Feelwell

Poems

92 posts in this topic

Future Monuments

 

Under the skies of our minds they tread/

Standing above us as colossi of the day/

They rivalled the mountains of our world/

Blotting out the sun with their magnificence/

 

Upon their shoulders we strive to stand/

For they are our imagination’s leaders/

Our path’s conductors/

And our life’s edifice/

 

Entire worlds built around these beings/

Courses chartered to follow their path/

The world upon their shoulders/

As beacons to our ships they stand/

 

To every role model out there

You shaped those that come after you

Whether you realize it or not.

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Gojira

 

how many times have I stood here in the wake

of some tremendous force?

how many times have I stood here amazed

at the endurance of my own life?

 

have you ever seen a girl as beautiful as her?

(and for the first time I think back

with detachment on all of those anime eyes

that haunted me into my waking hours

as I hoped to drown myself in my addictions)

I had watched reality split open so slowly

that I could not feel my body escaping from here

peeling back like these papier-mâché streets

but I wonder if perhaps at some point

I had succeeded, after all, in destroying myself

 

so as I stare up, watching the water of Tokyo Bay

stream between those rubber scales

I can feel the gaze of onlookers press against me

their eyes grasping in desperation for a life

whose time won’t be spent

trying to escape itself

 

but at the time I could swear

that those plastic eyes

were more real than anything

I had ever seen.

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Oceans

 

Nightfall, descending I slow into the water

Clothing reaching from the path it came

Washing myself to the shore were azure glows

 

Pierced in my sides from the shivers of frigid air

My body is witnessed to the dark land

Swept to its allure against the tide of man  

 

In waking my heart finds its solstice here

Gazing for the moon who guards such a peace

This calmness beyond understanding

 

Rooted to imagination the whole of me embraces itself

Just as the senses do no less a part of the ocean and land

For how can a mere spirit alone contain this fullness

 

And so I wonder out into the forest thirsting for more

Running joyous to taste a sweet and moist air

In a sudden fall I can only issue a cacophony of laughs

 

Held in the arms of the trees I weep for this ecstasy

Tendrils of branch and vine seep through skin all the more reviving

Cradling my body as my mind falls to the darkness and slumber

 

For death has truly died, and nature has her reign

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That Day

 

that day          I narrowly avoid

stepping in pigeon shit

you point toward the offending bird and laugh   I cannot help but laugh as well

a month later I scrape what is left of myself from that shoe

a different shoe         I have several                        something we had in common

you told me that when you were a child                you strangled a duck to death        

you told me it was an accident

I realize I know almost nothing about you             but I would like to know everything

I would like to spend my life learning

I sit on the cold metal bench waiting for the bus and you           stand

I listen to the sound of jeweled hearts       rhythmically curb stomped

your makeup is cracking in the chilled air             somehow it makes you look more beautiful

I wonder if you’ve noticed               that I have not stopped smiling

I have not written a single poem since that day               until today.

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3 minutes ago, Crow said:

 

That Day

 

that day          I narrowly avoid

stepping in pigeon shit

you point toward the offending bird and laugh   I cannot help but laugh as well

a month later I scrape what is left of myself from that shoe

a different shoe         I have several                        something we had in common

you told me that when you were a child                you strangled a duck to death        

you told me it was an accident

I realize I know almost nothing about you             but I would like to know everything

I would like to spend my life learning

I sit on the cold metal bench waiting for the bus and you           stand

I listen to the sound of jeweled hearts       rhythmically curb stomped

your makeup is cracking in the chilled air             somehow it makes you look more beautiful

I wonder if you’ve noticed               that I have not stopped smiling

I have not written a single poem since that day               until today.

 

Well, that was an interesting poem, for sure.

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1 minute ago, Feelwell the Rabbit said:

Well, that was an interesting poem, for sure.

Thanks, that's what I aim for.

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El Machina

 

For there is no thing that only man's hands hath created

Merely shape in the image of his will

A will enacted on the metal of earth

 

Cybernetic after my death

 

For I don’t really wish to stay merely a man

Not tied to these dexterous paws

Bound in sight that does not see X rays

 

I want to feel dark matter

I want to touch the surface of the fiery sun

I want to embrace time till even the stars grow dim

 

And in my thought…..coldness is now dead

For if I…...as a creation of man

Am in fact…...more human

 

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Nothing crazy, but I did this Hiaku earlier this week and like it well enough

 

The snowflake city
Never sleeps starlight pretty
Death is not the ground

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Fire is red.
The sky is blue.
I'm posting Ludwig,
and so should you.

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I feel like shit

I think I'm dying

Gimme some pizza

So I won't start crying

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Still There

 

The past and present both collide/

Pushing, pulling side to side/

Another storm without respite/

The future on, coming bright/

 

The winds have changed/

With currents dark/

They glimmer through the night/

Though the route it shifts and sways/

In the end, home beckons bright/

 

I’ve seen kingdoms rise, in the clouds/

Swiftly beaten down/

Ideas, hopes and dreams all/

Change with the seasons wind/

But I’ll still hear your call/

 

I am me, as I’ll always be/

Underneath it all/

The sky may tear/

While the very stars are torn asunder/

Eternally I’m there/


 

 

These never do end up as I imagine, but it's fun.

Plus I haven't done this in almost a month I think.

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Dead Poets

 

peering between two horizons nailed into place

I reached for the fragile contrails

of your cigarette smoke as they faded—

slowly from here

the sunlight swallowing the last of the concrete

beneath my feet

as I would shroud myself in a cloak of exhaust fumes

 

the loose threads dangling from my wrists

have finally snapped

allowing the weight of my origin to drop

away from me

and the man who owns all the dead poets

looked at me then like the space

between two stanzas

and dismissed it all as unabashed plagiarism

as if so much of my life had already been written

 

sallow clouds lay scattered across the sunlight

like claymores left behind from ancient wars

and I shed my days like the loose scales of a serpent

as time falls from me in clear droplets

but I had only hoped to pull you

across the broken seams of our skyline

 

broken moon submerged in daylight

the stamp of publication—

the ossuary of the dead poets.

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22 minutes ago, Crow said:

Dead Poets

 

peering between two horizons nailed into place

I reached for the fragile contrails

of your cigarette smoke as they faded—

slowly from here

the sunlight swallowing the last of the concrete

beneath my feet

as I would shroud myself in a cloak of exhaust fumes

 

the loose threads dangling from my wrists

have finally snapped

allowing the weight of my origin to drop

away from me

and the man who owns all the dead poets

looked at me then like the space

between two stanzas

and dismissed it all as unabashed plagiarism

as if so much of my life had already been written

 

sallow clouds lay scattered across the sunlight

like claymores left behind from ancient wars

and I shed my days like the loose scales of a serpent

as time falls from me in clear droplets

but I had only hoped to pull you

across the broken seams of our skyline

 

broken moon submerged in daylight

the stamp of publication—

the ossuary of the dead poets.

I quite liked the topic of that one, and the way you brought it across. 

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Finger Fish

 

the sound of water rolling over

                                   the polished spines of creek rocks

                                                                      somewhere deep in my fractured self

 

(headphones gripping ears against                        my skull like a forgotten piece        

of the Berlin Wall      and I am painfully aware     of their construction

how the cartilage resists      slightly)

 

parts of myself have become stagnant, allowing the leeches to breed in what I once was, water rushing elsewhere over the rubble of what I refused to become, I remember lifting my legs close to myself as the creek water carried me, afraid of what might live under the rocks piled one on top of the other, afraid of the rocks threatening to pile over me

 

crayfish propelling itself against my cupped fingers

its tiny claw pinches my forefinger

as a newborn might wrap its hand around its father’s thumb

somewhere far away my mother tells me over the phone

that I will find someone if I can only wait

and I cry for a long time       until I unknit my fingers

 

I once sat cross-legged         a blue, threadbare towel separating me   

from floor tiles stacked like creek rocks     writing haiku about the orange light under street lamps            (how many bad poems must I write before I am free the New Yorker stops rejecting my submissions)        reading wikiHow pages on meditation       out-of-body experiences             attempting to tear myself free from something         as I once tried to pull a hook from the mouth of a bass       its cheek like the ruined wing of a moth

 

and I count the reasons      

                                   for which I have elected to remain alive

                                                                     as if fear did not freeze me to this place

           

(if we were fish we would use a binary number system)

 

and finally I am lost              and you are gone with me               you who would stay and watch as I slipped away.

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Rain

 

in the dark       walls, a sharp presence out beyond me          I can feel someone’s breath

collecting on my forearm        even though I am alone           and it provides

a small comfort

 

language        like the broken                        surface           of the ocean        between us

 

               still                          these thoughts             pierce                     you            

   

                                                                                                                 softly

 

(I wish you would stop inhabiting the second person

how you appear even when I do not intend it

please, if you could just come out from there—

leave me

even when this word does not exist outside of you)

 

this room is a prism    stabbed into the space            above a raincloud       

if I look down             I might see       neon signs beneath sheets       of floodwater

like peering at a distant          expanse           of the seafloor

the words rippling      like a school of fish     escaping a predator

how are they still working after all these years?

or does their light move          as if across a great distance?   as the light from stars reaches us        long after their deaths

 

39 inches of seawater would displace 56 million refugees according to a World Bank

 

economist, the imbalance of these numbers, you once spoke beautifully of such things—

 

Tunisia, Egypt, Mauritania, Suriname, Guyana, French Guiana, Vietnam, Benin

 

watch the world          drowning between       the last few blinks       of your eyes.

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Pinecone Currency

 

the distance between my window              and the world                        has closed

the lake resting         its forehead against my glass          shoulder                    

pine saplings growing from the windowsill           the space where my feet once

touched the earth

 

            bodies drift around each other

                                                                      ethereal

           never joined by language

                                                            lips brush momentarily

                        glance her side

                                                                     fuck

           before their light fades

                                                           just as quickly

 

(you reached out, touched the silence that I happily cultivate, am fed by. kneel among the ruined walls of the future I built around you)

 

shrill cries of geese      escape from the wallpaper underbrush         as the music

from the next room                shatters          another of these walls

and I busy myself     writing noise complaint letters        their words yearning

their meaning an expanse               stretching       between them          

as the poet’s hand recoiled from the world

 

                                    a crow’s nest

                                                                        monstrous

                        spans the top branches

                                                                                    of a pine tree

                                    those trunks

                                                                        extending past the pane of light

            which once held my ceiling

                                                                                    giving the air

                            to falling pinecones

 

I remember twisting them   from low branches    my hands thick with sap

struggling in their prematurity       I would wrench them           free

 

(these pinecones       the gold standard     for our war economies)

 

I have run out of words       I am beginning to repeat myself     repeat others

 

would you allow me to fill this space with silence?

 

how many blank pages could I give to you?          how many pages have you torn from me?

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Sea Of Ghosts
 

Time, is an ocean
And I, a vessel drifting
Losing my bearing

There is no end to the blue
Through the storm or in the clear


 

Haunt me, Haunt me
Why haunt me?
In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea



A cardboard legion
At the border of my realm
Amass without end

Motionless and lost I sit
My eyes sinking in the screen


 

Haunt me, Haunt me
Why haunt me?
In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea

 

The ghosts of the past
Resurrected in my brain
Torment me at night

Telling me, never fear, friend
Enjoy life and be happy


 

Haunt me, Haunt me
Why haunt me?
In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea

 

But I'm lost and sad
I fear death may come early
If I change my ways

I could die as a young man
In the twenty-seven club


 

Haunt me, Haunt me
Why haunt me?
In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea

 

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Groundhogs

I’ve come to expect less:

This commute over time, 30,000 miles, one way

the accidents
cleared to the shoulder,
twisted masses of steel and plastic,
flashing lights.
sirens,
bodies carried off on stretchers
in the next lane over,
the line of brake-lights slowing:

tiny corpuscles 
stretching into the distance of this clogged artery
where deer lay folded,
as if asleep,
their blood ticked across windshields,
or ground into the pavement like bruises,
the bright orange of fox fur
sending a sharp scent of decay
upwards to circling birds.

The groundhogs
watch from the sides of the parkway, 
nibbling tender shoots,
laboring against this all
content merely to fatten themselves for their long sleep.

If I could stop
for one moment,
I would become them.

But instead
this need
this hunger
that is always there
pushes me up and down this same grey strip of pavement
in this tiny metal box,
bald tires,
the side mirror knocked off by the plow,
the engine misfiring,
a tiny vessel,
a clot waiting to gum up the works.

-© Simo-Skunk, 2016 (AKA, Fossa-Boy)

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The White Rabbit Summer

 

Of the many days, not all are equal/

In inspiring the extent of ecstasy/

And every few years, a time will come/

When the White Rabbit Summer is upon us/

 

The fields of green will vicious blow/

As the madmen all play tricks/

Upon a storm the crown will sit/

As disease turns to health/

And the very sun will turn its eye/

Away from such a scene/

The winds will come by north and south/

To throw order to the breeze/

 

The scene flipped, the mirror broken/

Reverse the world, betray the bonds/

In mania find succor/

And excess find release/

Cold tempers the mind like steel/

So let the fire burn brighter, higher/

A castle out of fragments/

And a palace out of dreams/

My garden of thorns/

With a fountain of laughter/

 

Bring low the banner/

And to shreds with the future/

The past, ill company/

Leaves the present, much sweeter/

A proffered hand waits/

With blood running hot/

Join us in madness/

Abandon all sadness/

All as one in the White Rabbit Summer!/

 

 

I quite enjoyed writing this one. The idea of mania and letting go completely is quite interesting. The motif of a white rabbit to signify madness is also a very interesting concept.

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Time,

what exactly is it?

a measurement?

or a curse? 

you can spend your life thinking you are having an impact and taking your dreams into your own hands

then it changes.

time is a bitter reminder to every single sentient being on this planet

that you are just a statistic.

three hundred and sixty five days a year,

and eight hours spent a day working,

two hours a day spent playing on your electronics

eight hours spent sleeping

and six hours of nothing.

out of those hours, how many have we actually spent trying to "fit in" and "be accepted"...?

what is the point?

time is nothing more than a way to find out how long you have left.

and how much you wasted.

haunting, isn't it?

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13 hours ago, Aeon said:

Poem here

I don't usually care about poems or this thread but this one caught my eye and I must say, it's beautiful. Well written 👍

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Highway

 

my legs are the battered flank        of a buck walking beside      the guardrail of the

highway           morning traffic whispering past     what little remains

but there are no eyes left to stare out at me

 

                                          disappears                                               car’s frame

after the second woodchuck           beneath the tire, its body jolts the           slightly

 

                                   passing

and I can feel its weight       through me

 

in grocery stores       I listen to the barcode scanners      as if there is a heartbeat

behind them                   can a sound be carnivorous?           how easy to lose oneself in

those sudden, brief reprieves       of silence        something sharp and enduring

embedding itself in me       over time

 

(my misanthropic eyes did not flinch from you

I sat down beside you

began to speak without thinking

wielding my voice like a blunt object)

 

refer to figure 1-1 for a visualization of the distance between “you” and “I”

linguistically, these two words divided by the impotence of the verb, the space bar

the most abused key, the least dust ridden, if only we could avoid the finality

invoked by punctuation, notice that the removal of “you” results in sentence

fragmentation, “I want”

 

there is an honesty to this   I have let you draw too close to me

 

I must retreat into my own fragmentation

 

the weight of poetry has become as great as the inheritance of scientific knowledge

 

as I continue to rewrite the word you     endlessly.

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Numbers

 

there are only short brushfires       of Spanish      from the bank tellers

time stapled to you   as you bend forward to sign a check          and the feet of my chair balanced on the edge     of the carpet pattern                        somewhere there is another soul               wrapped around my own    like a parasite                        the clock taking ragged breaths      but I have stopped listening

 

(the night before I stood peeling carrots   the metal teeth of the potato peeler

digging into the curled larva of a fingertip                        the heat from the oven still

trapped behind my eyelids                         long after the carrots had finished roasting)

 

we follow a crack in the sidewalk    I miss the easy geometry of my room         you lead me toward the smell of a bakery your jaw making small movements                beautiful sounds that I can no longer hear                       sometimes it seems you forget that I exist even as I am speaking to you

 

there are the echoes of the human mind and its resistance to Boolean algebra, your contradictions like the workings of an intricate mechanism, as I brush unsolvable equations from your eyes

 

(you do not recognize yourself in my poetry

and now I cannot recognize you either—

this word as unyielding as rock

yet I can feel you stirring beneath it

the fading light from my animal eyes

snared for a moment in a mirror)

 

at times I remember the wound    

                                            shards of what I was buried

                                                                                     beneath my skin like shrapnel

           

a woman is having a seizure            at the back of the bus           her husband yelling to the driver to pull over      but no, I have stopped listening            I cannot turn my head to look back at her             you are the one who calls 9-11       turning in disgust from my fear      there is only the sudden urge       to cover myself

 

always my voice is a moment away from breaking           as each poem is always a word away from falling            into silence. 

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Hatred is a meme

Bitterness deepens the divide from each side

A lubricant mess pride does deem

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I can only create rhythmic poems so hear me out

... 

A wish for a bullet to the head

To the path of death it lead

Am I happy now? 

To life I no longer myself vowed

So I don't know

For I had hit the point of all time low

My head now displaying spectrums of red

Because I am on the path of dead

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My EBM/harsh electro song lyrics

"she shakes she slithers

my heart i cant give her for my head has its own odd plans!

experience is nothing

when money is something

oh yes its what our kind demands

all this pride of disgust

power thats unjust

yet you tell me its all just fine

>prechorus<

no i cant give in

but it just will not fade away

I will not remove him 

the Aeons of time he will stay

>chorus<

the sides of the same coin

is this who I am?

I chose to do this

what was my true plan?

these people just like me

i see day by day

would give up what they chose,

to be held tight some day

>verse two<

insanity, vanity,

red mist and fog

lies shush the cries of those treated like dogs

my jaws lie shut yet

as i will regret what happens to those that lose there will

>instrumental/ sample from Robzombie "numb"<

 what have i done, i feel so bad i feel so numb yeah

no where to run, i feel so good i feel so numb yeah

>verse 3<

Poisoned by bright screens

that take away our dreams

and yet we all keep going on

we are all so broken 

no love, no words spoken

and yet we all keep going on

our youth seem much older

yet have such cold shoulders

can you tell me just what is wrong?

These 

people on streets

these people we meet 

when we all choose to just look away

how many of them are we

today

 

 

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Darknesses that Appear Under Ultraviolet Light

 

still in the process       of my disappearance               drenched in a web of black lights

the lethal angles of this room have always                 reassured me

somehow         listening to a single soul          bobbing along the ceiling         in the midst of its atrophy

 

(tighten fingers around rope rungs                  that lead away from here        this body curled like a dead grasshopper        slow cycle of visible light across the back          

of depressed eyelids               the soundless crash                 back to earth)

                                   

each day          with its imperceptible watermark                   a trail of fingerprints phosphoresce                along every breath       leading back                 into my lungs

these walls      beaten so thin by your absence          that I can feel nervous glances

on the other side of the house             imprinted on the air                like mating insects

 

each return is more damaging

                                        than the last, these bones threatening

                                                                                     to break beneath my sudden presence           

 

above me, the moon                lashed into place         against my ceiling       

the colors        around your face like soft bruises                   that fail to register      

on the scale of visible light                                          I watch a mosquito lay its eggs           in a pool of water collecting                in some lost artifact                the ruin of a discarded pop song                     holding its palms to the rain  

 

                                                                                 contraction

(gentle current of blood through a paralyzed limb, the         of ventricle walls, the

 

                       striking                   stained

armored surface       against my ribs      with its cave paintings)

     

each word is more difficult to dredge

                                        from out of this silence

 

                                                 I nearly let you slip away      

                                                                  never to be revived by black lights   

 

I lay watching my voice disintegrate

 

                                   clutching this last word to my chest  

           

                                                                 just as I think of something to say.

 

 

            

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                               After the Wicker Constellations Burned Away

 

with the heat               came the smell of a dying star             like a man’s singed eyebrow

            coils of lilac                 made of anime eyes                 which I had hidden carefully

from the sun

 

                                  pupil dilates, forms a horizon line 

 

                                  eyelids like the skin of a red giant

 

                           left alone with the astigmatic eyes of god

 

feral search engines                 compile the last traces of language                  I would walk

across covered bridges  in the brittle silence                 practicing memory repression

techniques                       the tattered crest of you         still stinging my face

 

animal shapes              untangle themselves from       the untrimmed shrubbery outside

I remember voices                   like the seeds from a kicked dandelion           

the sunrise swelling     into the footprint of an oil spill across           one corner of the room

 

                                      constellations of light pollution

 

                                    shatter in their glass carapaces

 

                                   leaving this narrow space carved

 

                                   into the core of a stellar remnant

 

I am tired of leaving                these tiny defacements           across the face of our silence

I am tired of finding pictures of you               still clinging to barren social media

pages               even as the network lines fray                        and burn away.

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"The Quicksand House"

It starts with a breeze, a shift, a squeeze, as the walls start churning, turning, and the world starts burning down around me. Falling. It is in the falling I am crawling, scrawling, trying not to falling but falling anyways, down, down, down, down, down.

The walls are quicksand.

My house is no longer a house but a falling, crumbling structure of mixed bones and broken puncture wounds of debris, of dead mice and unsnapped traps. A funny joke once, but now an echo of screams as I am falling, falling down, towards the center of the earth, the ceiling high above, the only thing left unbroken and unseen.

It scorns. Me.

I reach for ropes that do not exist. I gasp and grasp and wonder wish. I cough and sputter, choke and mutter, but my mutters are not cries or screams. The sand drowns them out. It is quick to do so. It is quick to fall, descend, fall, descend, fall.

Darkness.

There is darkness everywhere, a kindly crushing broken despair. My lungs contort and smash and crush, my mind burns and breaks to broken mush. My house has betrayed me, my body has abandoned me, and my mind, well, it’s all in the mind, now isn’t it?

It’s a shame how fast the body can turn upon itself; it’s a shame how fast the brain can burn alone withheld. It’s a shame…It’s a shame how the self can fall and fall, and the mind, well, it’s all in the mind, now isn’t it?

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Damn @Crow, your poems are really fucking rad. Love your use of page space, and while I'm normally a rhyme/meter/structure guy, I really like how you forgo most of that. You do it well. Maybe even right.

Good work, sir.

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Thanks @Conker, I'm not the biggest fan of meter (nor do I have the patience for it) but I also really like what you're doing. I'm always trying to mix up my use of line spacing but that tends to be what does it for me. Sweet title by the way.

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Maybe I forgot what you looked like


I rode the same bus for seven years
& only knew that skinny, red-headed boy
from twenty minute rides
in the grey AM light,
shoulders bunched three to a seat,
legs pressed close
by curving river roads,
pulled together by gravity
as my own small sex strained
hidden beneath the backpack on my lap
&
at night
my thighs ground down the memory against the sheets
eyes squinted into pillows,
his face
etched behind my eyelids,
orange hair like straw,
the sour glue smell,
freckles caught like small stones
in currents
washing away an outline,
the struggling upstream motion
as I strain to fill it in.

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@Crow and @Aeon, thanks for the encouragement! One more:

Owl

They don’t see you
sitting perched
on the branch,
eyes still as mirrors
until it’s too late
and your thick body
swoops down
through the tangled branches,
navigating that leafy maze
without sound, 
the squirrel struggling in your talons
born aloft to his death.

We don’t see the oncoming headlights swerving over the double yellow lines
the figure in the dark
the one drink too many
the tumor before it forms
the flood before it flashes
the life running out from us.

The owl knows. 

He waits for you
at night
as you toss
sweating
in dreams
where teeth crumble like chalk,
your vision dims to nothing
and none of the lights work.

Unable to see
or run
through the thicket of briars
piercing your legs
ground giving way 
to nothing

you plunge
into the river
rising

& snapping trees along its bank like match-sticks
as the rapids pull you under
to drown
in the covers
of the bed 
where you will someday die, 
caught in the talons 
that have always clenched you tightly in their grip.

It is already too late.


-© Simo-Skunk/Fossa-Boy, 2014, revised, 2017

(For Anne Sexton, John Berryman, Theodore Roethke and Sylvia Plath. Thank you for all the inspiration) 

 

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@Fossa-Boy Nice use of metaphor there. I have a bad case of writer's block at the moment, so it's nice to see someone who can actually put a sizable amount of text together.

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                                        Clothes that Kill Virgins

 

cleavage of the rain drops       curling against the glass           prowess of the heron

 

                                                                   with its sweeping bedroom legs

 

                for a time we courted the vocaloids

 

                                                                         but soon, they too fell silent

 

the last weather forecast         nestles itself                against the back of my teeth

 

                        glacial bones melt in my throat

 

                                                            discussing tomorrow’s weather long after

 

            the mottled seasons crumple into piles

 

a woman perched        on a velvet loveseat                 cliff of photo filter at her back

 

                                                            algal bloom along her forgotten voice           

 

low drape of a backless turtleneck

 

                                                            avian eyelashes fall from the ruin of virgin eyes.

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                                             Clothes that Kill Virgins (Revised)

 

—your turtleneck       smooth as artillery shells        sand off the rough edges of afterlife

skip the polished stone           across boiling creek water…

 

for a time we courted vocaloids          with our vapor trail mouths    before they too fell silent—

 

(…bitter crystals dissolve      along your terracotta tongue               like pop rocks…        

get your drug dealer on the phone      but then you remember you are falling—       have

always been falling)

 

step back from that cliff of photo filter—      cleavage of rain droplets, curling against

glass—            deny the nature of your avian feet      return them gently to nests cobbled

from ceramic twigs

 

—the last weather forecast nestles itself

           

                                          against the back of my teeth as these

 

                                                                             mottled seasons crumple in our waxy palms 

 

but in this world training montages

                         cannot save you and I am afraid

 

                                                         as you run your eyes across

                                                                                     the sharp ridges of my starvation

 

…I retreat into my stanza-severing

 

                                  bones… I retreat into my condemned

 

                                                                         fingers like covered bridges I retreat…

 

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                                    Advertisements from the Unraveled Dream

 

wield shards of crashing billboards     (first mistake: opening my eyes)         suture pierced

atmospheres                with strands of impact craters                        (snagged dance music loops,

swells into fossilized sound…)

 

                                                     —we were the slum lords

 

                                                          of the coiled dream

 

                                                           built ghettoes from

 

                                                     discarded marketing slogans

 

you left me      collapsed in the freezer aisle               (smell of your perfume: another

ellipsis)                    plastic immortality clinging to me                  like a pack of dogs

 

                                           —your symbolic adoption

 

                   supports WWF's global efforts to protect wild animals and

 

          their habitats…           there could be as few as 3,890 tigers in the wild,

 

                                                       most in isolated

 

   pockets spread across increasingly fragmented forests[1]        —the need for a vessel

 

              for my soul…             the dying, (…) forced to sponsor starved vermin

 

                                         by startup animistic foundations—

 

 

even now I persist      in my goldfish etchings           fragile language encircling the end.     

 

[1] https://gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions.aspx

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                                                    Malware Petals Underfoot

 

debone these plucked continents

                                    draw strips of gristled infrastructure

                                                                               from the planet’s spinal column

 

I don’t know how to continue (never knew)            head swimming           with your

gasoline fume footprints

 

jagged cityscapes        lip sync against cloaking wind            thumbs caress hip bones

of ash—

 

shake the seeds from stone-edged wolf howl              sow them along your jaw       

like a row of teeth

 

—there is a species of solitude,

 

                                    a liquid thread of tomorrows, the world

 

                                                                              caught mid-step over our petal feet

 

                                     (the hollow-sprawl in my chest rising

 

                                  sternum carved into winging arrow head—

 

                                                  when did I realize

 

                                    you would never speak to me again?)

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Warfare comes in many forms

from the daily taunts

to the repetitive degrading.

to the threats of abandonment. 

questioning my loyalty and desecrating who I am,

and yet the pressure, that fear of being a failure in your eyes, is strangling the very being I am, for the sake of you being in control.

I spent my life saying "I wont give in,"

"I would rather die"

....

now the message is an echoing nag, "what do I need to do"

or the hollow, uneasy fears. "Am I a good person anymore?"

It's crippling me, like the crooked wings of a once broken hawk,

you are a hunter. I, the prey.

you've broken my wings once more, along familiar lines of solidarity.

Mirrors show a shell of what once was.

What Should of been

What has been given up, and in many cases

Forced away.

I don't believe it,

but I don't know just who I am anymore.

but,

You to, have forgotten "you"

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