enamel walls and throaty halls and echoes from beneath i live against the thralls of monsters who catch victims in their teeth
new york sights pt31032012
I type, because writing hurts too much. I draw cracks in my wrist with pens, but I guess it’s always been painful. I sometimes still feel New York beneath, around, above, before me. Cherished, fleeting seconds like the whispers of an opiate. As if all my darkness and pain were absolved by a soothing spell of huffed smoke and exhaust. But just for that moment. I get high off the gagging...
paint it oceans it can breathe in make it corridors of sea make the roof from plant and sand-tin with walls of live anemone
i. i like to pull the stitches out i like to stretch the stitches out i like to make the stitches weak and i play chicken with the fire ii. dribbled red dribbled dribbled pouring like a storm whose handler got tired and it carries like a fever see it carries like a fever and [[MORE]] ii. i think the monsters poured my drinks and dyed the red juice clear and bland and and and i think they broke...
there are cracks in hospital tile and i promise you i’ll bleed i’ll bleed into the trenches with my muddy muddy feet and break the window glass to bleed my wrists i’ll carve a pool to drown i’ll swallow pillow foam and hoard our pills and die i’ll die i’ll die in your fucking spotted starched and cotton cloth of mangled wedding gown
it pales white its fingers glued to glass and while it watches monsters play their violins and harps it chokes on burning paper
i break easy, old china in a gaining tremor while the butchers bring the rocks. evidence soaks their aprons, and they wring the red in pools “a dime for you” they say “a dime a dime a dime for you come here so we can hold you” they say they say they say with their knives behind their backs and a rock in their right hand
you shouldn’t sign up on common ground. there’s nothing common about me, and i think even my blood is changing. you don’t understand because you never did. i’m done being dissected like my body is a mirror to your own madness. my madness is mine it will always be mine and it will always be a more consistent companion. i don’t care what happens to you. not...
i. it can’t quill its stitches open any- more and leave its pools to hungry rats. ii. fleas in fur had tread the sloppy mud too often and they climbed its [[MORE]] trunks and poured into its mouth its nose its eyes its eyes its fragile sad sad eyes/ iii. weep for us weep for us they said but drunk the tear well dry and now it sits in memories in red and stinking memories with its ashes...
i. it watches, stable features ripped across its face, and in- between its fingers, the withered petals feel sick. there is so much [[MORE]] poetry in aging flowers so much poetry it says as it crushes the russet bulk of a rose whose golden years are over and decaying on the floor ii. it irrigates the fields of its skin with rust — breaking bruises open with its loss and staining steel,...
i. blood swells inside its chest it swells it swells and as the syrup spills from yanked-loose stitches it kneels to it kneels to the venom queen ii. poison tongue poison hands to wrap around its neck and [[MORE]] beg the bruises beg the bruises beg no no no she never begs she she never ever begged iii. “have i ever told you how easy it is to break butterfly wings? hold them still and pull...
i watch their teeth rot from thinned jaws whose hinges grovel at the foot of the beholder with lent and sleepy hands spilling hard with toxic love (they ask for blood) and it’s best for them the vultures blood is best for them because blood is life and they own so very little knowledge of it so very little that their hands are better broken
i. firebrand, be nimble ‘round the fire (jack had burned alive) and i’ve got talent for the flames, i can hit the red eyed bulls-eye and the devil knows me well since it’s the devil who has made me ii. i’m not a creature birthed from the womb of some omnipotent violent man(?) i was born in [[MORE]] the dredges of a soiled world with my small fingers crushed by my fellow...
i. i heard our pulses ground beneath dirt, frothing at our feet and crying to the drumming on the hill — [[MORE]] ii. we bleed oil, and the cheaters drink us dry. they drink us dry, the cheaters, they drink us empty; and empty left, our lack of insides swim in silence. iii. only i’m not empty. no i am brimmed with fire, forced to feed me to myself and it goes and it goes and it goes...
i’ll tear out my vocal chords before i allow myself to listen again. that way, when you’re standing there, begging for implanted notes and expecting blood you’ll just ignore, you’ll have to wipe my life off your shoes. you are so close, you are inside, and you are killing me. but if i’m cutting, burning, and starving myself know it’s not because i love you...
i. the monsters pump my oxygen in candy coated sterling silver morphine ii. and they bleed my wrists in fragments but the bloodshed never breaks. unstable blades unstable matches and the river rocks are slipping and iii. deep breathing doesn’t seem so wise.
the color red (13-03-2012)
i. it purges noise from out its skin with broken glass (dragged and chewed) and it stokes fires in its sickly khaki canvas of its bleeding body bag. ii. do you hear it scream do you hear it scream do you do you no you don’t and no you can’t you never will (it will take you straight to hell if you ever even try to) iii. [[MORE]] filthy riots lined and line its veins and memories became...
music static static music static of the gods...
i. peel the beats back, please(!), and herd the heart noise, loud and poured a liar’s strings with which the harp plays what it is, the bloody, pulsing harp playing fiction fiction fiction. i bet you hear the vulgar noises, too, the rhythmic falsehoods rotting in tissue folds. ii. the angels hear it — (but fine- toothed and glass-eyed, their wings move wind, are not moved by wind.) ...
i. it itches like blood in a sick man’s tired throat, and it plucks the feathers from its skin — one by one — and breathes into the flame while flames paint stories on the walls. ii. it bleeds wishes and the well excavates charred ground for why the feathers fell and why the feathers burned and burned and burned.
i. choirs of weeping leaflets bleed my eyes while the sounds and smells of rotting heralds advance like braille beneath my skin— [[MORE]] ii. and out from crevices of cracking walls the fingers reach the fingers reach “come outside our jaws will welcome you” and i know the light’s a losing battle iii. a losing battle, yes, an array of books hanged like wicked necks and...
charring measures (08-03-2012)
i. i cracked the ivory beneath my hands with nineteen sharps and made the pianos bleed ii. full moons breathe the banshees’ songs and churn the notes to [[MORE]] toxic talc and bitter taste but all the gowns can do is dig for dirt between our walls as they hang from ‘round our necks iii. dig for dirt i dig for dirt because the banshees promised gold
i. summer skin: cross the bloody grave; paintings of the demon in it; secrets buried in the earth of an angry soldier whose stitched lips can only swallow screams and it takes its claws and lines the birches with its blood ii. [[MORE]] guide me from this wood it screams (i) scream (i) scream you think you have a monster in you? you think you have the monster in you? talons chalk the bark iii....
beating beating beating beats beats beats...
it beats to the sound of a twisted drummer: her blood- hound eyes cupped in pools in the red red meadow steady boil the beats and the beats of a poisoned heart she rattles the cage with dirty hands whose scent leave the thing inside with ink blots shadow shadow whose steel wings beat measures on the wall she sings she sings she sings a beating laugh to the fibers in its chest she...
i. the vessel cheapens and runs better on dishwater. storms thrash on open webs; a wide wide world a world wide a piece of stray gravel among pieces of stray gravel. it is stray it is stray it is stray but it doesn’t smile in the pound anymore. ii. broken open life sucked from out its inside cheapened cheapened [[MORE]] cheapened sells its body for warmth and love for its creed and its...
veindust: i. i’m suffocating in the static fold, rain cranked from out my temples, down down – make my blood still its weeping. (i’m at the mercy of my sacrifice.) ii. tired tiles bend, where nurses’ feet have tread and the feet of friends have shuffled. i plead with them – them, the tiles – to ride the weather of my fall, [but] Read More
i've used all the love i had in me.
i’ve never welcomed anything so much as i’ve welcome misanthropy. i’m not ashamed. why should i be? it’s your fault. i didn’t elect to exhaust myself. you just stood there with your bowls. how should i have known you had knives in your pockets? i’ve bled bled bled and now i’ve been bled dry.