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sleeping dogslet sleeping dogs lie-
do not reach out &
touch his dreaming face,
do not lean close to kiss
his shuttered eyelids;
wait for him to wake &
let time pass
until it is time to love him.
let him rest his weary head
on the arms he wears at home,
cold boston winds
telling him when the
next train comes;
& when he must sleep
in a rusting missouri,
wish him the sweetest dreams.
let sleeping dogs lie
& drift between sleep & awake,
missouri & boston & virginia.
let him sleep unencumbered
& be there endlessly
until it is time to love him.
the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-
i am terrified.
this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.
i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be there
or are not in fact real.
i am caught within a sticking web
of decaying sweetness,
coney island's cotton candy,
yet it is not a trap.
i am afraid of love
and that it holds me back.
i am afraid of love
because i am used to skin on skin,
when the drum beats meet.
i am afraid of love
because it is so far stretched
over these thousand miles,
that i fear it mig
things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.
and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
seep out of its balloon.
put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;
i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-
i want you to write me words
that make me start to hum.
my first drunk poemwriters write whilst drunk
because every word
fumbled and smisspelled
comes out beautifully
because of the truth it holds
my ear bleeds from constant burns
and my stomach burns from constant bleeds
because beauty is never enough untouched, it seems,
the way anything i put in me is always too much.
i bled and evoked sympathy tonight.
i drank until i needed a body to stand me straight.
my organs writhed like heathens in moonlight ritual
and i let it shake.
i shook to be honest
but i was never honest enough
to admit from where the vibration came.
i shook with fear
and never, ever being adequate
or even happy
but i smiled and let everyone know
that i felt like myself,
and no one ever needed to know
that the only reason i felt so honest
was because i never feel like i can
stand on my own two feet unaided
or stop from trembling
or hold in outbursts of emotion
because if i do,
i know i'll break.
barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;
and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.
you left, and i left two weeks after.
every night was a terror;
every morning was a letdown.
i ached constantly
and threw myself into books
like they would become oxygen masks until i could breathe on my own again.
and here's the thing, you know,
because you would knock my legs out from under me again and again.
"let's fall back in love," you'd say,
and i would fall to
personificationi am a whisper no one else can hear.
yes, your butt looks huge,
yes, he will leave you
if you tell him how you really feel,
and no, you are never enough.
just because only you can hear me,
it doesn't mean i am any less real.
i will tint everything you see
like a pair of cheap sunglasses
with one lens opaque
so that you cannot see anything clearly
and your perception is skewed.
i am in the pilot's seat
and you will be mine
the second you let your guard down.
your heartstrings will connect my piano strings
as i hammer them down and knot with pain;
i will break you to your knees
and hit them to the pavement
like a child in the summer.
i will beat you into the earth
and offer you a hand,
but use it only to strike you
across the face.
i will always leave a handprint.
i am insecurity,
are all my
unending, ceaselessnothing exists
than the moment
by the sway
and we talk
of each others' tongues
in the connection
only to retie
alpengloweverything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.
there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.
the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.
i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will never see my cheeks flush fires when asked what you are called, or feel the tremulous tunnels i do as your mouth twists into the shapes of words like "beautiful," or "babe."
i cannot tell you of the poems i write to keep my lips locked tightly; not even a winter wind can howl through its denseness, not even the chimneys stoked to keep the c
on giving a fuckthere were more excuses
than there was sincerity
it is easier to blame
the gods or your father
than to accept the fact
you're an asshole.
last summer was sweet
with peanut butter & jelly,
your beautiful head on my
the girl who said that
i was so smart and pretty, and
she admired me because i really
didn't give a fuck about any of it.
she was wrong-
i give more fucks than
my hands can handle,
where to put them, who to
give them to?
so now i have a nice pile of fucks
in my room.
it is why i don't clean
it is why my father yells at me
they do not smell, and you cannot see them,
but the fucks no one will accept
are killing me-
there used to be a time when there
were never any excuses. there was
i have forgotten how that sounds-
i walk the aisles at the store
and count off the fibonacci sequence
to keep my carefully calculated face
i'm not your symphony but i'm orchestrated anywaysit's not easy to explain --
but i'm a rushed symphony of heartbeats, quick breaths and hiccups. i'm not made of skin and bones, but a complicated sentence structure and thoughts that i spew out before i even finish them.
i'm messy in all the wrong ways.
and i'm not right in any of the ways that matter. but still you're always here, picking me up when i fall, kissing me goodnight, making a life with me one day at a time. and you haven't gone yet but i'm always moving so how long can you stay. how long can i expect it. how long is too long when you're living and loving and breathing and hell, if i can't stay still i'll mess this up for sure. i just need a minute, to think, to stop, to be. so i can be yours forever.
all i know is that i'm a constant frenzy -- a kaleidoscope of words and ideas and minutes and clumsy steps and i don't know what i'm doing, but i'm always shifting and moving and growing and going and going
and going and
until i'm standing still again.
no one can stop
the final hoorah of our freedomsjack and jill went up the hill
and found that there was cancer.
mouths hard as cracks,
and jill's hand in jack's-
'what's there to ask?'
they thought, standing back,
and what would be the answer?
'well, hell,' said jill
'we climbed this hill
to find death waiting, and grinning.'
'well...' said jack
'knowing that, do you wish
we'd quit at the beginning?'
and jill's hair was fair
and her heart, fairer,
she found doubt was plenty,
and faith, rarer.
and jack was wise
knowing time, lady of woe and wench of wine,
he took one last fuck as his freedom-
he ripped quickly her dress,
found truth in the press
of the skin of the body
drunktoo many corners
and the depth of too many dark hours.
i was alone
faceless, nameless, but hearty and strong
i took my fate and strangled it
decided i wasn't good enough for that
then realized i was better
too many birds
too many songs
why are you singing
what is there to sing for
what is there to sing that hasn't been sung
for all the running of our blood
together and apart
i wanted years and it has been days
i feel years and it has been days.
hands around my neck
control my breath
control my life
control my death.
take me to the edge of the canyons
and fall in. don't worry. i am there
to hold your hand. i love you.
small musingpeople are always so
sad about caged birds
the fish in the bowl?
the nature of the soul?
the arrow and the bow?
the turtle, a slave to his shell
never running, always hiding-
walls, small devils and taut strings.
i am not so sad about the bird
in the cage.
what i am most sad about is
the look on my own face when i heard
you said you wanted me out
of your life for good.
i am a slave to old
grudges and i am
too proud to
love is strange
working through many avenues-
sometimes, it takes a peak
of shoulders through a slim
other times, it takes a year of
friendship and not caring if she
fucked your friends or not, if
your friends loved her
and still other times, it takes a bed
and too many hands and not enough
space and little time to wait and no
time to waste-
and no time to wait.
trudging, sludging, oh what the hellthere is a man in a room. it is dark. darker than black. blacker than dark. one of those two. it was not always this way.
he was born outside the room. he was born into lights and cities and plane crashes and cancer like all the rest of us. and he didn't like it. so he went into a room and stayed there. he took with him a light. a soft, yellow orb. in the darkness, it became a sort of savior. a glowing sphere of salvation that was with him always. light feathered past it's edges, gradually disappearing and becoming the darkness. the light never said a word. the man said many words that went unheard and buried themselves in the corners of his room. he eventually forgot what he looked like. he forgot his mother's name. the light was enough.
and the light burned out, metaphorically speaking, as all lights do, because nothing retains its energy forever. energy cannot stay in one place always. it doesn't disappear, just slowly slinks elsewhere. but the man did not remember this. he could no
VisitorThere is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birds
It's late, but no one comes to take her home.
The pale moon offers a silver smile -
the clouds disapprove.
Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.
Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,
this frail girl beneath the stars
this death in light.
There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,
falling to her white knees. Her stare is a pane
The eyes of the living are often murky but
the eyes of the gone
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More