some verses

i can be your favorite color.

i can fill your glass
i can be the state line ( and i can move it 62 miles north)
i can be your whisky face
i can be your winter sleep
i can be your america
i can be your one drink too many
i can be your morning wood
i can be your 7:39
i can be your broken lense
i can be your painted walls
i can be your columbia
i can be your hollow words
i can be your teeth
i can be your lost keys
i can be your high tide
i can be your tired eyes
i can be your train home
i can be your hide-away
i can be your frostbite
i can be your broken fingers
i can be our new york.

i can hate you for it all, cant i?

strange views

heaving virgins with grass stained knees, swearing that no man nor child nor animal could make them open wide. fuck. fuckfuckfuckfuck

i cant write

i cant think

nononononono

i dont know where it comes from, where it goes, who i am, and whats the date? have i asked the time yet? maybe i should do so, is it eastern or rather pacific?

how do i know which ocean to touch just to get the god damn clocks set properly. who decides what letters form numbers?

how do i have so many pointless questions, yet not a single statement to make.

what do i write(type)?

do i speak of my year without words?

it was a year with no depth. simply a year to let my hair grow longer, to tangle more people in it, to forget what it is to know. to just fucking know.

i've been dead, i've been insane, i've been in love.

autumn came fast, and i learned to fall out of love. i learned to run circles around men[never turn my back], to break them and laugh.

i've learned a million different things, fucked a million men, burned a thousand bridges and still, nothing to say.

am i bone dry at 20?

i've been wandering hospitals at night, breathing deep.

i need a disease. fatal. i need a death rattle to wake me up every morning. shake the bed.

piss stained sheets.

keep me up, hold me down, beat me to keep me in my place.

anything, i just need a connection to life.

fuck

oh

i've gone insane again.

how many

no

how long

wait

what was the time again?

78910, i'll break my own fingers so i never have to write again.

pour salt in my eyes and cry like a saint.

i tend to get drunk off holy water and call preists pretending to be less damaged than i am

laughing until i cant stand to pray about it anymore

i pretend to be gay and ask for forgiveness, breath heavy into the reciever and moan

"i am sorry father, its just forgiveness gets me hard"

i used to go to church to have a sip of wine, only a sip turned to a gulp, and i got slapped by a priest.

berry stained lips behind a hymnal, where i'd dream of virgins stomping on grapes, their tender touch in my mouth

i wanted to taste nothing but their chastity.

i couldnt eat

i still wont eat, i just dream of being untouched again

"hello father..when i bite my lips i feel closer to god, if you bite my lips i can be god."

am i worth seeing?

ask for blindness

erase my name

forget my face

what is my connection to life?

i held hands with a stranger and watched a burger place burn to the ground
her car was in the parking lot, flecked with ash, smelling like branded cattle
i got home with a handful of ash
she got away with my number

atleast tonight made sense.

luxuria, invidia,gula,avaritia

VII

i will acknowlege my vices,

while you walk on like a saint in may.

everytime i try not to be invisable someone steps on my toes

i was never the daughter of a virgin, and so i have never known modesty to be a virtue. is it so difficult to wrap your mind around the fact that i was born a lush. i came out of the womb and into the world kicking and screaming for another man to break, a final drink to finish, a last look at a world not round enough to fill with my secrets.i've grown into a tangle of frozen ropes wound tight over broken kettles. my mother is a starfish strung from a ceiling rafter in my room, cut off one limb and she grows ten others. i am parasitic and numbing, decent and graceless. i was once an island, filled with natives and generations of godless wars, until i became notoriously androgenous and sunk to the oceans floor. no more men to decieve, just time without numbers, and forever felt like forever, because ugly things never tire.

phantom limbs

VIII-III:

we lay inside drained city pools until our bodies became the pavement

held hands outside of hells gate, breathing in the smoke from your lungs, talking about ghost lights over the east river

walking through a sleeping burrough of frowning stone faced houses you asked how i want to die, i asked the time.

you fucked me on a white bed of ash while calling out shapes and colors of passing clouds

there were cats fighting beneath us, screaming louder than myself, or simply, more passionately

i watched all the tiny pieces of myself drift apart through the floorboards and cracked walls that night

onto damp streets and subway cars, away from the place where i knelt to repent my sins with a mouthful of holy water and a headfull of rum, away from the boiling blue irises that started to feel like home.

a lovely twitch

thank you mother for the harmonic sighs

but please close the window, your heated breath was keeping me warm.

city inside a city

one eyed cat, telling me to push it back
its little sloppy bones clicking down the stairs
tiny arms pulling closer to his bed
black birds on a broken sill, screaming open up
open your mouth wider so i can crawl out
i cant be your teeth, your jaw, your tongue
this old hole, you call it home
its a snake den collecting dead skin
i've got alot to lose, and a tight face of young flesh
one eyed cat, licking spit from my chest
whiskers dipped in come trailing the length of my side
whisky tits held with inserted finger tips
your a raw saint when i'm on my knees
spilling prayers into my mouth and on the sheets
only theres no god to hear us while we are tasting tongues and teeth
just the children with their mothers in the street staring at every decision i forgot to make
i've got a brain full of liquor and i'm moving slow
theres no god, only a one eyed cats tiny paws tangled in my hair
i'm wearing his calico tail like a halo tonight.

He grabbed her tunneling in and around his fingers are a longitude,tracing paisley linen as the contours of africa or a part in her lips like the dead sea.This body reaches out to life like the earths collapsed edges touching time.She held out her hands while he took notes on star trails and broken glass. Bottle hits pavement like Orions Belt. They are map makers for the illicit and wedlocked virgins, for the infants drown in a river between organs and oxygen,left to suffocate or choke on broken bone. He's a maverick of geography, shes learning her name in 27 tongues."Amour Propre"

wolves licking feet

i could tell she never had a dog, mostly by her dirty fingers. Had she been fortunate enough to have one she would wake up daily to warm thick saliva running over her spindly little hands. cant you see her eyes are lit by a sugary maddness? she would sneak him cookies under the table,raisin mostly ( who wants that shit anyway). A rich chocolate cookie may just make its way from her mouth to his, and her maid would find her dog like a deflated mass of fur in a pool of vomit. dead. her generousity and his greed reflected in his marbled pupils.
her mother would have the once winter white carpet of her 8th floor apartment on the south side of the trump towers repaired by a man that didnt know how to properly use tenses.
Past is present and present is past to him
Which is funny because isnt that how it is for the dead?
the little girls fingers would remain dirty, and stray hairs from her deceased dog would stick to her lollipop stained palms. a shrine to her missing friend.
she would grow up and fall in love with a massochist
they would fuck and scream and she would gag him and smile at the sound of him losing consciousness as she wraps her scarf tighter around his neck
he would beg for her to stop, but she would touch herself as he clawed for air
when she finished she would unwarp the scarf, while making him lick her raisined fingers
freudian doctors would love her
in fact, her masochist would be one
i looked at the little girl on the street harder as she twirled her balloon sring around her fingers until the tips turned blue
and thought to myself
maybe its better for children to not have pets
they wont have to learn about loss so early in life
of course
in that case
we would all be so normal
so vague
and these days
who doesnt want to be sodomized by a girl that killed her dog?