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helium balloon lungsi. You write me notes scribbled on sandpaper
and I run them across my face,
scraping away layers of saccharine skin,
ii. Your eyes, made of cookie crumbs,
I'd like to dip them in milk
and watch them melt,
smoking like dry ice,
iii. You churn my childish heart
in circles and in circles
till I slip into cardiac arrest,
iv. I just remembered that time you
wrapped your arms around me like vines
and held me until you couldn't,
v. Oh what I'd give for a pair of
fortune cookie lungs,
exhaling self-fulfilling prophecy,
vi. I've been fishing for horoscopes,
pasting them onto my bedroom walls
and on the backside of my skin,
hoping that they tell me that
today is the day you will be mine,
vii. But your soul is made up of sins
and I do believe in forgiveness,
but forgive me, for I cannot forget.
steamI'm sprouting crow feathers from my scapulas
while the air is much too thick to swallow,
my body melts into a pool of oil,
poisoning already noxious waters,
Then you find me in the ocean's center
and the water starts to boil
as we become the equator
and lose ourselves under the sun.
you are my careful ghosti. The air is thick and I'm drinking you in like sunlight through a silver straw,
I'm feeling like my spine has come unzipped and my crayola red innards have become exposed to the cool air,
you're like the slivers in my fingers that I can't pull out,
maybe I should try scraping off layers of skin with tweezers,
goodbye dead cells, hello fresh meat,
damn, why are you so fresh as fuck.
ii. A whirlpool has developed beneath my chest so there goes my sense of sanity,
actually it's more like boiling water, bubbling, spewing out passed my eyes,
and all I've been asking for is for you to either take me or let me go,
let's be honest, I could try to say I am over this whole thing
but I'm not and I don't even want to be.
iii. So let's forget the world,
get lost in each others skin,
tracing ribs like jail bars,
running hands over heartbeats,
brushing lips with lonely aches.
hey boy, I'm bleeding without youI guess you could say I've been infatuated with death,
but I'm even more consumed by you
in the deadliest way possible.
AmphibianI've got five fluorescent tree frogs
bathing beneath the currents
of my basilisk blood,
they hop from
vein to vein
as though they were seashores,
within an hour
they release their own noxious waters
to clog my lungs with the colors of fire,
red, yellow, orange, and gold,
my skin cracks into crevices
until I look like volcanic rock,
the lava, the magma
seeps through my pores,
and spills onto the ocean floor,
then like snowy fingers against summer flesh,
hot and cold collide,
causing the snow to stick to the lips
like a fine powdered sugar
or a crushed, crushed vine,
my oh my,
what a delicate, little amphibian spine.
the space between cold and ice,
sweat is raining down your telephone pole neck,
now it's even hotter, pushing 90,
the air is thick and begins to clog your lungs,
dragging September's fog through your trachea,
smoldering your larynx and taking control of your entire body,
burning down bones like candle wicks,
now you're a waxen pool on the bedroom floor,
but wait, tender hands start to take a hold of you,
molding you a new spine made of incense,
hips out of honey,
and a heart out of the horizon,
beating, burning slow,
you release a floral smoke,
drawn in, between the candlemaker's cigarette licked lips.
sometimes i imagine i'm a bird and it's all okayI'm staring through the kitchen window,
the moon looks like it might be a warm place to be,
soft glow, pale light,
sometimes I wonder if it would look better if you were standing next to me,
no, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't,
desperation doesn't make astronomy any prettier,
and it certainly doesn't do my self worth any justice,
but your eyes are like the milky way,
they take me away,
but distant turns to empty and emotionless until the sun has gone and caved in on itself,
it's golden hot beeswax melting in circles because star-hot sinking sand refuses to lets go,
now it's all oh, I've got this scorched tongue that soaks up sunrises when you're not here,
please forgive me for I can't control the fact that it's two minutes passed 1
or the fact that you've already been taken by some girl with tattooed thighs,
now I've got these backwards knees and disjointed thumbs,
it's too bad what you've done to me,
I mean the way your arms felt--
I do not need this,
I am a tortured spider
let your wildfire run freei. It's a warm kind of rain and a growling kind of thunder,
throaty and crackling booms,
I've dreamt of this place before,
there's this room made up of tall glass windows,
outside is a wrap around balcony made up of stone with high ledges,
small fir trees grow in between the crackled rock
and I'm breathing slow, soaking in the sky's sweat.
ii. Perspiring and porous clouds melt over this broken land
and I'm realizing this place lives only inside my soul when sleeping.
iii. It is a hazy painting running over the contours of my unconscious mind,
it is airbrushed afterthoughts swirling with watercolor wishes,
it is the place where my nightmares breed and my hopes climb trees,
it is the place where intuition ricochets off instinct,
it is the place that says burn the place down and let your wildfire run free.
Saltit's one of those
goldfish bowl empty afternoons,
gills grasping for water,
spilling over my aquatic limbs,
so thin boned and cold-blooded,
swordfish lips so sworn to
i cannot see a way out of drowning
in all of this
my fins lie still
as does my two-chambered heart,
you never actually did need any bate,
i hooked myself,
then released my own salty ghost,
you only just laid me out to dry,
gutted and seizing.
i pulled a napkin from the silver tin,
wiped the table clear, drops of ketchup staining the center.
i crushed the paper in my palm, felt the dampness reach the edges.
hurt cloud, she said as i let it roll across the table.
shooting baskets as the day ended,
the ball went over the backboard, disappeared into the dark.
she shrugged, then bent low, picked up pebbles.
your poor hands, she said. you have so many scars,
and you're still so young. (she, younger than i, saying this)
she touched one hand, then after a pause she took the other
without looking at me.
some things take so much courage.
we sat like that for a long time,
i passed two old women by the river.
one stopped, pulled off her shoe
and shook a pebble out.
it dropped into the water
and she continued on,
from the absence dented into her foot.
the other had stopped a ways ahead.
she waited and said, a pebble?
the woman nodded. her whole life
cadavershe was born with arctic lips
and overcast skin.
her hair fell like fresh snow
and she was far too thin.
her bones in locked closets,
joints creaked and shrieked
like a rotten floorboard
under gossamer feet.
how to pay the plumberthe sun is born of ink that leaks from dog-eared galaxies
and the night is made of copper eyes that pipe the constellations
but we are too polite to stare.
any hand that may brush my back must bleed the alphabet
from wearied fingertips, and this is why:
happiness is ice and crinkled bones all wrapped up warm in the
childless rings of saturn
and your smiling face-of-a-cliff that scorches pretty spring skin dry.
we will never say we will never love so
i will die beside,
you die below.
purgeheaving up a universe
is nothing on my stomach,
yet my scared molested heart
jumps out of the way.
the purge, a dark scent
weeping over the pointlessness
the ache and sorrow
the filling and emptying
of a creature so profoundly
it was all skinned knees
and stop signs between us.
we pushed too hard
or not hard enough.
the last star i wished upon
turned out to be a satellite,
and the last time i kissed you
really wasn't the last time.
the scent of romance- pine needles
and sawdust clung to my shoulders
where your fingers left goose flesh
when i least expected it.
i'd be tangled up in you and bed sheets
if i didn't know you better than that,
[sweetheart,] you're thunderstorms on
Saturday nights and "Why don't you stay
for awhile"'s and the infidelities
that line my cheeks.
biopsyput me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.
if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:
a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)
b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)
c. two sacs of cells, nestled beside each other.
(no first-hand smoke here, no sir.
only second-hand dust, only
things i could not get rid of,
only bits of places i've been,
caught in my body.
postcards of memories i can't see.)
d. a skeleton, still and alive.
(sleeping, with blood cells being produced
in the hollows of my curves.
the rattling of my bones cannot
MusingI'm too young to spend my life
running from the thunder,
staring at the kitchen walls wondering
how life would be different
if they weren't the same color.
Upon my breast
Finding sensitivity with urgency
Hands press into my hips
Passion flowing from eager fingertips
Pressing strong into my willing flesh
He whispers hotly into flushed skin
Words falling like a kiss upon my ear
I want you
I need you.
a drug or choosingYour oily prints upon my eyes
Blessed art thou
You bleed through the cracks in my walls
Eyes, pores in every centimeter of wallpaper
Watching me sleep, watching my night-mare
The horse running from the fire-like river
Pouring down the mountain to the plains below
Engulfing my atmosphere in golden red smoke
I am not addicted
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
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