chaos
I am
sorry to
pull open a new wound so I
can crawl in, call it
home, call it
new life, call it spring
Your only daughter and third son,
I have our history written in my hazel iris, how gold gives to green in the light,
I will pepper your grave with roses
each winter and spring.
I will bring birdseed
to scatter so maybe
a red cardinal shows in
fall, and
you will be watching him with me.
(via thermonous)
dialect of pain, cauterize:
a searing of the inside
impish body, moody God
flesh-imprisoned
made to kill,
your nails as vestigial as your fucking voice
wait, don’t wait
wait, don’t wait
inject cantor intoxicant candid
hypoxic
I am white and clean, a purple baby on hospital sheets
deliver me
discount-bin sacred abscond,
warm and soft is obscenity
read these bones like braille,
I boil alive behind
scarlet fever
this body can scream for me
cut a Morse code, hurry
pull away, release
skin curling
I’m already carving
a piece of meat eaten raw
dip your molten hands through my soft marbled skull, dig talons through my
putty bones
knead my joints like dough I
need to feel wrecked, destroyed
need to be a jelly-candy chewed to a paste,
need to know hate and hear it
through the mouths of a thousand languages I need
violence, swallow
violence,
red velvet in my veined limbs,
smother this mouth with
velvet and orchids,
my lips turned cyanic and my
throat churned volcanic spew soot and
flame the space between each organ I am
not my body I am not my brain I am
careening in the midst of a wakefulness I didn’t ask to have a
consciousness sugared and soured and
I want to not
feel each ingredient so clearly, name each note with candor,
I only
know one recipe and it’s all I’ve eaten in days.
Mermaid Purse
Bursar jangles the purse, a taunt.
And, for want of love or money,
there’s no seeing this was laid by sharks.
The waters are dark,
and we want only someone to talk with.
Fish swim by, not listening.
- B B Pine
why do you spend each night reading, re-reading the same stories
told over a thousand faces
worry not, curled
embryonic in your bed, emerging
to light your matchstick fingers in the burning stories of
your dead relatives:
what they believed you to be, what their last memories
of you
were, are,
all the pride you took in your
Dykehood,
Daughter,
Granddaughter, gifting
that connection back,
pressing your mother’s wish for her last child
back into her body.
And I wonder if
momentary comfort in the familiar means
it’s enough, I’ve only lived
like a child
before.
“It isn’t necessary that you leave home. Sit at your desk and listen. Don’t even listen, just wait. Don’t wait, be still and alone. The whole world will offer itself to you to be unmasked, it can do no other, it will writhe before you in ecstasy.”— Franz Kafka, Zurau Aphorisms
(via xshayarsha)
when kosinski wrote “i’m sure there are aspects of my personality buried within me that will surface as soon as i know i am completely loved.”
(via mistersatisfaction)
Hands crusted in crushed lilacs, goldenrods piercing each wrist,
winter captured and catching fire, our sacrificial lamb.
Blame all your ills on winter,
pour your poison like fine oil and massage it into his wool
then complain he can’t make you warm with his moans and trembles.
Blame all your ills on winter.
Shepherd him, the pure hornless child
hooves bearing the weight of you,
eyes milky blue, turned upwards
Before: a visit of
a single syllable, lost through loose fog-footed steps.
Now,
I say “here” instead of “you”
Like a horizontal ghost, flat pressed ear-to-earth,
fluttering past, wings beating a rhythm I can’t place,
I was
pacing a creek-bed of footsteps, stone-less,
blanketed by a
Rube Goldberg chaos
the kind
nature’s never needed to know, the
gymnastics of a human gone mental in the practice of a
mentality only leaving her with
dead flies on the windowsill, ladybugs sun-bleached,
always pulling the curtain while
scrubbing the stains of his softness as though
femininity were a dye that could lift.
So,
I invited in the stranger.
I made him a calling card.
I touched what made
my fingertips bleed. Scar over. I
ate the organ meat. I grew stronger off my own lungs and liver,
a dinner for once not force-fed
but savored.
I invited in the stranger.
We had tea inside a well
so deep it’d made Jung weep, probably.
I made peace with the stranger, the piece and
I can only walk circles around the truth to
carve grooves through repetition, a walk endless,
a creek-bed of footsteps,
stone-less.