|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
of hits and misseswhere did you go?
you're not mine these days,
but i still feel you
in the wind and can't stop from
crying my heart out violently
enough that it
in streamers of
i feel like thunder,
a noise machine -
just sound, and nothing you
can touch. the misery
hangs like a heavy mist;
instead of killing myself,
i clean my room
until the books sit in rows
as straight as the veins
in my hands.
you make me feel like the earth,
mudded and browned from the
ram-rod sun, ever-beaten
into black and blue submission.
i am your pariah. i am to be
shunted to the wayside
every day for three weeks,
broken on the fourth.
the words, they don't
come like they used to,
no ebb and flow in the mighty
(blood) vessel rivers,
all hung back by the stars in
the scarred dams.
i wonder idly with my back
turned up, exposed spine an offering
to fate in hopes of its
severing intentions, if -
if i gave you my bones,
if i sang so sweetly,
would you love me again?
suits and their coffeecoffee slips,
it's always like this monday mornings for peter.
he leaves the cups' shards on the forest-coloured tiles,
spits the grit sitting between his teeth, rigid set to his lips.
god-damn slit in my wrist, he thinks.
another day at work tugging at my cuffs, he thinks.
fuck, he thinks.
at work, his boss rakes him over with papers and collating copy machines.
at work, his wrist burns with every stapler he pushes against the table.
at work, he hides in his cubicle under his desk so that mary can't talk to him.
"where's peter?" she asks.
reid is new and knows nobody.
mary knows this.
reid knows nobody.
except for peter.
the difference is, he doesn't like mary.
"god, forget i asked."
mary's back is slim and straight as it turns out of peter's office,
narrow enough to fit through side streets in florence.
that's where she looks like she's from, anyway.
reid drums his fingers on the top of peter's desk.
peter raps back:
symbiosis always had been hi
things i've lost .collabyou, tacky little whore with the
plastic body like the mannequins,
tell me your favourite who and where,
your when and why and the placement of your
feet on this earth;
tell me how you sleep at night and never
that you turn your pillow over to
seek comfort in the virginal side, pale
and white, untouched by your mudded head.
me, lying on this threshold of body
heat while i wait for you, knowing that
you'll always belong to someone else. i see
the dirt between your vocal cords,
the fluid lines of blood running down each
sunrise, werewolf moon howling at the
memories you leave behind, the cannister
trails of bone that have not been touched,
never known people as lost as you
wandering soul, slip back between
the binding bones, sleep silently once again.
you are made of pieces of a broken man,
the nervousness threading itself between your
aching, lonely legs. billowing monster,
skin wild in black static air,
i need your noise to swallow itself.
follow me like a child without a place
is it me or am i neverlive some terrible lie
with your terrible feathers
tangled in terrible knots,
the songs of one hundred sirens
bellowing tyrannical to
a sailor, high-strung and set to
sea in waves,
of the music unfettered by my ears.
it is the way you smile that
makes me want to cry myself to
sickness, to watch the
hunger in your eyes blind even the brightest
stars; just watch my bones
bend into the shape of a cage and
drown me in waves
of dreams ripe with an
overreaching indigo taste.
you make me feel like a cancer,
unwanted and lurking between cratered wings
when i just want to write to myself,
where are your sparkles now, sweetheart?
a dullness seeping through my cells,
the corrosion dances tangled songs
in my bones and i have to pretend
like i don't like it.
no spines remaining whole to quake in
pyramidal twists, all snakes
in my throat;
i want you to feel the fires
i've never felt,
i want you to taste the colours
unknown to my tongue
my mouth becomes a spread
of assorted dinner ghosts.
goodbye, lettermani love you enough
that my heart is
like a wound
in my chest.
i know it's not pretty
but i'll tell you
how you leave me
into the sink,
porcelain veneer sneering
at the broken teeth and mirror
a foot ahead.
you smell like
drink & weed,
and you are making me sick.
in the morning,
i will sit you down at the
kitchen table to show
you the vomit behind
eyes bleed rivers
dead sea salted
over the bends
of my thumb.
you read sad poetry
to the caves
inside my heart,
because sadness knows
and expect me
not to crumble.
reasons not to ask me to leavethe way in which i want you is not quiet. it is the constant tug at the hem of my skirt,
the begging child gobbling a litany with hungry little teeth and spewing thickly over every please-please-please.
the words are littering the floor and i sigh as i sweep them up into the dustbin to empty with a thump outside my window.
it is a nervous little owl, anxious hoots biting its beak and eyes
the size of egypt swallowing every piece of you they can find;
lustful eyes, pale like the moon in its overbearing white-moth slumber, worn in the shape of
oversized glasses with a horned rim.
it is the trumpeter swan's call, the winter-ivory paint thrown over its feathers.
it is obtrusive in its noise,
it is the treaded water enveloping every bone's curvature in my body,
it is my fingers on your arm, asking you to please call me bluebird.
it is the sketchpad in which i draw,
the old, dust-smelling book so rich in every beautiful thing under the sun between whose pages i press auburn leaves
man at the counter,
feels the steel rim under his
for an hour every day while he
stains his cup with his dirty mouth;
wore his wedding ring from 1973 until
yesterday afternoon after seeing
his wife kissing another man
he put his hand on her shoulder and
roughly turned her, she
just told him how
he can never remember the divorce
in 1974, please won't you remove your
ring, you're making my husband
used to write poetry on the backs of
napkins at the diner with the red stools,
wrote them for the pretty girls he
always wanted to kiss and turn their
blonde hairs between his thumbs and forefingers
and never even asked their names
forgot his own after he let it
erase from his wrist in black pen in the rain
forgot his amnesia from the accident
he was in last week, forgot the accident, too;
went home and burnt his hands on
the radiator he always thought he needed
to save, cried at the skin dangling
in helical sentences and sang,
mila.you're not the beauty
i've always hoped for,
deceptive marigold yellow
sweeping from jawline
you promised to pay me
in bones; instead,
you leave me hungry, empty,
roaring in fullness with
the finger-twisting wish to
roil against the thunders
no limits or bounds
are placed on you.
you are a girl in your demeanor,
a woman in your experience;
the poise with which you wield yourself,
just how you
wrap your way around my torso
and knotted limbs,
i know you have done this before;
you have wreaked havoc on
tiny gorgeous veins and full cities
of hearts; pretty little mouth sucking hard
on sharp marrows, fragility a new
tattoo in the shape of butterflies; woven
carpets of hair in fine patterns
lining the floor;
oh, i know you've done this before,
i know i am not your first,
i know i am not your last;
and baby, don't you worry,
i won't let anyone tell
Keep in Touch!