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crashworkwhen i say i don't want to exist, i am trying to ask for the high sharp note of a lemon, split across my tongue.
we limit speech to apologies and collisions, restrict touch to skin. i no longer trust scales, prayers, or repetitive numbers. we watch the hospital on tv, eleven seconds between explosion and sound. pillows of grit bubble into blue. our legs still through too many movies, neither learn nor forget the distance between skin and chrysalis. i open myself but remain human and paper. the music does not change and colour does not fade. i clean the bathroom floor. inside my nose the smell of warm water.
if you asked i would have explained in physical terms. the blue veins of the chicken you ate, as though mood did not touch other body parts. the unpoetic safety of colon, carpal, sesamoid. i hold the taste of jasmine in my mouth, your tongue an absence. latticework of space.
inventoryAT NIGHT I COUNT YOUR
BREATHING TO MAKE SURE
IT DOES NOT STOP. I DRINK
ALONE IN RESTAURANTS
WHERE THE SERVERS
DO NOT SPEAK ENGLISH.
THE WATER HEATER
INTERFERES WITH MY
THOUGHTS. I AM NOT
objects in spaceis her room
still her room
if she is not in?
wet anger in the kitchen.
the border of skin.
did not happen
or is not true.
to deny; withhold; (unrelated meaning)
trivial pain, aware
veins tv blue:
[note: some patients do not report any kind of traumatic event.]
silverwill you come home
in the scent of smoke
into blades of grass
i do not remember goodbye
i remember your voice
broken into reds and yellows
your throat scraping
the black wax
your body seemed too small
for your anger, your fear
and the joy that unties you
you confuse yourself
for a forest
when you swim through
the hot mirror of the city
your tongue lit
or leaden with need
you are not
the only one doing so
no one owes you comfort
when heat pools on your skin
the sky beating blue
on rooftops’ clay feathers
your lungs straining
against the spaces
in your chest
we wake up
on different continents
on the blank page
i will pick up the phone if you call
living aloneyou will discard hundreds of poems because you can’t decide what pronouns to use.
you will try your best to fit inside your skin. you will wrap your voice around songs at full volume, the walls rattling an ache behind your eyes. you will sing too loud to hear, fill your chest with noise so you can believe you are more than hollow paper, that if you scratch your skin you won’t open and collapse. you will believe you’re god and the devil before you let yourself consider you may be human.
you will take sleeping pills because there is a motor inside you, shaking your legs against the night. you will fever into black sand and a sore throat, strings of numbers torn from the tendon of meaning. you will write because you don’t know what else to do. you will need and need and need and need.
you will tear the fire from the sky to watch the sunrise. birdsong will fissure your temples and turn your skin to salt. you will lie about being drunk because it’s easier to ex
i've ripped my lips from every burned thought.iii. my feet and hands
are always cold,
will always be cold.
i. i ransack memories
i thought i'd burned them all,
turned them all to ash,
and placed them in tupperware containers -
each one neatly labeled with dates
and numbered with catastrophes.
i shoved them all in freezers -
saving them for lovelier days,
thinking i've never deserved
anything better than freezer burn
to sustain me.
iv. my limbs are blue and reek of stale air.
my nose and tongue are covered in frost
and my lips are painted
v. i will trace new memories,
on your skin with my lips,
and pray i won't need
to burn those too.
An Abstract Essay on Concrete and DrywallHe saw palettes'
reincarnating dialogue with gesture
with smudge. With knowing you
can throw a word,
he grew from the gist its will to write its
technicals itself, tested against its sim
physics, and spit back bullshit from
a distant mind's
root craving for rhyme
internal, like ma- and pa-ternal
but from one's self,
see: the seed
see: the memory
He smeared a bruise-colored napkin traveling
across time, the frame, the wall
the light fixtures, staining the room
"I am not a black and white television."
"I am not a high-rise apartment building."
"I love you all."
snapshotsIt is unfair that you live
in the outskirts of every word uttered
during the heavier hours of the night,
while your gambrinous stomach cannot contain
the idea of me and all the ways I could show you
the decaying portions of promises
you made in the dark.
Don't look for me, I am only an effigy,
built from sleepless nights and the remnants of clothing
on your floor.
You made me into an inaniloquent mess;
your quiet laughter dances in the psithurism of forests,
your eyes are sink holes,
your lies are the lines on my face.
And I never realized how much easier
it's always been for you
to care less.
the world is brighter where
dregs of strangers' revels remain --
i keep this half-light for my own.
i'll stay until the wind sighs a scotch-and-smoke
cliché, til the Muscadet's slipped from the lip
of my wayward
hello.(i know you're there before you do.)
your night is told in
patchouli-pulse wanders; mine,
in whorls of liqueur-breath. come
close and i'll find the warp
through the weft, the trails telling tales
in synaesthesia --
Platinum Blonde's been 'round and gone.
(-- closer, find syllables strewn
in an exhale's wake; stolen from my throat-
ful of careless farewells, spin and sway
and beg you stay.)
time enough for a kiss-
and-never-tell, for a stumbling waltz
to the dissonance of crystal-shatter odes
to the summerlong i knew you --
we were(n't) meant for more than this.
morning goes right through you,
and breathes a thousand fortunes in-
to shards of (our) stranger starfall.
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dress
for four days, because
I am sick, exquisitely
black and gold, your drunk
dimestore Nefertiti. A
white stain announces
itself, a muddy star:
here. Undo yourself,
those sallow words you drink,
let the silk fall loose. I've got
a face like dirty laundry
and burial grounds --
What I touch becomes
unwell. I wear my hair
like it pains me,
like a little girl
sucking her teeth
at cars, the caked little
tombs of sugar that crumble,
under the hot milk
of the sun.
paint me an orthodoxone day I'll rest on hollow shoulders
and silence the humming of my heart
pink is a flightless bird
bearing semblance to four cavernous holes in my body
if feathers cannot fly
Then my infested soul will never brush the stars
i am squirming
under the gaze of your colors
and the tools in your hand
paint me an orthodox
i'll slip you an omnipotent card
and declare you the decorator of my body
you'll need more than glue
to attach ruffled feathers
to my darkened soul
[if you love somet
priklyucheniya holmes and watsonsometimes I get to wondering what landfill houses the time I spent on you
sometimes I think of all the origami cranes I folded while I was in London and the British countryside before I met you
sometimes I think of Total Wipeout and the Russian Sherlock Holmes
that hot little room
a title you did not deserve
sometimes I get to wandering
when life becomes a tunnel,
I leave my stalely air-conditioned sanctum
I pick basil or walk to the corner store
I buy another novel
when I forget I am a human being,
I try to speak with people who swear I have value
I lie next to the man who loves me and,
though I still have fear,
it is because I can see a future
where before I saw only void
page onethe waves are calling.
watch--stormbound, the breakers
arch up to clutch at the unyielding stones
with a roar and a hiss and a sigh;
gather themselves back and
the sea is patient, and your limestone fear
you will be
you will be beautiful.
the waves are calling.
our bodies cannot hold all this light;
it streams out our mouths, breaks
into shards around our feet, the waiters
are looking at us with annoyance
when we return to pick up
the conversation, it leaves
our fingers bleeding. we smile
politely and your shoulders shake
we are realizing
we cannot answer
"how was your day"
or “what are you
i lay with my ears
submerged in bathwater
and let the phone ring.
i touch skin and try
to connect it
there is no more colour in the world and you are painting
with a broken arm. you do not know what you are painting
or whether you still want to do this. but you are painting.
there is nothing else.
our tongues have rusted
and our mouths
as four a.m.
there are no words left
so we hug
or sit in the same room
and look at each other.
hit the next button
until songs start to hurt
and hold meaning,
to do with our hands
until the day
Keep in Touch!
^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