Tuesday, 23 November 2010

the tower

on the first level, you are sitting on a council couch, reading late articles about recreational equine sedatives, scoffing at their lack of relevance

on the second you are dancing, two bodies in front of me, dipping to terrestrial lines, anchored in faith

on the fourth you are a tailor, sewing flannel patches into a pair of beige trousers that I tore on my bike

on the seventh, you are a voice, tied to a string that I cast out into an electrical storm, you are my genius

on the sixth, you are a staircase, from the seventh, to the fifth

on the fifth you are the number three, and I cannot erase you from my mind

on the eighth and ninth, you are empty spaces on a calendar that I'll never bother to own, waiting to be filled with roast dinners and rolled cigarettes

on the tenth, my head is light and you are looking at me, looking at me, looking at me

on the eleventh, I lay down beneath you

on the twelfth, you are a cherry dresser, with round knobs and lacquered drawers.

on the thirteenth, you are descending

on the fourteenth you are gossamer, and my arms an unworthy loom, too jagged and splintered to hold your delicate threads.

on the fifteenth I am drowning, and you are the last gulp of air that I took

on the sixteenth, you are the truth, and I am the destroyer. I eat your heart with both hands, my face so splattered with blood that I cannot see how you are dying with each bite. I am so caught with gore and nihilism that I cannot see how large your wound, or how much you've bled into my mouth.

in the cellar, there is a table, a lamp, a picture of you, and a bottle. the walls are stone and the floor stinks of reality. I can either be drunk and in darkness, or fuel the lamp, so that I might see your face.

Monday, 15 November 2010

yay for pills

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cold fingers, interrupted sleep

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Wednesday, 10 November 2010

"the tangible aspects of the concept of nothing" by nicolas babbington and joseph stohlman

alone amid a night of sweet sincerity
I wonder how such silence could have voice to me

it not, it without, these words. these words. behind the all shadow of all. the non finite. if all is. this.

the idle times in my existence,
survive with a voice,
the shadow of all drinking deep in times of no resistance

the dried rotten edges of glowing all dive into
small
fetid pits, outlined by
the upright diagonal, spaced with

Tuesday, 9 November 2010

a few scattered thoughts

the simple
the small
the quiet need but for the tapping of keys,
remembering romantic nuances that other writers might've used
in their imaginary workspace in your own mind,
created without the necessary narrative of shitting and the rest of
life
the glass, with etched name was given by friends who wanted me to remember my sense of self and of grandeur.
the corrections made by my computer on my behalf, guarding my beliefs with the infallibility of good spelling
and
taking away the words that I have no use for
eventually
the water I drink
the pauses,
when
the inner critic takes it's hold on my throat
the feeling of anticipation before I realize that now is my chance
to name envy, a snake, which wraps around my throat and whispers doubt
and the poison of it's bite goes to the belly, and the heart
the failure of that anticipation
the regret of forced correction and
misused conjunctions.
overused punctuation
punks with I pods eating big tastys across thousands of miles
correctly informed of what the rest of the world expects
almost defiant in his conformity
I am scattered and strewn across a violent coastal ocean
and you were a jutting rock, a point of reference in the chaotic waves of being
I clung to you, ignoring the jagged edges and crushing waves of influence
I bled onto you
and drank my own blood, so sick of gulping at the salty
nothing
and I let go
and allowed myself to bob underneath the cosmic waves of reality
making something called a "metaphor" out of symbols created by others
and the wounds in my hand sting with realistic confines of a normal life

the jug of water, jug which
usually filled with sweet lemonade
that protects me from the scrutiny of witnessed descent

Tuesday, 2 November 2010

during the fall, at night

and as I walk these colonial streets
careful not to step on dead leaves
wanting to be part of the silent and calm
inobtrusive to the night
as it breathes cold into the streets of new england
it is the warm hum of a passing bus
the golden halo
yellow and orange
dark and
scattered molt of summers burn
the painful warmth of
sheltered hands
fear the night
fear the night
the cold can kill and
fear the night
fear the night
the cold can kill
I have walked from brighton center
to mt. auburn hospital
refusing faith in
acronyms
my hands burnt with fall presence as I fell forward
through the inevitable
but the cool dying air around me
couldn't be screamed at
we can only curse at it under shallow, shivering
breathes
as it chokes our bitter throats
fear the night
fear the night
the cold can kill and