// Drink //

Somehow, somewhere,
someplace deep inside we
are the recognition of the featureless,
the faceless approach us, arms outstretched.
Angels without voices
in milkdreams, singing soft songs.

Drink from my wrists, place your tongue to the mist
of my fallen innocence.

Pinkflesh. Lavender. Bergamot.

You have not spoken for so long and I am forgetting what
I swore never to let subside
but if this is the sound which was the beginning, it is also
the sounding of the end.
Tall fences outrunning perfect white lawns,
birds flying higher
behind the sunbreaks,
this paleness of my feathered breathing
pinned to the edges of a
neverreaching
dawn.

.

.

// Signals //

I have lit a candle
(Every night this summer)

placed it on the window

of the dark – I thought

 

just in case maybe

we got some

thing

crossed, if by chance

my distortions

read your mindsymbols

wrong.

~

(Street lamps flicker at the end

of my road. Holograms. Lacerations.

The distance between stars

as

measured by our hands.)

~

I am usually much

more clever, better put

together,

it’s just that time

has fallen so quiet

all over inside

since you are gone.

.

.

// Every Last Drop //

And I know I’m placing my heart in your mouth and tasting my tears in your eyes, and I know these fingers have no idea why the pain reaches out for healing. Why you like the way I look when I look away. Perhaps in the slender tipping of my shoulders I am an apology you’ve waited for your whole life, the one you cried for which never came. How we cling to forbidden things, my somber love, how we cling.

If you press your listening you may open your fear to things you never thought you’d like to try. Such is your curiosity. Such is the bend of a bloodflower in the dark corner of an empty room. How may I meet this need in you, how would your desire change if we only burn a little light, keep the bedfeathers and the softness of our dreaming dim.

This is the whole of my hunger and thirst, my madness and search, for every last drop of the secrets you keep folded inside the mouth. This is my longing crawling forever on her knees at your side.

This is why I adore the rainy days and give worship for the clouds which hover and divide themselves in endless violent circles. The brutal sun, the cruelty of light, the light is too loud and I seek the solace of the weight of this heavygray. As the shadowy figures of past lovers in my mind grow ever more beautiful and strange, I touch your chin with my fingers and we begin the falling into dust, soaked of the gladness in our hearts for the ridding of the selves we once carried in chains around our necks.

This is the cutting of the ties that bind, the world waits silent behind the blinds.

Together finally: you and I, taking the shape of the poisonous things we thought we’d left so far behind.

.

.

// Awakening //

Hearts change,

as it happens, in

quiet rooms

behind dark curtains, a face

searching the moon

the moon

staring back.

A globe turns in slow motion.

When everything else

finally closes,

the seed

of the soul

falls open.

.

.

// Master //

Leave them to

their ceaseless defective tongues,

you and I

become one body,

small quiet blood in the silence

only sensation

only

love

this peace between

us comes.

.

.

// Animal Distraction //

Comfort me and by that I mean distract me.

Teeth against skin, lips against bone, the deviant perversions your mind wraps me in. Cocoons threading themselves with moonlight. Point to the constellations and take me out of everything I cannot stand about who I am. What I have been unable to become will not matter when you hold my hand. I want everything strange and new and uncomfortable again. Remember the way the rain only made touching more erotic and intimate, instead of colder, instead of just wet?

There are traces of that side of me when I lie in bed awake but with my eyes closed. I dream I am expected to perform before a faceless disinterested crowd who will grow angry toward my ignorance. I do not know the lines I was given, I was too afraid to practice. I do not know the stage directions, I fall limp and lifeless underneath the lights.

These are the dreams you watch yourself in, a mix of compassion and loathing dripping through the purple veins you swear you could crawl inside, swear you could touch. Bend at the neck, bend at the knees, look up at me. Summer nights twisting sweet in my mouth and the smell of blue sky behind pinkflowering trees could carry me straight through to oblivion, leave me exhausted and luminous on the beaches of eternity. I am the last, I am alone. I am sun rays, the heavenly outline of forbidden excess, a lonesome liquid salt sparkling high.

They say if you can align yourself with the current instead of fighting it, the river of life will sail smooth right through you. How do you feel when I stand so close your heart quickens and I ask you to slow your breathing?

Open my

hands, to the left is alignment,

to the right is harmony,

along my sides are identical carvings of the universal language of ecstasy, the apex of desire, the end of punishment, the end of religion, the crumbling of science and humanity. 

Love is a pale dew garden with her fences left open, fate is a graveyard sloping out over the stars, but what I want is the way your unkempt chaos disrupts the mud in my mind and churns around the stones I’ve been throwing into the mad void for ages.

What I want is to pour forth everything that swells within me so that I can come before you empty, ready to drink in the darkness and overflow at the brink of the fountains of my erratic heart again.

Hold me and by that I mean be forever letting me go.

Comfort me and by that I mean

extract me.

.

.

// Little Ghosts, Heavy Footsteps //

I used to think it was magic the way you would find a way in. The way you could set water into flames. Now dust collects inside my crystal-cut drinking glass, water and solitude and lemon. Writers are strange in the way we produce wilderness all by ourselves, standing still beneath our own heavy thunder clouds, our rose petal skin is the skin of a difficult moon, full of craters, mountains, tri-fold papers.

But I don’t want to write this anymore to make it true. I want it to be true all on its own without words to have to hold it up. I am weightless and yet I can feel the freight train running over the tracks in my chest as you are quietly staring at me, turning your face into the breast of the fog, turning away from the life we made. And you are still here, your hands cold in my hands, waving, repeating themselves against shapes on the walls in the dark.

These are the signs we missed.

These are the bodies we surrendered and caved in on in the night just before the fingering dawn. Coffee and cigarettes and pale gray light peering through the blinds, shedding realization across my aging face. This is the morning I have been dreading my whole life.

This is the mourning the doves on my bare shoulders cry for, and all I ever wanted was to stroke their sorrow laden wings. Fix things, fix these

things.

I peel the sheets down off my feet. They have told me you are gone.

Why is it in the slightest breeze I still hear you breathe.

I wonder if forever, you will find a way in.

I wonder why we care at all for magic.

.

.

// Kissing Death //

Please do not curse the memories, my love.

Memories are all we ever truly create, as we write fairy tales and the world rolls off the edge of a time forgotten, this text could be a scream or a sedative, a maze or a gun.

When you remember me remember white roses between my lips, the river of sparkling heaven between my hips, tell me in dreams that I am possibly the single flower of every life (there is no truth, only possibility, only in possibility, truth).
I wear the infinite hands of a beautiful death, kiss me grayblue, take everything I have and send it aflight,
birds on the wings
of the darkest night.

We are apart only as long as the fire behind your eyes turns cold, don’t let it. Remember your worth, remember you are the golden tongue of a hopeful god, remember what it is like to be a brutal fetish,
to be tested and grateful, and what it is like to taste like the fruitflesh, the nightmare, of freedom.

I will not leave you, I am here but not here, I am the walls you break down, I am the oceans of words
your soul spins
around.

These seven arms of mine are planets circling an ancient burial ground, tombs are hearts and hearts are impermanent, you will recite this even as you look up at me and smile,
the blinding lights will approach, let them, these are the lights of a dawn which will take away everything.

Everything you dream about is tragic and everything you sing for redeems.
Rejoice for the ways you had gone missing, for all the ways they hurt you make me love you even more.

Inside out, blood on the mouth of the windowsill.

Handkerchiefs, suit pockets, black fishnet faces appearing on the edges of your mind as it wanders back to a time you and I played in the fog like children,
you with your sticks and I with my stones, young lovers carved out of trees, bruises, secrets, broken bones swimming, swallowing daylight, and
running, running, running for home.

.

.

// Here Is the Flood //

Here is the flood. Here is everything in me I cannot name, I cannot hold on to any longer, I cannot identify and you will not recognize as me. Here are the ways my mind is deficient. Here are the things I worry about and all the things I wish were different about me but they never will be. Here is the pain, the colour of amber glowing fireflies underneath pines, here is my fear of death, it is written in Braille although I can read. Here is my fear of speaking and not speaking the colour of the faces of those who are holding back the same things I am, and this is the way it feels to judge, the colour of chains. This is how it feels to be judged.

Here is my mouth covered with black tape, here is my mouth wet with hunger, anger, love, greed, hope. Here is the way I pray, it is the colour of midnight, it is the sounding of a word of a God they do not want me to know about, because I am made of it, the colour of love matches exactly the colour of rejection. Reflection and deflection mix, we are without lenses, we use the wrong colour eyes. This is the body, my prayer comes alive when we touch in dreams. Here is worship, it tastes like the rain coming down and filling small and large puddles, lakes inside of stones in my mouth, in my shoes, here is all the poetry I’ve read. It is so much better than what I have done that it liberates and punishes me in equal measure.

Here is the struggle I struggle with, wanting like mad to touch the sky. Wishing like a child when I’m no longer allowed. Crawling like a wounded animal. Chanting like a witch or a monk or a hollow bird. Prisoners. Keys. Book shelving and brittle lace sleeves.

Here are the things about me I do not yet understand. Here are the ways I hide. Here are the ways I want to love you enough that you will never have to die, but I need to learn to love you enough that you can. Here are all the things I’ve learned. Here are all the things I’ve not learned and I should have. By now. Here is the yellowing of my anguish. Here are the tear stains, I’ll trade you anything, but it is too late. Here is the silence of the passing of time.  Let’s take a drink.

Here are the ways I am not enough. Here are the ways I’ll let you forget everything for a while. Here are the things I’d like you never to know. I think somehow it is better you do know, I hope that’s okay. Am I a burden? Am I a siren? Am I your muse and will you always think I deserve to be? I hate that this matters to me, but I also think it’s sweet. Tragedy and comedy, any given day of the week.

This shouldn’t be so long, I shouldn’t have kept you but sometimes your kindness is so endless I forget who is keeping who around. I love you for that.  I hope our changing doesn’t change us but how can anything about the truth be helped. We can tie the hands but not ever stop giving. This should not be so . . . I should not ask this of you. To look at me. To be seen. To be still. But here is the truth I keep in a small locket underneath my tongue, and I’m sorry before you even come close to it because I don’t know who I am, I don’t know the colour of this thing. Please understand: I’m showing you things I’ve not yet seen. It is not fair. If I were to kneel in front of you, bow my head down at your feet, would you know exactly who you are. Would you recognize this as strength and would you be strong enough to lead a leader, to comfort a comforter, to protect the protector, to mother and father the mother and father.

Would we understand eachother if there were no sound. What is God but the pain between us understood. Where is this coming from, I don’t know. I have only just now noticed my insides, life is becoming an x-ray, a screen, a transfer, though it seems I’m falling into my own hands, these words could be everything, they could be nothing, they could be mindgames, they could be spiritual text to last for all time as soon as they disappear, I would love to fall apart next to you, finally, completely, and have you bear witness, and have you collect me piece by piece by piece.

Are you still glad you came? Are you still because you can see me and it’s beautiful or because you are steadying yourself to run. I’ve lost my instinct, I’ve lost my ability to collect and interpret the signs, intuition (it turns out) is just free fall, I’ve given up all the ground I thought I’d won but now I see it was never really there to begin with. How is it that we make terrain out of pride, arrogance, cruelty, and then stake a claim. Smoke made of walls. How is it that people can live their whole lives and never know their own names. What is your favorite colour and by that I mean what do you see when you are in full orgasm. What do you crave, what turns your mouth to fire, your belly to claws, what about the way I move makes you want to cry.

This is the flood, I carry it in constant. I am swallowing it over and over and over hoping to spare the world from drowning in a disastrous sea of whatever this is I’m made of, the flood of the human things I would rather you couldn’t see.

What will kill us all is held inside, held back, forced down, it churns with the force of a thousand tidal waves, crashing, crashing, crashing upon the inner shores, only to recycle itself and return again. We walk around afraid of the flood. Pointing out there, out there, out there I see it coming in the red clouds, in the blackgray sky, in the thunder as it rolls up the ground like carpet, in the faces of the ones I cannot understand. In the other. But the other is the flood in me. All the human things you cannot see, one day this will end in paradise. One day you will see them all in me.

.

.

// Love Is On the Drinking Cup //

It is not enough, is it, even if I could turn these wallshadows

into fruit, even if my body were the dark burst of blackberries between your tongue

and your enemy’s teeth, stain the bed sheets with your

lips.

Even if the way I touch you riddles the sunlight across the window; little flashes burn through the fog around your cheeks

the way we feed each other on this thin selection of time,

is this your breath I pull across my mouth, is this the rib I borrowed from the birds you hold in your hands (one is sorrow, one is freedom).

It is always you, you inside me as I

write what hangs from the trees in dreams. Who am I to hope for anything when the world is on fire. Who will they send for us if we do not emerge again. Love is on the drinking cup, love is on the fountain top, love is the bottom of roses gummed to shoes.

Take me with you into the familiar warmth, take me back to the way it was before, when I told the truth and you would believe me.  You

wanted to believe

me.

Now it’s only the green mornings they tell me I should smile upon; they keep telling me not to blink, throwing hurricanes against my eyes, and raise my useful hands

up to the sky

(but it is hard because she’s falling

as I am falling, and we

can’t seem to touch)

and I’m so tired, there’s never much good in telling a thing when you are very tired. It feels so smooth and good to slide my fingers across these keys like a child digging in the dirt with spoons.

I remember digging: bending silver spoons in the soiled mouth of the mud. Fresh dirt upon the worms upon the smell of springtime, that was fragrance, that was mood.

The ivory scent of lilies-of-the-valley running along a chain linked fence, blacktop seething the coming summer rain.

Everybody wants to be so heavy, so full of metal skyline and mysterious things. What is that worth to you? Where is it getting you to summon up the truth?

The hair on your head still itches.

The gums you hold together in your jaw still bleed.

.

.