Fly on fast wings and smile
you are quicker
than the sadness chasing you.
Two birds, One ThroneI saw two baby birds
misplaced by overconfidence
in the leaves, beaks opening expectantly
as my shadow eclipsed them.
I searched for a nest
but the trees were empty wombs;
fallen fruit fermenting in the grass
with the bones of those
who had not lived to see the snow.
A transformation ensued:
I became an uncertain god,
sitting upon an icy throne of indecision.
Mother Nature was fertile and unfortunate,
and I was unsure of what type of mercy to give.
A mother bird appeared
and I abdicated the throne.
From her beak spilled the remains
of someone else’s children
into the frantic mouths of her own.
The next day I returned,
my feet amongst bones and fruit.
The little birds had vanished,
their mother sitting in a branch nearby,
singing quietly to herself.
I do not know what it means, or if it matters at all.
I do not know if divinity is acceptance or action;
my ambiguity is a feathered creature afraid to spread its wings.
Perhaps another uncertain god is looking down on me.
'just' friendsi am sick
of the romantic relations
the rain can be platonic
and the birdsong benevolent.
i do not need
to be in love
with the world.
All the king’s horses and men graduated
from medical school with high honors
(the valedictorian gave a speech
about a man that fell from a wall).
You cheered for them,
turning to me and remarking
that science was a gift,
medicine a miracle,
and God a savior.
I smiled and clapped with you.
I wish to speak with the king.
The horses shy away
when I walk past them
down these formaldehyde halls;
nobody taught the men
how to deal with grief.
What is it with walls and heads
Why do they collide, whom do I blame
When will this be over, where did you go?
I stole a horse from the hospital
and told him to take me into the sun,
let the fire burn me through.
I am ungrateful, unworthy of the man
who relearned how to walk and speak
and tell me that he loves me with all his heart.
Fuck science, fuck medicine, Fuck God
It’s been a year and
I wonder if Humpty Dumpty was better off.
At Least We're Happy In a Different DimensionIn an alternate universe
we are having the conversation
I wish had started long ago.
space cowboyas i sleep
seeds of thought
unfurl and bear
(and i feel infinite).
and the stars steal away
with my fields of meaning
(i think they used
the moon as a scythe).
i chase them
on trains of thought
and horses stitched
from day dreams
(a celestial sheriff).
A Loose PromiseWhen my bones kiss the dirt
and the birds pluck my eyes
I hope a wolf eats my heart
so I am human no more.
When my breath leaves my chest
and my lungs fill with moss
I want a tree where I lay
so I am creature no more.
But since I still have my heart
and my bones, eyes and breath
I will beat, breathe and see
so I can try to be more.
choking on your elegy(tonight, tonight --)
our lips touch cerulean, and we witness
an exorcism of the heavens.
maybe god fell asleep on the job,
or maybe we were birthed with hysteria at the
skeletons exhumed from our graves of skin.
in other words, we refuse to be our own
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds like
clenching your jaw
until a crack shoots down
into the nerve endings.
The crunch of bone
splitting and separating
and shearing pain
up into the naive skull,
that hoped for something else
to penetrate the malaise
created by fooling yourself
with love, with money,
It sounds like biting your tongue -
and that flab of meat
chunking onto the carpet
and violating your chin
with its copperstench syrup,
that stains everybody
the same flavour of red -
This is what 2.37 am tastes like.
Like the only warmth is from
that cyaniatic bouillabaisse
created by swallowing yourself:
your blood, and teeth,
.my mind said he was
going out to get some
sanity, don't think he's
coming back because
his things are gone
and now i'm up to my
neck in words that have
snapped cos i twisted
them all too far
(it gets me down so much that it keeps me up at night)
up on the
i lay in
of a whale
name in the
(in the corners of sand, dug my feet in)
.think i'm mad
as a hatter,
i want to sit and
drink tea with the dead
for a while
on a sunday afternoon?
just cos i like to
trace the patterns in
the woodwork on
the table with my fingers
when we're talking,
something has been
and it's us,
with words so well
used that they're now
we can't even tell what
they mean anymore
(still cramming them into the distance though)
MokshaThe face and body are mile markers
The weathered patina hard earned
Our lives spent in a time machine, bracing against
The whip-lash of mortality colliding with karma
This perpetual state of samsāric jet-lag
These ironies of Maya lost on some
Take heart and pay no attention to the fabulists
Ignore the critic and the cynic
We were born only a moment ago
curing deja vulost our latent heat
experimenting with paper castle skies
we spread thin the idea
that ideas have consequences
and wore the night wet on our lungs
as soft bulletins buried
old myths in our coaxial spines
why i have to gobecause to stay is to sail in a vessel of static
down, over the arc of the world. every night,
to feel myself falling hands over head
into the black. to wake, every morning,
with the memory of your hands in my hair.
to stay is to know myself only in waiting,
an arrow trembling on the string, unflown.
grief stoppers me like a cork in the bottle
of time, and i am standing at the edge
of these anonymous depths, life rafts tossed
like prayers into nowhere, drawn back full of bones
to stay is to know myself only
as a sieve for memory, emptying. to remember
the pendulum of breath swinging
through your lungs, outward,
inward; to know that i once knew you
this well, straight through
to your insides, the way life ebbs
and rises in your atoms: oxygen and hydrogen,
carbon and iron--
but to stay is to repeat myself,
like a forgotten language,
into dust. oh, god: let me speak instead
of the indomitable immensity
of what is. on nights when my body
is only a metaphor for yours,
let me wr
.half my life sits
in this waiting room,
dust on the spike
plant so thick that it
feels like grey velvet,
i prod my fingers
onto the sharp tips,
as i sit
with a two week clean
junkie who says
this is terrible
(i sign in, but i never sign out)
a sack over
the head of
it out back
(i want your mother to know that her hell is in my head and hips)
the tips of my fingers,
four in one stroke
then the thumb
a little flesh hat
for the spirit in each
(love is dead, lilith)
.watching the sky
churn itself thicker
the birds tire
and drown as
it sets around
(no fight, and no flight either)
.tonight across the street i saw
the devil sneak into god's garden;
he took trowel in hand, planted seeds
in the earth, grinned real wide and
shut the white gate behind him
(gonna come up smelling of roses)
.i can't give you
but i can birth you
with my eyes instead,
pray to him hard with
(take refuge when he wakes)
.there are a million different worlds
that have been built on top of this one,
and i know this cause they whisper through
the cracks of doors in secret
to each other -
i heard you're never more than six feet
from a rat, eight from a spider and
seventy from the sea, please, don't let
yourself drift any further out from me
(holy ghost, are you flammable?)
dead in a ditch,
cold hard hands growing weeds,
hope you drop your heart with your
keys and you can't get back in
to me, to the two marks you made
before that one,
hope someone smashes you
open pig and the air will refuse
to lift up your lungs anymore,
scurry away from your lips in the rain again,
hope you're still trying to fix yourself
with vodka and bare hands,
hope you learn that if you take someone
apart and expect them to put themselves back
together, they're going to have a few loose
screws at the end of it all,
and jesus christ i rip the grass up by
the roots at 3am because i'm cruel now
and not because there's anything wrong
with my grapefruit
(i know and know and know, only one i belong to is death)
you bite the skin of
your lip, too
when you're nervous
or have nothing to
writing is starting
to feel a bit
like a disease -
just like your brother
you know you're
exactly the same
as him -
one that all the
words in the world
won't ever cure -
i'll just have to
get to know you
that way, i guess
no don't walk
i want the fox
to hunt the hound,
the badger to cull
(let's take a walk down memory lane, let's see if i can finally ditch you)