slipped upon your holy spunk
spilled the lamb’s blood
split my lip
lick the caverns of my wrists
know me, know me, know me
Don’t come any closer
*
God, can I be saved?
Some days, my depravity feels like a millstone around my neck
& I am tossed into the sea
*
Do you see me down by the cliffs?
carrying what used to be a man in my jaws,
sometimes I am all claws & fists
but I am not a purebred monster
How To Be Quixotic
We were just kids waiting to grow older
& then we were older
& asking
“How the fuck did we get here?”
I put sheets over every mirror, for sometimes darklings crawl out of our reflections. And he is an ancient thing.
*
They say every heartbreak is a teacher
Then why is it, I still know nothing?
Why, just today, I found out a Daisy Chain doesn’t always mean weaving a crown of flowers
*
He puts down his book, on How To Be Quixotic, for it is wiser to fight imaginary things. Better to charge a mindmill than go sword to sword with the Aristocracy. He peers over his glasses. Now there is a girl, who wanders aimlessly, looking for a lick of melancholy. “Where do you think you’re going?” He asks
“I’m going into the woods to kick my own ass.”
But I, too, am spinning in the wind. Formed from sand and make-believe.
*
Cyber Scapel
There was a wild thing growing inside his mind. The doctor polished his cyber scapel. For a moment, my vanity slipped away. I could only think of earthquakes, birds, and snakes, and aeroplanes crashing into towers.
God stood in the doorway, head bowed, as if whispering a prayer to himself. The needle fell upon the Sound of Silence, and when he raised his face, his eyes were black. Or maybe that is just the color of sadness. God, is that really you? It is hard to tell, with all the billionaires cosplaying at Divinity.
The young foolishly believe they know misery. Wait until everything around you dies. Time does a piss poor job of healing wounds, but is rather proficient at tearing open new ones. We stack scars upon scars until there is nothing left for us except to become dirt.
God, I have grown so weary of suffering. This hole keeps widening. The prophets are all nihilists.
When will you strike me with lightning?
Psychopomp
There is a dullness that exists
in between heartbreaks
Have you howled into the woods
only to hear the echo
of your own loneliness?
We go there to lose ourselves
but its never deep enough
There is a crow that waits for me
shimmering
like an irridescent psychopomp
but he is only a ruse to fashion me
for darkness
& when the dust settles
You can brush me off
But perhaps I’ll be the dirt
They bury you in
*
He dips the feather into ink; he says it used to belong to an angel, before they were disgraced. Sometimes God forgives, and sometimes he breaks your neck. Do you love fire more than rain?
*
We were swinging
from an olive branch
& dusted in silver like Judas
licking our wrists where our wounds should be
There is nothing as exhilarating as a good poem
& a holy shit
waiting for the punchline
In my mind, I’ve been kissed before
I’ve been swallowed
I begged you to walk around inside my head
& then afterwards I opened up a window
& jumped
*
I asked you, did you know you are in the cemetery, darling?
& you looked at me, as if waiting for the punchline
behind us, we can hear the willow weep
if Ophelia were real
You wake up
shake chimera from your hair
You scrape the slime off your tongue
You match your mood to your underwear
You paint your lips in desire
& line your eyes in despair
*
But there is no real reason for shaving
or smiling at your reflection
*
You walk the dog
You throw prose into oncoming traffic
everyone veers
*
Except for the one that picks up a wild metaphor, it penetrates the empty space inside his ribcage like a rusty nail. And you whisper into the wind: “Don’t be a stranger anymore.” But not everyone can love the beauty of your ruin.
*
You stop at the neighbor’s house
to eat their daiseys
Don’t let anyone tell you that you are mad
because you have songs to sing
*
Tonight you will go home
Lie down in your polyester silk
cross your arms over your breasts
& pretend you are floating
You are Ophelia, if Ophelia were real
bloated & soiled & reaking
& nibbled down
to the bone
greedy fly
Morning found us wanting
darkness still
Sunset clung to our skin like sweat
& I pretend I am formed from gold & silk
I don’t want to be real
Reality ruins everything
Like your dreamlike murmur
“This isn’t love
but I really like your ass.”
*
I am doomed to choke
on all the dismembered parts of you
You land like a greedy fly
You want to devour all my bullshit
But I don’t think you know what’s coming
*
I would like to walk out of this room
on fire
hanging from the ceiling
with my sticky feet
Falling Stars & Stripes
Where are the warhorses?
Didn’t God promise us warhorses?
Where is the dark sun
& the gloom of an unlit moon?
& the heavens that bleed like cocktail cherries?
*
Your lemon-yellow eyes are swallowing
falling stars & stripes
Can you bear the beauty of ruin?
*
Should we just die, love?
Do we choose mercy or revelations?
Should we turn on the TV?
Or look out the window
& watch the apocalypse?
Poetry for the void 