DivorceLove me until I'm boredSo I can make a scene of it;I want to be willing to throwPlates and juxtaposed phrasesIn your faceInto the face ofYour snuff-noose compassion.PleaseSmother yourselfWith your reverse-spined spiteSo I won't be able do it for us-I would make too clean of a job of it
HenryI found him in the clover fieldThe fat bees mistaking his hair for flax,His words poppy-refined dreams-From his ebbed mouth he urged,Without lifting his dark lashes"Don't break the needle."
Working ClassSmoking is a working class diseaseThey said; he smiled at this.Lean in body and broad of mindWith shirtsleeves rolled,A modern man's philosopherWho stuttered over the wordsLike his fingers did over her chassisDetroit rolling iron beneath his palmsGrease and lubricant under the nails.The cigarette cherry glows in the darkGiving him a hard edge aura The gloaming settling into the linesOf his work-worn face
Nameless, Almost FacelessIn this old black and whiteWhere you've spread yourself thin,You're obviously married,Old sanctuary.In the unfocused, the wavering unclearHow grainy is your nameYour reason for being here?I turn myself offTired eyes glazed;This shame is my own-You have no name here.
PaleYou are never more beautifulThan in this moment of your painAnd I try to wake you slowly, gentlyBut it never works.I stay up past midnight, smokingRunning your name into the spilled ashesAll the while feeling Mary-heavy,My virgin pale a smoldering resinA black tar glut;I wish I could be mercifulAnd relent the seething curtainBut you're just too beautiful when you sleep.
Oh, ElizabethOh, ElizabethI shouldn't know this part of you.Uncloistered and detachedA cigarette clamped in her teethShe shows me the tattoo on her thighAnd peers into the swirl of a martini;I fail to mention her black veil is askewBecause it takes away the edge of desertionThe black shroud hides, just as diaphanousAnd she pulls it down so slowlyHer pupils a splurge of knowing.Oh, ElizabethI shouldn't see this part of you.Her display is enormous and vulture-picked cleanWith tangled virtue in a line-wired brushAnd all they found of her was broken to the touchEven though the grass hid the illustrious gape.That black jewel has been pried from its tinesThe silver missing, crushed, and ingested;I couldn't retrieve it alive to be the cocoon.Oh, ElizabethI shouldn't love this part of you.
WinterThe water is always coldest during winterAnd this is lovely-The dead eye of the moon may finally see and blinkWith no bloodshot corona for lashes.A cry is run over the loam like a Centurion unit,Pleading to return to the black-earth Mother;There was never so much beauty in a denial.
PenumbraI drew you out of the airTo make you more disposable,Meant to be no more than smokeAnd the smell of sodden woolBut the chunks of ivoryThat are your teethChew at the boundaries set,Gnash that fine penumbraGauzing my sensibilities-And every beat of my heartCauses a rewash of memories
FluxTo know how tender and vulnerableEverything is, is a mistake-Curling up into the black sackThat is yourselfCreates a bellow-suck wheezeThe cacophonous collapseNo one wants to hear;It is much too familiar.
for riley i think i have forgotten how to dream for the last time it happened i smiled and ran my palms through your hair sifting out sand and fumbling at the buried shards of sea glass that bite at my calloused fingers. your frothy eyes threaten to drown me but instead i inhale dopamine and carefully trace the thin boardwalks that wrap around your skull where the hair is missing. you ask me if i cried and i said that i didn’t think i knew how to once when i was young i saw a baby cardinal huddled and bleeding in the grass. i watched the ants and the flies skim over the contours of its closed eyelids until i scooped it up and held
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.” I gulp, taste of acid.
Let Sleeping Gods Lie ARCHAEOLOGISTS CLAIM TO HAVE FOUND GOD Archaeologists revealed in a press conference that they had unearthed an Entity of Unknown Origin (EUO) early Thursday morning when they broke open a sealed structure. Up until the archaeologists cracked it open, the structure had been untouched for nearly two thousand years. Archaeologists were unable to answer how the EUO managed to survive, or why the structure was sealed in the first place. “This is a major discovery,” says head archaeologist Noland Grace. “Whether you’re a Christian or not, this is going to be a game changer. We found God. It’s not just some controversial myth anymore. I expect a lot of people will be in a hurry to convert once this story gets out.” Not everyone is so excited. “That place was sealed for a reason,” said a member of the dig crew. He spoke on condition of anonymity, because he was not authorized to disclose information.
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
Flowers and RainA city full of flowers. A city full of rain.I watch over it through the gap in the crumbling brickwork. There's a little girl wandering in the street below. God knows how she got there. I can't see properly through the scope of my rifle, but it looks like she's crying.When I see her face I remember something I haven't remembered for years. I was her age when the evacuations happened. At least they started as evacuations. The word implies that everyone was following a plan, but it was just mass panic within a few hours. Still, we call those days the evacuations, because that was the word they gave us. That's the word my parents used.I remember I held my mother's hand all the way through the crowds. I remember the way I slipped out of her grasp on a bridge full of violent people. I remember being jostled and crushed by the rabble as I searched for them. I remember the taste of my tears.I brush my hair away from my eyes and watch her through my sights as she picks her way up the road.
Black Widow IIawayi'm going to break awaydrain i'm in the drain of drains and slowly being spun downwards and downwards and downwards and down wards.thirteenMom's rose garden grew beneath the steps, and I did too. They weren't aligned and it bothered me. I always tried to fight it but she would come down and lay her hand on my bare skin and whisper, "They aren't growing."And I would be red like the roses and blue like the violets.She grew beneath the steps too.pastnotlookingforthepastorthe f u t u r e e e e e esetset down the lighterput it down.don't make it brighter.I set the roses on fire.ingenuityshe never knew I them on fire. I set them on fire.her hands on my bare skin and whisper,they aren't growingrose
Man Sold SeparatelyIt was one of those houses dropped on the corner of the street, squeezed so tightly by the ones on either side that it was hardly noticeable. It was one of those houses where the hot water never ran out in the winter and the air conditioner never broke down in the summer. All of the neighbours in the similarly shaped houses, although never perfectly identical, shared gossip and brought over casseroles and generally pretended to like each other until the door closed and the lock clicked and their sincere thoughts on the daughter’s new husband came to light. It was a neighbourhood with the level of superficiality one could usually find in the suburbs.I was drawn right in.There was something about the idea of having a comfortable little life, a quiet life where I would often be alone and always lonely, that somehow appealed to me. It’s easy to be lonely; all you do is turn on the TV or open a good book and it goes away. I could never sit around feeling sorry for myself in a
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;born a week too late, she hadmelancholy in her bones: doctor lizbettook time out of her schedule to pluck hernewborn strings - calloused sanitation againstmottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.in three more years, she will havenothing in her bones at all: doctor estairdiagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel herinstinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquidlobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellowflesh against the thought of just getting over it all.ten years after that, her mother willfind her face down and thrashing: her dustbunny bones will flex as she retches up her memoriesfor display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawingthrough them with clawed hands and heaving breathing untilone day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
To ConsecrateWhen you first met me,All you could see was a snow white glovejutting up from the filth I let them bury me in,digits half curledwrist arced and carpels tangledas if I had once strainedto reach up for something more,but had long since given up...Your fingertips were my Autumnas I walked backwards through Winter-A sleepwalking shadowspurred on only by sound of a melodic voiceand the faint whispersof a promisethat I was worth more than ash and dust;It's been two years since you first coaxed me up from the mire.I opened my eyes into a hurricane,reached out to grasp at the hem of your dressonly to come up shortwhen I foundI was still chest-deep in the mud;You slipped away between the raindrops,Leaving me with one last promise:"Follow me.You can do this."I put my hands to the ground,pushed with everything I was-Pushed till my ribs cracked,my tendons tore,till my arms snapped like rotten limbsand I bled out from my eyes.But I pushed.The next time you saw
Lately, the waitHighway traffic, seamless like the skiesof October; distant lights foretella visitor.A gush of wind, a magnolia laden threshold.Another blackout.We sharethemuch sought afterlunacy.[Lunar/lunatic]
Infini-Fridge 9000Barry loved his Infinity Fridge. Or at least, until he got married, anyway.At first, it was amazing. As a freshly-recruited maintenance engineer on the Luxury Star Cruiser The Astronut, Barry had found his new home and workplace full wonders. He walked through rooms so tall he couldn't see the sky; he swept up litter from artificial beaches which captured more beauty than the real thing; he watched the stars pass by like rain from the sweeping observation deck.And, of course, he had his Infinity Fridge.An Infini-Fridge 9000 was standard-issue hardware for a Luxury class cruiser, but Barry had never seen anything like it. In the slums of his native Bomalomalom, pretty much everything was finite (except perhaps for misery). Water was rationed. Food was served via nutritional pills only. Even electricity was limited to ten tera-watt-hours per day. That was barely enough to run a sens-o-vision sim and have enough left over to purify your evening drink.So to step into a room with a frid
Changing GearsMy morning oats taste particularly bland this morning. I look outside the clouded windows and see the city across every inch of my vision. Buildings of all shapes and sizes are formed from copper, brass, and iron. At all times of the day, the city's Gears are churning.The Gears are the machines that run the city, the country, possibly even the entire world. Metals are formed together to form them, robotic men designed to replace our government. Their voices boom over the industrial noises of the factories and drown seem to drown out all individual conversations. We're free, I suppose, but they all say that there was once a time when freedom was all we had.Across the street, I see Thayoden. He's a boy who works in the aircraft factory, constructing engines and attaching steering wheels and dials to bi-planes. I met him in Industry class when we were both eleven years old. Ever since then, we've grown apart, but I still see him and think of how much I miss being with him. But we're dif
salti of you,such a beautiful mess, intertwined and overrun.your arms, copper lips, citrus,a lovin' with a twist.my summer away at space pirate camp,i took to howling with you the first thunder of june;flesh, storms,the hunt for human brains, Maybe Zombies Just Want To Hug? - 6 lies to tell yourself if shipwrecked.i can't explain the feelings i get.wakewalking, blue dream before i sleep: the soul cupping rice (glass figurines, lamp light eyes).my fear is milk two sugars. drink drink drink beneath it all, floral growth, silver spoons, featherweight fox teeth, losing my spine, strange preoccupations with skin, idle... maps.
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protrudin
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
GraceMother, eighty-four, took UncleJames for a ride yesterday.Drove her brother to the cemeteryTo visit Daddy and Mike.After, she called their flowers lovely,Then asked, "Where's Daddy?Where is my Husband?" *For the first time in fifteen yearsI dream of Mike, him driving upIn Mother's big Oldsmobile,Then waiting. We talk, he nods.Now, I realize he has comeFor Mother. As the old ones sayTo take her home. I go to herBed, grab her hand. I'm waking,Mother's hand cooling in mine. *April 15, 2009Today, my little sister and IWill go to select a coffinFor Mother. Eighteen years ago,I went with Mother to chooseMike's. Yesterday, my Mother died.Like a kaleidoscope twisted,And twisted, the worldBroken, scattered bits of glass.
My darling brotherMy darling brother,I hope things are going well for you.This summer has not shaped up how any of us expected, has it? To think that one year ago we were sitting in the lap of luxury, and now we are scattered to the ends of the continent in a miserable exile. It is unbearable to think of our cousins still feasting, draped in jewels, while we must content ourselves to live on their pity.Forgive me. You asked, of course, about the rest of the family in your last letter. Grandfather has been horribly boring lately, sulking around and not doing anything. I know he misses having a kingdom, but really! I do not understand how he manages to spend so much time just lounging around.I found Anne’s diary the other day, and to quote from it - “While being away from home has its disadvantages, I like being surrounded by so many men that are not our relatives. It is a relief to be able to carry on an affair with one of them without having to worry that he is really our cook.
146 poundsmy mother tells me that i should be ashamedfor dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing,that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skipthe lemonade and drink the water instead. do you really need that? her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mineand i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means shehad half the character i do.shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex,telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up.i shock her time and time again when i cram my corners intoevery article of clothing i selected on my own. how will you ever get married? & i wish i could tell her how boys have seen me nakedin the emotional sense of the word, how they have foundtruth and honor ready to burst from my so-called "fat rolls."she will never know that i am a garden with an unlocked gateand that each o
MotherhoodI am a shrill mother, sometimes cruel motherThumping the bible of maternal knowledge;If a mother were ever to eat her youngI can assure you it would be out of loveDigesting sorrow with the bone and sinew.