well, yes, he was an immaculate human. feather hands, broken window, the cups tipped down, pouring over salt lick wounds. dead man in the alleys, winter blooms strangled in over grown hair, nothin' but chewing gum and condoms in his pocket. shotgun wedding, heroin puckered babies

9 years to say it

my mother taught me the alphabet backwards
and laughed at my dyslexic tendencies thirteen years later
laughed when i couldnt translate your humorless voice into a sing-song poem, written from the bed of a run away shelter
she took every letter with my name on the envelope
folded them up
swallowed them down
felt the curved lines of my lost sister, lied and said she ran back to the south
now your agonizing haiku's grow in the belly of our dead weather mother
oragami cranes, im so sorry i never saw them drift away
i wasnt allowed to know you had secrets to tell

torn up scaffold, holding brick facing down
chipped china finds comfort in my curls
you pull the opal flakes out and sprinkle it over my eyes which refuse shelter without your permissive hands
im a puppet when you are in me
stilted legs lifted over shoulders, heaving
whiskered cheeks, whiskey lick
busted lip, thrusting hips
deeper into my marionette mouth
over felt tongue you've come hard
troubled body, dont you lie
tell me tell me tell me
does the world blows harder though me now?
now
now that we've fucked like lonely siblings in my childhood room
now
we keep the windows closed, bodies pressed tight in vacuum sealed quarters
dont smile, i'm only comfortable when you want to die

i've got satan's touch

quarter beats, strung up
neck, throat, esophageal corresponding points
thoughtless collision on the front step of some building
kicked over cans, my mind is wet
just go home
just go home
heels in dust devils, memory serves right...you forgot to fight, i left my shock with a girl i kissed
too young, unfurnished homes
fatherless
brotherless
i'm fearing sex in the wake of absent revelations
flipped switch, broken bottle, tangled mane
tangible pains of uncertanty
hello, goodbye
awake, alive
delaying involuntary movements
the dialation of pupils
the internal grinding
something now, less then, hurts more, or less,
but really
who gives a fuck
we're more than a little lost
goodnight, goodnight my love, my motherless vessel

abnormalities of conventional love letters

i believe in the devilish, the pure hearted, the pony-legged; my ill-bred brothers
patience over poverty of the mind, a youthful revelation discovered between cereal boxes
calming prismatic visions, painted mountainsides like burning mouths, devouring flora and fauna with curried leaves piling delicately.
i believe in the addition and subtraction of our roles, reversal, like a dogs turned stomach, funeral processions, our own birth on homely sheets.

strung up coffee cans, telephoned calumnies

turn down your limbs little taxi hawk
sharper tongue studied decanter eyes
the wet rusting furrowed brow
silk lipped distraught homeless kiss

un

love sick burnt pony
hoofless rider, humming bird brain
hello hello how missed your daisies will be

there are things i will never tell, because penning my own truth as opposed to letting others fawn over the possibilities of what could be, makes it all something so lifeless and real. what a contradiction

i believe in an existence with the sole purpose of surrounding ones self with beautiful things

birds of a feather

100

Jehovah, for the first time pink tasted pink. Pure blue based pink.

further holy visions

things just never fit together, its why i wouldnt have sex with you all those times, not with the moths that call your hair home watching me.

i sat, told him to act more irresponsibly
apparently he simply did not agree, because like any true gentleman, he stirred sugar into my coffee and said all the nightiming is making me look like hell.
but that conversation never happened
nor any other, ever
dark eyes restless with filthy mugs, waiting waiting
i thought you were coming over tonight.

to my dead right hands

lastnight i slept in the room you left to us when you decided too much was never enough and choked when your body pushed everything back out.
twenty bags of heroin and a childs stolen rattle
my eyes never acclimated to the lack of light, i couldnt tell shape from shadow, so i spoke to the arm of a chair instead of your ghost that lay next to me

with the same fever that drives us all

Ive been found between tight lipped archaic brownstone faces, lining my mind with untailored curtains. strummed their iron gates with twiggy fingers, forcing chaotic nondescript rhythms, like laughter in public places. familiarity is a vague point of interest that i have been careful to avoid,such as the n the l the w, dead lines which i now refuse no matter the convenience or destination. i stopped listening for the bicycle spokes hiss when you started calling it the city's cicada.
there's levels of comfort amassed with certain levels of not caring, neither of which i have come to understand or give a shit about when it comes to answering your drunken calls or forgetting your street name. always, the iron gates strum on, humming along with street lights that burst when i say your name. i guess this is a city for cicadas. your city, so much the same as your loafers, penniless and buffed, a metaphor wasted on your tactless humor.

reminders

i offically broke up with american apparel yesterday, picked up my stuff, made plans to go to the dog park, and very sadly peaced out on a years worth of wasted time.

no more poetry, i'm funemployed these days..

all i've done is cut everything up to make knots and braids and wear them around my neck
but it took a few dresses to do so
and i have not worn pants in over 2 years, so now i've got a lovely neck with a fabulously naked body. who wants to take me out tonight?!

i am an unaccomplished writer that enjoys nothing more than writing a post script on a seperate piece of paper.

no more and yet still so much

closing out a horrible summer with a much needed road trip and some new friends
a photo venture?
well
really, just accepting that 20 has been an age for not accepting the romanticized mess i am allowing myself to grow into. you know, the type to wear a 2 dollar slip from the salvation army and a gaggle of cheap costume jewelry that leaves behind green rings as an after thought.

i think my keyboard was switched because i am typing one key to the left and have to keep correcting myself.








oh! yes, before i forget-
why dont you call me when you drink too much anymore?
i've missed that part of you.

high above them celibate tides, at least until the geese get their migratory patterns down and stop drowning out the church bells ringing on the hour with tiers of wings floating over southern winds

only when i say yes,
admit you fucked it up

the party bitches with their post modern hair (naturally)
its all so tired
i'm tired of my post modern hair (naturally)

rough times at the ruff club

we talked alot of shit, tired bruises from an hour or so before were speckled red where capilaries burst with no room for oxygen to smooth the colors into hues of blue and yellow.
down down stairs, i said it all
"i'm at my worst and i love you with your shirt full of spitup"
thirty something layers of grafitti on the bathroom stall, close, careful letters spun tight around my hips
how secure i am with being this offensive
how cavelier you've been about helping me wreck your lies, invade your home, pick at your lips
we talked alot of shit, bent over some dirty sink, put myself in a whiskey headlock and melted through the drain
you stood tall,a silent devil stroking a landmine

i had this dream where i was a a nazi controlling bitch in an aquarium
i woke up and think it might be backwards symbolism for just how ruined i've let things get
but reverse psychology does not work in sleep or consciousness
the dogs need food and i havent checked my voicemail yet
..i hope i remembered to take anything viscose out of the wash before i threw it into the dryer, i simply cannot have another armful of shrunken shirts


i burnt the coffee again, i am giving up the french press for a while.

wake up Basquiat!

of organic matter

its been a year since i cheated and let you win.

salted smokers kiss in the ghettos where we first met. discarded crack pipes,

tinted bottles, half sleeping in their brown paper homes reflecting sunlight into clouded prisms with backwards color schemes the smell of damp women and car exhaust soaking through heavy hair pregnant teens lazily painting their nails, slim pubescent legs hanging off fire escapes, they turned up their faces,and laughing against the august dust, wished us luck
luck meant that i was a romantic and entirely intoxicated by your escapism, your mellowed streets, the peeling bark of a revisited rape scene
i begged for it. so you took me home, where we both spoke soft , a tone carefully dismissing our animal nature to fuck and kill
cats cradle on your vicious tongue, i washed down your licked finger tips, left you to tend your bed, and with sea legs walked alone through times square

away away away

theres a scar that runs the length of the under side of my chin

when its hot the spaces that were stitched together become raised,

like if i search hard enough i might be able to find some piece of my past by running my fingers over it like braille

i cant feel heat, nor cold, nor delicate touch in that silvery laced piece of myself, my sturdy flesh refusing to deliver sensation

do this make me vulnerable enough for you?

am i a steady target now?

four.

tiny ceramic rabbits litter the lawn next door, i grieve for their peeling panicked faces
sallow lights flashing over, bursting bulbs drowning me, holding my head still, turning left, i cant help but vomit and stare, lifeless ornamental scripture ridden hole of a woman, ten fingers for ten rabbits

three

nothing changed

i've still got a handful of disconnected numbers, a mouthful of lust filled praises, earrings like a rococo medallion

i am just less ..less what i was, more so a tabby picking meat off chicken bones in the space between houses with unlisted addresses.

houses not home.



i do not write of this, because it is so fucking sad to think of.



homelessness over homeliness that is.

two

while my drunk brother was spinning tops on the lawn paved over with fresh tar from daddies lungs my skirt hung low, bearing a scratched belly carved out with tinsel teeth, little wood grain marks.

one

he came home with roley polies in his jeans
two in each pocket, rubbed between his fingers, laces of exoskeletal beads
threaded with the stop and go of downtown streets

forever mending the never

ive stopped believing in things, all these thing, regenerating cells, the onward momentum of here
so what if motions been proved and disproved or appropriated, revisions on revisions on tender thoughts, spread out across your limbless mind.
i gave you your name, i can take it back my only friend. its a physical lament of the severity and finality of what knowing or not knowing when mindlessness turns to carelessness (turning hands to disfigured ornaments) once meant. speak of it now,now is one mile closer to timeless, and i, i forgot to call eternity "never"

a hurst down the road and i was sipping tea

i havent written in a month
the only thoughts that blow in are of an uncertain future
living through this once, only once, and never again
that alone is the driving force behind each states name i place behind my eye before sleep
where do i want to relearn how to walk?
new york's a ghost, typical, white sheet faceless banshee leaving my glass half empty, i am always parched waiting for more, waiting for yesterdays tomorrow..or today..or-
so do i....well..what do i do?
i need this now, now, now

had we been domesticated at early ages we wouldnt have such unkempt hems
i could sew your split lips, symmetry would be a virtue


i miss you i miss you i miss you
hallelujah you're a ghost between my walls
hallelujah i'm a fever

drink up the marrow

a harmonicas what you got

when he went he left his palms down
palms down
twenty grams of heroin floating round
when he went he left his palms down
ashes to ashes
burn him, burn him; i want the twenty-first.

chambers

inside or beyond dissected grievances we shared a cab ride home
attracting and repelling similar poles of magnetic glances
the rise and fall of a fragile motor masks a petrol snicker into ash tray fingers
we are; well, we are here, this, well,this is all we have until the doors swing free into your leveled streets (i've still yet to discover what plain of thought i'm dwelling on)

unkempt hems

hallelujah you're a ghost between my walls

hallelujah i'm a wrinkle in your sheets

the thing of it is, my lack of creativity has gone so deep that i simply cannot write a lick.
i've taken up making sense
whats the happening with this season for crazy?
i cannot feel my face, my hands are tiny ash trays
theres no symmetry in life
did i say i made sense? i've got to stop these little lies.
i want to rip the carpets up,fall asleep with a mouthful of cigarettes-
cuddle up to the discarded folds of fabric and find fever in the restless flames
darlings please dont tell my mother.

when did i stop growing?
stand still
hush now
hand over eyes




p.s.-very soon i will be very homeless.
find me a place to live, i am too tired.

i miss you dearly.

my child, the blistered cherry wood trees, the bastard son swaddled by corn mazes cut through with Daedalians flying saucer eyes squinting against an alimentary sun, i forgot your name when i saw your hands, maple leaves, speckled with twenty something shades of curry bought from an east indian gypsy that found comfort in our mundane existence only after replacing our bodies with paper dolls and posies(we are all animals anyway, patch-work of reptilian boots and fine leather)

a diseased mind

something is stirring....

not naught nor oft

well the gutted lawn made a lovely host for my family trees silkworm hollows. foreign limbs twenty years dead touching spaced out teeth of a picket fence, frowning along the northern slopes of the dunes that cradle the limp body of my family's first prophet.

so it is said, my life line begins with a dead rabbit, as byzantine or pretentious as that may sound
only, i was birthed from a wood stove to find a room filled with an uncertain heaviness. no blood to define how i came from both land and sea, only the paw prints of my father pressed firm into the palm of my hand. my house of leaves, my hand, my home, swallowed by the sea.

alices forgiving feet

sex on alices feet under hessian moons in central park
we're falling apart into paisley leaves resting on copper sadle shoes
nine years ago i swung on her arms while dreaming of lamb shaped clouds
now my dogwood lashes scrape a moan from your vermouth tongue while we reach into giant teacups to drink the lead wine
i can swallow you down, translate tasteless pleasures of making love in secret to sunsets at dawn reflected off a caterpillars mirrored belly
the water doves are calling our names from lazy pearl ships whose captain and crew see inside out with eyes of dyslexia
"the child! the boy! she's three men at once, living heads of a siamese beastie!"
what cherishable perishable childish things the wicked virgins become when lured beneath a metal tree with the pulsing smile of a dubloon sun
i've never watched those girls dance round' come summer, come meadows. come hard, just withered away under your ancient kiss with my dress hung on a clothes line strung across park avenue south
the solstice soldiers come marching in, brass buttons eyes, dry wall hide, they're coming to soil budding girlies
i dreamt of lambs chasing wolves over absinthe soaked clouds in manhattan, awoke to you running a sleepless marathon over the landscape of my body
the captain called out "slim pickins this year."with a nod as he crept back into my mind while looking out over burnt wood hearts through a fruited cornacopia
it all wound down, until statues were just statues
and we fucked like ragdolls on alices forgiving feet

my mind is dry

i am a ghost
i am unwound lace
the tenderness of sleep;
a silk thread

i am the devils best flaw

new york replaced my soul with a handful of pennies that i tossed down the drain in a bar between bowery and prince

daisychains or carbon

we are bred with the worst intentions

we bless our beds, christen this home, rape our daughters, then comb their hair

the child, the womb, goodnight little lamb, tonight we speak with the softness of wolves

the question maker falling down

down

drown
draws dawn

with a single line

Bien chéri, quelle obscénité secrète est ceci ?


moi ? vous ? un lion sous la pluie ?

ps. its morse code

recreating a false fabretto

there, when i looked down to see what i had done, two characters lay in front of me. vivid and colorful, lives spread out across the pages, some of which remain lost, but there they were, formed from the hollow of my cheek. oh what color and life and wealth! i poured a stiff drink, a toast to myself was in order., to these undiscovered treasures in type 12. standing, the lights hung lower, filtered a haze through dirty glasses, mumbled a shine over the slick unwashed hair i tossed aside. "AND THIS! THIS IS TO THE SACRIFICE OF USING THE UNUSABLE FODDER. HERE IS TO KISSING AND TELLING!"
the cats hiding under foot glared, lost interest, and with eyes narrowed laughed at my shadow on the southern wall.
with that i drank
and drank
and drank
until the sips drew on longer, the red lacquer worn off, hugging bottle rims like a bleeding heart.
then
yes
or
now


---.... --..---- -.. !

this.

a blackout

from you
from those nondescript people living through words spelt with bile and spit
it was us
always, even before there was an "_ _"
before you put my hands down your throat, told me to touch a part of life. REAL life.
(and yes i did, i felt it, i wanted to keep the stray pieces to myself. call it dirt under my nails.)
is this love?
because love is love is love is love like no other, its a wave crashing down with an open hand only to find no victim open mouthed while the salt makes its way past the lips, through the nose, headed straight to eardrums, pounding in like an animal kept at bay. you found me, midsentence, like some recollected memory turned over and over in the palm of my hand until every callous moment was smoothed over, leaving behind only a dimly light sequence of you pushing the hair from my neck, laughing hard enough to make bubbles in the thick summer haze around a sleeping burrough.
turn
a leaf held to the sun
turn
your leather jacket hanging on the back of the same chair i sit in and chainsmoke with no due reason. "why are there so many boxes of cerial in your kitchen?"
turn
turn
nothing
turn
turn
turn
two broken bottles and a half moon smile.
turn

turn
until every broken capilary on my dull toothed face is smoothed. until your day old grin is so unfamilair. until i am the punchline of every bad joke you tell inaccurately. until all the pleasantries we existed in souley as adulterous addicts lose their novelty, until those long film ribbons of us flecked with sand in a beachless city are cut into place mats. until th e seconds an d fr
am
es become me78an9ing
g
less

a sec ond[[0f++confusi

on.
;flashing! th/'en''

gon
e.

then
yes
or
now


---.... --..---- -..




this
ApPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!
what brilliance i have found in your absolute neglect yet again!

kings and diamonds and waking up unaware

lets drink before noon every day.
(next time be sure to capture a slice of your thumb in the frame)

hello rasputan

i do not have a broken mind. i do, i do. just don't repeat it so often.

cover myself in lights
stage a crime scene
lick a boys cheek with my clothes on
pick pocket a child
spill rootbeer in my lap
laugh uncontrollably
laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh
what a boring year it is going to be

am i terrified or is this salvation?

whats love is love is love is love?

its paranoia and toasters;
the tiny devil beneath your feinding mouth when you say you will

you will, you will with a lock of hair pressed between a finger and thumb

how telling
if you be my holy water for breakfast, i'll never tell of the daughters hidden in your shoes

i'd never tell anyways

darling,we can stay ugly as sin in this light

is this salvation?

who broke my daisy chains down to petals and teeth?
i've heard of wasting time on marvelous things
but hurry up now
life is life and death is death
tumble weeds and cherry lips
bumble knees and weary hips
oh,i could never get you right

i've got a mind that screams fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you nanananananananananananana na

nothing, no one, and too many rails

terrified, terrified we are nothing in daylight but illicit drug users, party bitches, the right crowd for the wrong in's.
turned away a priest for a bottle of gin, smoked for six days and did coke the seventh
fucking christ this is ridiculously overindulgent!
its braille formed with diamonds
a blind mans calloused hand brushing over with urgency while i sway in front of the same wall and pass my tongue over the hidden letters
everything
or anything
always nothing
it doesnt matter that i can moan like no other when its right, even when the room is full and all the doors down the hall are still open. glasses half empty on the window-sill, a quarter full with day old flies, yet i'll still make a point to tell you that [i moan] before i tell my name. what a diluted sense of comfort i get from making direct passes at men i could never give a shit about

a year for penance

hey, woke up this morning in a new year filled with the same bad habits as the one we put to rest
they added an extra second onto last year, something about the gravitational pull slowing and all the babies crying.