You write about me but I have to live it out in real time. You think you know me, think you own me, think you have it all on me. Arrogance. Poison aphrodisiac. Sun god in your own smoke-stained mind. But your lips can be red like berries when you want me so bad the sweat beads along your strung out neck. I want you, too, angel. I promise I do.
It’s dark in this thick wooden room. Dark when the charcoal clouds roll on in and take out the wrath of the seething skies on a blackened earth none of us deserve in light. You tell me eternal, infinite light is contained within the pierce in my eyes. All of it. Electric and screaming. I ask you where the warmth has gone. Can you see that, too, baby, tell me can you see it?
I slink from the leather chair to the hard wood floor, press my thin palms against the grain. I am imagining what it would feel like to extend my limbs outward in all directions, to be pulled apart like an ecstatic star. The Devil at my throat. The angels at my breasts. Why do these dreams come cloaked in nightmares. I talk to you in a growl. I try to tell you what I see. It isn’t light, sweetness, it isn’t light.
It’s not a fixation if it’s part of who you are. To be made of something is not to cling to it. You don’t have to. It’s all over and through you.
Do you know how many times I have tried to shake this feeling of ruin? To build myself into something which can overcome it? I look in the mirror. I shade my eyes black and unfasten my hair. Pale fingers along a pale jaw beneath the blood red moon. The fantasies begin to flash like animals at night. Stray far away from here.
You pull at the hem of my dress. You think if you could just get me wet all the other fantasies will disappear and I’ll be yours. Make me safe, make you safe. But they are not like ghosts, I’m telling you because ghosts evaporate into thin air. My fantasies are bones. The wandering keeps me vibrating along the edge, leaves me desperate. But never just leaves.
I thought you would have known by now that I’m no good for you, baby. I’m no good the way I drag your heart out with my teeth.
You want to get up close. You want to crawl inside and taste me where it hurts.
When I let my mind wander it’s you like fire snaking through my veins, racing along my skin. You give me sex but I want feeling. I’ve been dead for so long now. I’m used to being alone with the black dress of night.
They give me work to do to stifle the screaming. Greenblue hum of glorified madness.
People are brick walls with no eyes, impossible to penetrate by softness of hand. Pain as startled liberation; violence to snatch you out of yourself and bring you back to life.
Early morning is gray like a tombstone and it is everywhere moaning its silence. I pour my coffee and fall from a storm cloud far off beyond the distant hills, the rushing of traffic and labyrinth halls which pulse their neon red sound.
There is a sadness we do not speak out loud
for fear of it killing us.
It burrows in.
You come to me like chimes at midnight. Spread my body upon cool grass. Using your thumbs you close my eyes. Choose your words carefully, baby. The dead are just sleeping – just dreams in your head. Touch me there. Kiss me at the gateway to this life like a prison.
Gatekeeper. God as Deadly Wanting. Holy Release.
One way out is pain. The other is ecstasy.
. . . .
I’ve been writing shit poetry in old beat up notebooks because I cannot seem to understand who I am at the moment. If I don’t write I go out of my mind, and I go out of my mind when I do, but I prefer the latter. The former is a suicidal masturbation. They don’t want you to write. They don’t want you to know yourself because if you do you will know them, too. See all the way the fuck inside. Find out we are all the same. Find out the secrets and destroy the game.
We push back against the blinking chaos, invisibly and without heart. The heart has been removed. You want to analyze and to turn me over and over like a mystery, you who are looking for something other than the sweet of my tongue, the salt of my mind.
Your arms around my bare summer shoulders. The scent of paradise is almost too much to take without crumbling beneath her enchanting fingers. The sea is calm and glittering in a hazy sunshine mist, waves slow to ripples against your naked feet. Shivers in the small curve of warm afternoon.
I am looking for messages on the sand, listening for voices in the wide blue distance. When this life calls to me she unfastens the knots in my chest. Flowers in the aching between my legs. We reach for her together, coaxing her supple petals, beads of nectar hot like sin.
At night we pour the drinks. At night we watch for stars to appear above us all around and speak about our dreams. Dark desires beating inside my skin. I wonder why living has to be so hard when the air is so soft it melts me with grace, melts me with elegance. Makes me numb enough to forget the pain is never more than a tear stain away.
Touch me in that way you do that lights a fire enough to get me high on flesh and bone and mouth. Press into me, make me open, turn me into something more beautiful than I am. Wreck me, take everything. My eyes like moonlight flashing along a black midnight ocean.
Maybe in the end none of anything will matter. I don’t belong here but I don’t want to go. I pray to something in which I once believed. Please give me something I can hold, feel like smooth cool stone in my palm. Keep like a golden locket dangling secretly between my breasts.
A single star flashes its sparkling particles across the vacant night sky and then disappears into dusted oblivion. Kiss me so the spinning stops. Stroke me so I can remember what pleasure feels like pulsing me out past the noise. Please just don’t let me disappear.
The weather has turned cooler and gray hangs over us, dome shaped. I sing as I pack my bags to get out of town. Riders on the Storm. Jim Morrison is my newest obsession because of his poetry. And his face. God that fucking perfect beautiful tragic tortured face.
I am troubled / Immeasurably / By your eyes, he writes in The American Night.
Couldn’t you just die.
I need the ocean. I need it all over me and crashing on the sand. My love gets out of bed and walks past me naked, sandy blond bed head hair in every direction. Black coffee and warm kisses. That crumpled space between sleeping and wake.
It’s just us and it’s quiet as a faded linen afternoon. I sip my coffee and watch out the window as the sun begins to break through the mist which whispers along the trees.
I don’t know if I will write while I am away. It is a strange thing. Sometimes I never quite can settle in when I borrow someone else’s house. All the coordinates are off somehow and my senses get mixed up.
My body and mind need a break from whatever bullshit they call reality. Lately it’s all just too much. It’s too much rush to get back to the things we used to do that didn’t make sense even then.
The birds are chirping but I have not heard a single cicada despite all the hype. People keep warning about the deafening sound. They complain it’s constant, the maddening buzzing which surrounds them from all sides.
I watch his eyes for the things he may not know how to tell me but I need to know are there.
Bubbling up in his blood. Prickling all over his body like pebbles of hard rain on a stone gray ocean. I wear a tiny bit of lace, light the candles by the mirror like maybe I’ll be saved, anointed, forgiven.
I want to be soft and him to be savage tonight.
Fuck poetry. Poetry is murderous. Poetry tears you into shreds, makes you beg. If it’s worth anything, it kills. Makes you watch. Makes you a witness. Makes you a voyeur and a spy. Poetry is utter devastation. A haunted kind of life.
It has been a long time since I formed my mouth around a word like a vengeful god binds his wrath into a fist. Since I kissed you like a burning bruise.
Let you drown in the searing ache of wet rose madness for a while.
Now all your thoughts of me are swollen, ripe, and red.
All the color has drained from the head.
I like the way your jaw juts out from your thick neck. I like the way you force the taste onto my tongue.
My love is a brutally beautiful thing. Lavish with a suffocating kind of attention.
I watch his eyes as he does it. I watch like a snow white lamb for the glistening of teeth.
Watch him fuck all the pain out of me.
Take it. Cut the lights and skin my knees. Poetry is reckless. Poets are nothing but bottomless pits of need.
In darkness there swells the truth about you. The murky depths of the truth you wish you did not want so badly to see up close. The Devil is in your blood is black like rain is watering the dead. You seem to have built a temple you can no longer manage to maintain and so the crumbling comes naturally, almost as a relief. Destruction as the sweet jolt of violation, the art of pain as surprise. He steps in close to you and you disappear against yourself into the void. You watch for the signs. You count the numbers, you lay out the cards, you mark the corners, face each: north, east, south, west. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Drink from the cup. Never break the circle. You bite a stranger on the mouth and take him home to find out if you hate yourself and if you do, how deep does that go inside. As long as you can hardly feel it as long as it doesn’t hurt as long as you never have to fight back. In a small room which is buried in your chest, a candle burns, melts its molten syrup down along the hard surface of the many orbiting moons. In another world beyond this hell you exist outside the binds of good and bad, as a midnight flower which opens silently into the fragile air. As an idea of what freedom has forever tasted like, eyeless, needless, breathless. Little shell, little bone. Make a wish. Take me home.
The thing is it’s all slipping away even as you peer into the hollow soul of it. If only they would feel the claws of it, too, then maybe they could understand what this feels like. Maybe a conversation or at least the quiet passing of a cigarette back and forth when the desperation really swells like a motherfucker.
Remember when we used to glow like wet sand beneath the moonlight. How you would cover every inch of my body with your burning mouth. You and I, a deserted beach awash in escape, paradise like promises kept in the beating of the heart against the skin. At the center of the blood red rose, into the folded petals swirling softly inward, you follow me. You will follow me, won’t you? Even if we understand each other so well it scares the shit out of both of us. Even in spite of the way my eyes play tricks on me, you in the mirror, you always falling apart.
They make all these bizarre predictions. A soul mate, a twin flame. A balancing act as if there were a point and a counterpoint to a love which claims to encompass everything. The buttercream light of morning melts along the rooftops and the trees. A day awaits, her slick pink tongue out against the blade like a threat, like a nervous breakdown. It’s too much coffee and not a lot to say. It’s a thick book of love poems tossed out in the rain and left for trash.
Evening birdsong sifts inside the open window as I watch the light’s eyes turn down against the hands of an antique clock. What cuts my heart deepest is these little slivers of moment, soft sweet flickers of an invisible beauty made just barely visible. A fragment of a second’s split in the veil which drapes the eternal body of time.
A boundary not crossed but extinguished, collapsed entirely into itself: into nothing.
Light sliced along the edge of a sloping petal; consummation without intrusion. So thin a movement of air against skin. Even as you collect yourself beneath it, it has disappeared.
What else could this dead world possibly offer you faith in but melancholy. People are hysterical. People are maniacs. Cruelty abounds as does deceit. In the mind of the killer. In the mind of the rich man. In the back of the throat of the hungry and abandoned child. God and the Devil and the Son and the Blood. And you pass my whiskey and you want to get high and you want to talk about this fucking life as you know it but so do I – so do I – and it isn’t this.
It is not this. It cannot be this. Anything but this.
Everything else is layered on top of what is true and what is true is the thing that aches the most. I pull out a notebook to write a message to no one. Notes on my phone. Lipstick on the wall. Make a world out of nothing and hold it in my hands like a sacrifice. Like a pistol. Like a looking glass I attempt to gaze into. Fall into. We are only ourselves and only unto ourselves can we return.
A tangerine sun, like one strung out eye, sinks into a white glass sea.
You are an outcast. Always have been, even among the included. Even among the chosen, you were the few and never the many. Singular. Disaffected. Dissociated. Frightening.
Moving your face and body the wrong way, they clipped your wandering steps and pasted them upon the tightrope horizon line. It is the one thing about you you cannot bed. It lives inside you and does not rest. It is the only thing about you. It is the hardest part about you.
It is the only thing you love because you want to, not because you must.
I light up a cigarette and sit on the wrought iron chair on the patio beneath the maple trees. The ominous sky heaving with electricity. Solitude is prayer. Is the only universal expression of gratitude. To be left alone to pick up the paper cut-out footprints they peeled off your feet. Nailed the wrong way around. I busted up my foot over the weekend – something stupid.
What if you couldn’t walk. What if you couldn’t run away even as they chased you.
The chain-link fence around the building has two feet of curled barbed wire around the top I never noticed before. They tell you it’s so nobody gets in. All kinds of running are the wrong kind of protection. They can say a lot of things but I am no longer listening. I can picture some of us, shirts torn, skin bloody. Trying to get out.
We slept in later than usual. My body and mind are both still sweetly tingling with the whispered press of our love making which we rode out from dusk til dawn like we used to do when we first met. We have been through so much, traced our way through the darkness of a time we thought would break us, and still you can make me blush, make me open, make me cry for the sheer depth of the beauty of it.
Out the bedroom window the rain is pouring down, a steady thorough rain, and there is a cool wind moving through the blood red maple leaves on the trees across the street. The birds sing wild little songs as I run my fingers through your soft blond hair.
I know I don’t say love because it sounds like nothing to me when I do. But I love you as if that meant more than any word could ever mean or contain or imply. I love you hard like the wet pavement takes the lashes of the rain without relent or protest. I love you until that cruel ridiculous word finally takes root in my limbs, an expansion bright as the sun which exhausts itself sliding through miles and miles of my thin bending veins.
At the beginning we didn’t believe it could happen. And when it wouldn’t let us go we didn’t want to trust in any of it, in anything that could ever hurt like hell again. But here you are kissing me and here I am tangled all over you and here we go clutching again and again and again like the world could end and the walls could crumble and the sky could burn and we would not stop. I could say love and you could say love but I think it just means that we will not stop. Not for anything.