// illusions of grandeur //

To read you is five cold chains draped across my glass raspberry lips, the tempt of touch and dim lighting that makes it impossible to speak. By design? You trace your words like fingers around the edges of keyholes and never let me peek, then again so many writers kill a grand thing by saying exactly what they mean.

Do love me thorough, so much of what I could have been is already gone. This body is heels wearing footsteps, wings wearing heartbeats, drums like thunder inside a revolving sky, and I keep charts of the seasons by mapping how closely your movements match the gold flecks in my eyes.

Lady Lucifer is a painted mime with a bouquet face and horns made of tar eyelashes but this isn’t something I can prove so you just shrug and wish my visions would one day yield messages more useful. They are to me. It’s no small gesture to hold my hand, my gratitude foams across ten foot waves inside but I’m never sure where the world is headed so I kiss like reincarnation ahead of time.

I can feel you letting go and it’s like mirrors on ceilings full of broken glass, long black fingernails between the gap in my scissor legs, amber crushed split images that transfer into hellish reflections, tenderness, erotica, delusion, permission, hands over hands over hands over my transgressive mouth, and the writing on the wall is latex paint peeling away from my neck.

Pure seduction is the way of the rain: conducting a fragile flower, bending spine stems alone in the dark.

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// dysmorphia //

The inverted hollow in your disloyal eyes, dry plum wine soaked into cream linen flowing from tables left empty in gilded ballrooms, the staleness of your vacant mouth even after all this time, smoking and keeping your perverse thoughts to yourself. As you slide your fingers along my jaw, those snow white glimpses of my pale flesh still flutter in a desolate place that has curled itself inside my ribs for protection. Half my heart is a leather bound journal burning under a stack of wooden tombs, orgasmic oceans lapping at angel corpses on Jupiter.

We move like a headless dance without hands without eyes, stimulate, arouse like secrets traded and kept in steel drawers with the keys locked inside. All is static, penetrating. Undressing in silence, the cruel pace of the city is mute as I watch for the stars through tall windows, touching myself to the coming dark.

I am after, before, within all of it as trembling limbs, shards of my lifeless body in the fibers of that lace trimmed linen, traces of my voice on the lips you use to speak the words I could never let escape from my throat. You remember me because I line my eyes in charcoal even on the good days. The things that haunt you are never the things you can bury. It’s what is just out of reach that mauls you, just beyond the thin veil of the tolerance of what is no longer possible, those are the phantoms you keep in the chamber of the blood.

Those tremors, that pain, that hurt, that ache which stabs at the air in vain, that is the love story which must be written in the euphoric journals of the clandestine prophets, in the war torn diaries of the chariot gods.

We are not entirely of this world. In a flickering place within our wandering souls, inside a layer of resonance where even the cold stillness of the moon widens in the face of our marked vigilance, we know it. We can taste the almost imperceptible distance between the surface and what grows beneath; it fascinates the parts of us that would teach us everything we want to know if we would just listen with everything we have.

Union, creation, deliverance, freedom, these are the strange intricacies of true devotion. This is what it is to cherish, to attend to the calling, dissatisfied, hungry, uncertain. To fall into our own arms and breath from the depths of who we are far beyond what they’ve told us we owe them.

You stand naked against my back, I open my mouth and curse the petals falling in lush cascades across my tongue. This is what it is to bleed, even the piercing of thorns is the thrust of ecstasy.

Careful how you touch me, love, nothing about this will ever be enough.

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// heartaches and vice //

The pains in my abdomen are leftover from a ferocious laugh and a searing cry and all the ways I’m not sure how to feel about either of them. The earthquakes seem to come from the sky as the sidewalks fall away from my feet. People aren’t listening you can tell by the panic in their eyes, chain smoking cigarettes and coughing up ignorance disguised. As I watch them not watching, I’m imagining cutting out faces: one for each day of all the weeks that people throw out the windows of high rise buildings hoping for new ones by the time the elevator to the basement drops. How did we get to this place where wrought iron gates are more intricate than we are and less cold. Everything I try to make move stands still in its cage.

I don’t mind writing alone for weeks on end next to these fleshy crimson roses dying in a vase at my crystal fingertips. The way they seem to bow out of a life they exposed themselves to fully, ripe, red, soft and silently urgent seems like the purest form of a love that knows no fear, only bloom and grace.

Thorns, tho, no bowing out for them, hard and tough as nails for good, stabbing like the piercing of your eyes underneath my skin: bleed me of my salacious greed, pin my poison against all the things I can’t stand about hurting myself and believing its the truth.

In dreams the words I want to drown you with flow, it wasn’t supposed to be so hard in the daylight but there’s a condemnation in the expressions on the people passing by that I seem to swallow and worship like someone I no longer recognize; someone who has lost her conviction. I am stronger than this but the desire to go limp is the edge of an elegant cliff at ten thousand feet and me on one toe on a pinhead hoping to balance the wind through my teeth.

I’m in love with the promise of another morning, the rain falling on electric orange autumn leaves, the gray skies please me because we understand each other.

Maybe after coffee I’ll shave my legs, wear that dress you like and learn to look at you again. Tonight it’s hard to sew all the faces back into the one I came with in the box. So many lives are shifting inside of me, none of which I can depend on for more than the better part of the hours that tighten against my slender neck.

Forgive us this day the terrible monsters we care about. We are skin wrapped around steel interchangeable bars, chastity, vice grips holding tight to the things that turn us to black inside. Let it be ink and not terror, let it be black as the night we feel at home inside. If it’s only darkness I can’t breathe.

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// prisoners of love //

Take these words for I am deviant, I am full to the throat of the things I desire, the heavy punishing conflicts I turn over and over again in my cavorting mind, can nothing satiate these caustic depths. I chant melodic hymns to navigate the hallways in my blindness, threading these tender ashen fingers against the night wind as she envelops me. Take from me this graceful bow to the aching I feel in constant, a need I wake up starving for and walk through my days alongside, reverently, gratefully, obediently.

You cannot imagine the noise, beloved, the chaos in the violent light of this mad world, this riotous menacing landscape hell bent on denying my psychic chemical longing for a thing unseen. We cut our hearts free and hang them from empty trees, trade our bodies to lose our minds.

I adore the things they despise. I take all corruptions as part of myself and attempt to glean and restructure the patterns they refuse to see: when you expect porcelain skin against your patient tongue, I press myself to your smoldering warmth, broken shards of light, refracted, disconnected. A hunted shadow guides me: breathes with my lungs, walks with my stride, nourishes, sings and seduces through me. She is the dark violet flame, I am her splintered kindling, together we are endless nights burning ceaseless voracious fire.

Faceless moving figures, beautiful angelic figures, spread themselves on lavish lawns before me; a time for worship, a time for healing, the world is at war without and within, captured on film, clipping in dreams, coming undone in playbooks, in theaters, in stained glass windows and we are becoming stoic screens. I undress in ways they never see, eyes closed, soul gliding just above the ground. Take the words, swallow the words that hook us, collect us, recognize us, seep into us like rain penetrates the rich dark earth of our secret fertile places, the textured cream pages within me rupture and bloom as I bleed for them.

There is a spirit there in the midst, shining somewhere between the artist’s blood and our own disturbing self reflection. A benevolent message is being written by ghost hands behind the walls. Something that mirrors us, reminds us of who we are, who we always were, even beyond death, we carry each other. Poetry is not dead as long as it is listening. Words written under the cloak of this human shell, etched into these crumbling toxic bones. This is me. I pray to a god I can no longer taste. Take these words from me as the universe inverts itself, returns life to us, a faithful companion in all of its brutal handsome generosity.

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// broken arrows //

Some days are the fullness of tongues in excess. I know I ask for more than I deserve and I wish I knew how to help it, how to stop, how to escape, it seems as if this is how I was strung together by a god who should have known better, should have been less cruel and more clever. Some kind of laughter that tastes like wine in a chalice thrown from an angry plastic heaven, still I swallow too ungratefully and crawl inside. I’m not always pretty, I’m not always kind, I’m not always the way light trickles, sparkles, strokes like angel wings falling down my fragile spine. All I ever wanted was to tell you a story that feels like a lover you’ve not yet breathed against but have imagined emerging from the hungry heaving ocean waves for lifetimes, night after night the moon would lust to enter the sea. That’s what these words are if only I could get them right: a shape, a figure, a curve, a dark cavern, a passage into another world where you exist in endless flow, smoothness, salt, and the flavor of chaotic, rhythmic, liquid emotion. Tell me the words are crystal sugar froth, tell me you would wait out eternity to be so torn by a language you’d long since forgotten, but the sparking in your jaw recognizes as truth. And if that story were to move you, stir you, deliver you, take the words, take them, take them, thread them through the bending of your flesh and let the soul you bleed for sleep. Even as I write these my troubled manic thoughts they are fugitives, they are train tracks, they are ship wrecks, they are hopeful dreamer’s dreams. These words I plead for, take them, take them, they are yours.

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