Observations

Watching them fuck
emotionally trumps fucking

They smile
And I forget to remember.

I am so disappointed in you.

it all seems exactly right
wrongs and all.
Imperfection included,
I smile more now than I ever have

Despite those people
who won't listen to anything
anything they don't want to hear.
I can't tell anyone anything
anything they will listen to,
so it's better not to say anything
anything at all.

Headstones climbing my thighs,
middle lesson-the sound we make is loudest in our own heads.
I am not your diary.
I am not your diary.
I am not your diary.
Express yourself for yourself.
Quit mourning the murder of the vicarious life you had me to live.

Unafraid

We don't have to grow up all the way
or all at once.

I have no problem with being naked for money
I like buying bread
I like cutting your crusts off.

Wet Smile

Ambivalent winter
sports an incongruous orchid.
Wet purple stain,
bruised pussy flesh
spread open.
Bitter snow exposed,
Not that anyone's looking.
Not that anyone wants the look.

But on a day random by warmth,
things heal and blossom.


Photo by Nicole.
She can be found here:
http://www.modelmayhem.com/871371

I'm not a lot of things

I want to be a rib bone
Pale curved grace
Gleaming
In your eyespace...
but my freckled ass
Will never be perfect.

Echo

I wouldn't wear the big fuckoff boots
if I weren't okay with staring.
None of us would.
Those who say otherwise
lie.

Alternative expression attention seeks,
it's inherent to the equation.
By fuck you, we mean fuck me.
Hard.

I'm well aware
my life is a fucking spectacle.
I made it,
wanted this way,
and I may sleep uneasy on wrinkled sheets
but I'm not going to a goddamn hotel.

I'm paranoid.
I talk too much.

different talk in different places
allows sliced up views into my head, a
terrible picture of who I might be,
identity impossible to internet glean anyway.

Regardless all
surveys filled,
pictures uploaded,
personal information available:
Dear Masses,
I can never hold your hand through a computer screen.
And even if I could,
I still couldn't explain my self via the internet.

the information's there.
Pick up pieces
fit them together
any old way, I'm flexible.
Cyber space eases dismissive tendencies-
filter enough other through you,
and you cease
to Be.Come. Do. Change.

Spectacle Spectacular

Spectacle spectacular
Monocle rim light

I only talk about him
I only talk about her
Everything else is too uncertain

Spectacle spectacular
Microscope specimen

Puzzle piece people
Put them any way you like
We're flexible.

I love you

Rescue me
I don't need rescuing
I just want to make you feel
better than good

Clove kiss

Rooftop dragons
sparks showering a fluid light river
surrounding my home
I tell you true things
ugliness I've seen
terrible things
that I've done
that were done to me

I hold you at night,
watching dreams slide
I am trying to read,
but you dream in no language I know.

whisper secrets on ash breath
violent memories into violet cityscape
ears stealing fragments
I am learning to read.

Woman

Water shudder over skin shiver.
Forever people.
We built it, they're coming.
of all the fish finning
I found your hook in my mouth
sea green eyes swimming
into my mouth, plump lips
licked and laughing,
fruit smooth as his head.
fallen peaches
young girls splitting.
I thought
dream became routine.
I found
it's all in my head.
You're all in my arms
visceral vibrations
I am cunt and heart around you
head over heat about you
stilted circled undercurrent
unsubtle, like you mean it.

New York Route

solemn window face
sun spot streaked,
aware
He hates her.
I don't hate the window girl.
I am not in love with her.

I did everything
Hatred feared.
I'm sorry.
In unapologetic fashion.
I offer tomatoes, radio wire
clear clean slices
leave a lot to be desired
in Georgia
at 17
perpetual motion
roaming gaudy sunsets
impractical as goth

My father hates travel
constant movement
But the window girl is a whimsical image
Excessive, hedonistic blend
City transplant
at the end of the ride,
the window girl dies.

making it up as I go along

dump/reformat
give them space
room to fill me again.

good natured worry and fierce love
they pour into me, and
I cry
terrified
I won't be able to protect them.
things aren't even attacking them
yet.

I love them.
I love them.
I love them, and so I have
more to fear than ever.

I want to fluff my feathers
Keep everything warm
unalone, everything matters more.

I cry when they aren't looking.
I'd like to cry more,
I want that fresh cleaned empty in my pores.

suck it lick it love it

Hello, early morning
I lay me down but ceiling's boring
Empty palmed word beggars
carting cell clutching junkie arms
Canceled eyes unseen, thank God
suck it lick it love it.

I've got nothing but soft skinned silent sleepers
I can breathe in DC pattern stretched to habit, this is
22 with far more than 21 invested.
Awake in your dreamscent, darling,
I tell you I love you and it doesn't mean as much
on tongue as it does eye widening and vein sliding
human contact is most moving.
It's there.
I don't wake up alone,
spend weeks without human skin against me.
dry sponge tissue girl.

The choice to choose isn't a given
Till you give it
To you.
Yes, there will be suffering
Thought art takes more effort than ever.
Cautious optimism runs rampant over
Fear forests, rolling exhaustion.

Bodywash

Your scent's an invasion
like no boy, no body,
has ever done.
Night curls round you,
dreams' scent taunting insomnia, and
I stare at the ceiling,
stare at the back of your skull, and
eventually I pass out. Wake up
alone with hands smelling like
you, gone, down
between bars of flesh and
morning sunlight and
gray rain,
leaving me arched on the couch
knowing that you like to see this
but I'm shy.
Even though I love you, I'm embarrassed of myself.
Why is it so much easier to watch than to show?

you talk a lot for someone who can't communicate.

You say you should quit cutting,
you should forget me.
I am not as understanding
as the woman we shared twelve months ago
when I knew you were distancing
too chickenshit to admit it
drank too much
sat by myself
watched your face
while she swallowed
other people admired your erection.

I've rarely known you to do what you should.
Haven't heard your voice in months,
save the twice you've bothered to communicate.
Not that I'm counting or anything.

I'm counting.
Even though math isn't my strong suit.
I've been spacing from you
gasp and burst, like orgasms
I used to bring you to,
in our hairspray haze.
White spray on black nail polish,
blurred youth's discarded snapshots
more beautiful because
I'll never quite remember or exactly see that boy again.
Alcoholic Adonis in oversized boots.

That was not so long ago,
but the new boyfriend sits across the room
asking why
I've got to pick up mouth corners
over the old boyfriend
suddenly boyfriend is a stupid word,
losing all connection to my reality due to over-repetition,
and the new girlfriend understands.

We held it together too long, and
we took each other too damn far.
If I were a kind woman,
this is where I'd apologize,
but I'm just not sorry.
I lied when I said I was
that cold drug fogged morning.

Tricycles are more stable than bicycles.
The new girlfriend holds my head
More tenderly than she ever held you
Not that I was watching.
Except that I can never look away.

A thing of beauty

She takes what I offer her art, and transforms it into a thing of beauty. In her eyes, I'm magical. That kind of belief is a powerful force.

She is Katie fucking Freeman.
I love her.

Pressing my face into my palm

This, worst written
noncommunicating creation
Unmakes memory
so when I forget
I won't really.

I am terrified elation
Shallow bruised breaths
Change
mind
life
something

I've died,
but it was only a chrysalis.
I'm blood beating through fresh wings
unfurling May morning.

I don't know what the right thing is,
I don't know if I'm doing it.
refusing to focus on terror,
though chiaroscuro blue pulses at the edges of this red core.
I am reduced to noun.
burning eyes staring bleakly at the
(completely normal, mildly dis/content)
world.

I am not the only one, nor am I alone.
But things have come crawling out of my skin
nothing I was aware were there.

They have loved me the longest
have mainly got no idea
where I am
what I'm doing
This is less unusual than my guts think
But not the only way I feel.

Interchange exists.
Blue red neon scream
pushing each other out of the way.
I'm happy.
Incredibly happy.

I'm going to wait until you're good and asleep to sneak in.
I'm going to whisper true things to the air you're dreaming in,
and then I'm gonna leave.
The words I gave you got under that skin you slice,
and truths don't become untrue whenever you want them to.

You've put fresh stains in ridged skin you hated me to touch.
My fingers probed too deep, needle lover.
Or was I too blunt?
Cat tongue flicking key, you make me cringe.
You, still.
If I come to you with my own blood in my mouth again,
will you communicate without code for once?

I tried to plant Eden in your Wastelands,
but you're still building fences with material you don't understand.
Standing outside ringed cells,
I can't see into the tower your desperate fear constructed
You could not take power anymore than I will wake you up.

Communication

I use art
To filter passion
Black coffee is bitter.
I add cream and sugar
So cunt clenching need
To run tongue on your scalp
Doesn't stop you
From refilling your mug.

Recluse

I am desperately afraid
Of humans and failure
I want to say sorry
But there is no sorry to be sorry for.

Needing stranger's ears
Confirms my insufficiency
I went to therapy today.

I talked to my own twisting fingers
About taking nine hours to smoke a cigarette
And told the hole in my glove
I could come back at three.

Blue Paint

Your muse doesn't put three spoonfuls of sugar in her coffee
Or bruise easily
she's never tripped on the stairs
Your muse isn't scared of anything
she doesn't scoop the catbox
Looking through your extra eye
I see her
A thing of beauty
More concept than woman
More cunt than heart

the Magical World of Anna

Goth glamour, tits and ass for the pure sake of letting my brain out to play. These are the women populating this magical world, if you know where to look. Oil slick eyes and poison mouths, shining with laughter, lube, and lust.

Tommy Landon recorded the evidence.
Rachel played with me.
You love it long time.
(so do I)

You're Writing Again.

you
(high wind below my branches)
rattle green bones.
Your coming
causes trembling.
Some people are put together
well, while asleep.
I would be one of those people,
if I were a cat.

Breath shake update
receive pieces of you
(filtered
I-don't-know how many times).
Revealing weakness isn't bad
habits I pick up
vulnerability regardless,
before your stern steady stare,
you force me to feel,
if only your hand break my lip.
Bloody teeth know:
I still miss you (I can't tell you that).

50th date

Okay, so we've only been on five. I know what the relaxed safety of waking up after the 50th feels like, and that's what I was trying to get across here. Don't know if I managed it or not, but I do love these shoes, these shots, and the man who took them very much indeed.







This last one...that is what people who live in the Magical World of Anna wake up to. Come play.


photos by Asylum...
www.asylum-photo.com

Painting

Deep wounds are hot
Stick fingers in skin
Feel my blood boiling.
Scar lover with your perfect hide
Cut mine
Leave our hearts out of it
for once.

The surround sand where you stand
Sunset bathing
, crimson skin relax synth,
is my wrist flow.

Harem

I want to be let in
just for asking.

Irregularly consume [mate] ed
Quick gasps are my best approximation.

Ophelia's daughter:
Semen spray cream flesh
Like yesterday's milk-
too alive.

I want to be let in
just for being.

Slick blacked stiletto girl
Variously peeled.

Eat my stem last
Upon experience conclusion
Please promptly return the survey

Your opinions matter to us
Regardless your opinions of us
We chase excellence.

July 30th's Evening, As Seen Through August 13th's Afternoon

"I hate what I do to you"
You said to my death mask.
Lip flick smoke curl
Chaining the habit you hate,

"it isn't killing me yet,"
I replied, maybe lied
unintentionally; can't swear
it was the truth.

Summer heat burned charming astonishment
shock transferred
you have learned to cut me
but you can't find my skin

"I don't ever want to see you again."
Chest seizing quiet state
blood slow round splintering ribs
You are vicious and cruel.

"Why are you shocked?"
Your best bitch voice wasn't lost on me.
sudden bloodless realization
I couldn't recognize the anger wearing your face.

Daredevil

Vulnerable, frequently afraid
of you.
You know about me and pain
No one else asks.
Talking to you,
I feel
(guilty).
But no one else asks.

Your cruel streak
exploits weaknesses
This mouth never spoke.

I Dream In Color

These make me really happy.

Happiness, or something like it.

Light a cigarette. Stare at my face in the mirror. Six minutes into this song, I can't remember what I was thinking when it started. My eyes look like death. Restart the song. Put out the cigarette.

Throw up, cry down, pass out, not come round till Thursday. Must be in love. Another brain thing. You have so few of the inexplicables I experience. How can I tell you about red when you wander the world shut-eyed? Ears aren't for seeing. Come be with me.

My eyes are full of death. I wonder how much it would cost to break every mirror in this place. You're filling up my chest. I wonder if I can get my hands to stop shaking enough to break anything. My ribs are cracking. I wonder if you will ever be able to love you, or anyone.

You're off in that shell, hibernating with misery and I can't cut through because you won't reach out. I don't know how to end this, because I don't want to.

Heartspace adder

I drink when I’m sad in public.
As long as there’s something to blame,
no one knows
how sad I really am.
At your house, I go to the next room
and cry as quietly as I can.
You already know how miserable you make me
by the way mascara stains your couch.
White is a stupid color for furniture.
Of course, you don’t love me
for my eye makeup.
When you sigh and look to the right,
I look where you’re looking
and see nothing
but the expression your face relaxes into
when you’re thinking ugly thoughts.
Good thing pain is pretty-
a wound like this takes forever to heal.

Unbelief

This deity xerox is the void you steal glimpses of
under the impression
I am not constantly staring at you.
You taught me
to lay my eyes near your heart
speak the beat.
Were you aware of the danger
or acting on impulse?
I cannot unlove,
or fight fair,
or believe what you say
when what you mean is so obvious.

Birthday

As this train passes another cemetery
I imagine the funerals you’ve missed
based on the ones I’ve attended
I’ve seen a lot of mourning
but you’ve only seen you.
Will you go to my funeral,
will you know how to mourn by then?

I made your present weeks ago
I know when your birthday is
but not when I’ll see you again.

Juicer

You go through people like juice.
I’m gonna be an empty bottle in your trash.
The thing that hurts isn’t that you say I’m worthless.
It’s that you’re lying
shock written all over my face
reflecting your untruths
Your scathing laughter circles my vulnerability, wolfman.
you’d rather throw out a full bottle of juice than try a new flavor.
Vitamins are sweeter than I thought they’d be.
Open me up.

Wide Open

Israel's children turned their collective back on God
Cried to the skies
Kids always want to know where Daddy went
Did he forget me?
Is he coming to get me?

This deity-xerox doesn't believe in losing people
But you could to choose to remove yourself
If that's what you're into.

I know you
you don't know what to do with me
I am not changing the way I treat you
I don't know what else to do with you
I haven't forgotten
desperate motions with your mouth open
Thank God you did it with your mouth open.

retreat

Everything I've written lately is bloody awful. I think that may be due to that fact that I was away from all of my loved ones on a decidedly strange journey for a couple of weeks-I don't do well when I'm unloved. Maybe I'm fragile, although I don't think that's quite the right word.

The point I'm getting around to is that I am posting a series I wrote around this time of year, two years ago. I wrote an awful lot during that time frame, much of which was shoved under the rug and never edited, much of which was lost crossing borders.

This is going to be a long ass entry for now...I may divide it up into separate entries later. I'm currently ambivalent on that; the poems can be read in any order, although they make most sense to me read in sequence, one to six.

These marked a major turning point for me as a writer. Rereading them, I see where they could have been better, but I'm very pleased to find that although the relationship they were originally about is over, pieces of them apply to the loves who have since come into my life.

one

Love is a disease which I’ve contracted,
convulsing heart attacking preconceived ideas I once dreamed up.
Love is aborting the concept of me.
Cement in place
the replacement: the concept of us.

Us.
Five letters, then six.
(You+me then I love you)
Never ending vicious cycle-
because cycles form circles and circles never end-
cycling emotions through the slide show exposition of my heart.
Fear,
hope,
pain,
joy,
frustration,
contentment,
uncertainty,
ecstasy.
These are the words that add up to love.

Six letters.
(Is six in a sequence of half its allotted existence-
3-
a bad number
with good intentions
leading to a deep fried eternity?)

Six letters.
(If I say them three times,
will they sour into evil repetition?)

Six letters.
My poems to you,
one dreamer to another.

Separated by six thousand miles,
we exist in the same prison.
No matter the distance,
we are held together by bright threads in intricate knots;
we communicate through writing
on the walls.
Time: new
Roman on the prison walls
all night and day dreams
mostly lost
in translation from reality to what passes for it.

Mathematics declares
my six letter affirmation of emotion is actually eight.
But physics isn’t physical.
Sigh, sign.
Contract the disease
and well live happily ever after till death, we wont part.
Well be buried beneath the poetrees
in a coffin shaped like an anatomically correct heart,
heart to heart well rot together and never part.
Then the goo oozing
from decomposing dreamers
will leak out from veins and arteries.
Love nourishes the earth.
We are love
and so are each other
and therefore
Love+us=a six letter affirmation of emotion.

two

My day and night dreams are the embroidery
whose intricate knots, bright threads,
are the delicate bonds holding the patchwork of what passes for reality together.
Bonds.
Bondage.
Dreamers are prisoners in a world they don’t exist in,
slaves to their own hearts and other peoples,
their own imaginations and other peoples.
Everything said,
done,
and especially written
is a unique influence on the open (third) eyed.
I am,
separated from reality
by a thin veil, hand written and reformatted in 12 point font.
Sign
of the Times. New roaming,
away from home away from home
because there’s no place like home
and were going anywhere but.
To build a new home,
built from 12 point font with a hand
written signature affirming the con.
Tract.

People leave home, early morning (late for work),
leave their parents home and build a new one
which, once established,
will one day be left behind
by children who move out
and pets who pass on.

I'm away from,
You’re building
home.

Everything begins and ends with words.
Poetry is the alpha and omega.

Everything is built with words.
Prisons,
homes,
careers.
Convicting contracts signed in blue-black blood promise money
(which is time, hours measured by wages
-of sin-
which is just a word,
like death.)

Money runs the waking world,
but that world is only the gaps between thought.
Filler;
fulfill me: dream.

three

I will use poetry to reinvent physics,
because physics is merely a collection of words
for the poet
to rearrange,
add to,
or delete.
There is no logic between atria and ventricle.
Physically,
two beings cannot
occupy the same juncture in the space-time continuum simultaneously.
But love makes two hearts one.
One (heart) beat for two melodies.
Our lovesong defies Newton’s laws.
We destroy the dark matter of our pasts,
we fill the black holes in our hearts,
we create new substances.
We are the dreamers of words
and
we are the writers of dreams.
We are eternal love.
Eternal love is worshipped
every Sunday morning by nervous people
who get up early
to sit with their family
and beg
for Someone’s love.
We do not get up early on Sunday mornings.
Robert Smith sings love songs
while lovers lie entwined loving eternal love.
Love is just a word,
the lyrics
of the chorus
of the song
of our lives.
The title of one leaf of poetree.

Dreamer, poet, lover,
you gave your words to me.
Lovesongs
poetic questions.
You’ve built half the heart pumping both our veins with 12 point font.
Will you
write a convincing contract for us to sign
when
and if
I help you write the story of our life?
Contract the disease
and Ill sign the dotted line for your prescription.
Give me words,
build my hopes,
tell me how you love me-don’t bother to count the ways.
Even separated, were never separate.
Defying physics,
love created new matter,
one heart existing simultaneously in two chests.

four

The first is the last and the last is first.
Instigation and termination,
the first kiss of a lasting love.
I can never kiss you enough;
I will always be responsible
for smearing your lipstick.
Then wait anxiously
while I am alone
and you are in the bathroom
making up what you want your face to be.

I don’t care what you look like;
the person you love is always beautiful.
In the morning the evenings eyeliner is smudged
and you are beautiful.
After your shower wet hair straggles around damp neck
and you are beautiful.
Before work eyes are shadowed, face is powdered
and you are beautiful;
afterwards,
eight hours of assholes has taken its toll;
your brown eyes are slightly red
and you are beautiful.

I keep pictures of you in my cell phone,
but you are engraved inside my eyelids.
Buried in my heart,
which is your heart
and my final resting place.
Love caused my spontaneous combustion,
knowing
I would fly from the ashes as half of you.
Love has killed me,
has killed you,
has birthed us:
an inseparable ying yang.
You in me, me in you.
Ying yangs form circles,
circles are cycles which never end.
The first is the last and the last is first,
every moment is the last before the first
of the rest
of our lives.

five

I do not expect anyone to like these letters but you.
You have enchanted me,
and under your love spell
I write
my own enchantments for you.
The most serious magics are written in blood,
and the same six letters are
pumped through our veins
by the one heart we share.

I do not understand
how I came to love you so much,
but the fact of the matter is
enough,
so much so that facts don’t matter.
How can matter be fact
when we create and destroy at will?
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
The fact is
I love you
and love is the only eternal thing.
After you and I are buried
the fact of my love will still
Be Written,
and as we decompose
what has
Been Written
will nourish the earth.
Lovers are more than people.
They are humans being perfectly human.
Forget the physical,
physics cant explain emotion.
Physics can describe
the angle at which I look into your eyes,
but it cant say what I see there.
Everything begins and ends with words.
Ideas,
relationships,
lives.

I have an idea
that this relationship
may encompass our lives.

I am learning not to fear,
but love is a ying yang.
Joy with a little worry,
worry with the joy you don’t want to lose.
These six words are my two hands,
stretched out for you
to hold,
disregard,
kiss,
or spit on.

six

This is the point,
not of no return, but of arrival.
After heartbreaks and headaches,
fear and loathing,
high and trembling hopes have been cautiously
born, borne
on wings of desire and dream.
Are you the instigation or culmination
of a dream?
You are lodged in the retina of my minds eye,
and I am
always sleepwalking through the waking world
in order to day dream of my dreamer.

My dreamer, mine
because of clever trading;
past for present,
secret for secret,
moment for moment.
Who doesnt have a past?
Show me yours, Ill show you
mine. Mine,
my dreamer, mine
thanks to tentative hopes
and the patience
to chase you down,
pin you against a wall
and mark my territory as Judas marked Jesus.

Though I don't expect you to be my salvation.
I am
my own knight in somewhat battered armor,
looking for a Camelot of my own,
a place to call home.

We live
in our own little world,
the endless realm of dreamers
(circular prison)
that the unincarcerated envy.
Never regret creativity,
just realize that not all creations are good.

We have created micro-macrocosms in between synapses.
Whole galaxies exist
between the lines
of our conversations.
I am beginning to discover you,
but time is short
and it is further than I think.

Father Time is a son of a bitch,
always running out on you
when you're happy.
YOU make me happy.
I will make Time stand still,
whip him into submission
and take advantage of him
to explore the universe of you.

But all good things must come
to an end,
and life is no exception.
Yes, beloved, the end is near.
All the worlds we create are destined
for apocalypse.
But now is not then,
and then
we will be other people.
My eyes will meet yours in a crowd
of people who wont understand
they're ignoring a miracle.
Love is miraculous,
and if we were other people
we wouldn't be afraid
to fall in it at first sight.

But I am who I am
and you are who you are.
Two poets dreaming
the writing on the walls,
five letters,
then six,
because three is not enough.
I a m
not enough without you,
I am
not enough without love.
Mathematic religion worships three,
but
I whisper six red poems in your ear
while we sleep late on Sunday morning.
I wake up early to watch you sleep,
to kiss your eyelids
and guard your dreams
like a blonde dreamcatcher
with smeared eyeliner and a sleepy smile.

Apart from you,
I stumble sleepily through a world
I didn't create
and don't understand.
I don't sleep well without your shoulder for a pillow.
Without your arms around me, life is cold.

I'm writing this letter to tell you I'm coming home.
You already knew, but now
It Is Written.

Everything begins and ends with words.
Poetry is not a luxury,
it is the only reason the world exists
between moments.
Yes, beloved, the end is near.
Love ends many things.

riot

This is how your presence in my life has changed the way I live it. Body moving between two cities I’ve never lived in, brain preoccupation: the consideration of relocation. Snotty Britpop sneering through skullcandy, hair windstreaming, I am black tights and red shoes burning down black cancer against a red door. It’s not that these things are so much as that I actually enjoy the state of being that lets me know it’s safe to continue to include you in the five year plan I mock myself for having. Assigning ridiculous practicalities to this improbable reality I’m crafting. Reaching for indie zeen rather than Poppy Z, I’m hesitantly happy.

This series set in motion seems to ultimately end successfully. Said state mainly a matter of opinion and fortunate happenstance-so many things crash down around me so often that I am convinced it’s only by the grace of God I’ve made it this far in one piece. Sustainable belief leaves me undrained, full of relief. So overflowing with hope and glee it’s raining in the darkroom behind my eyes. Tears fall faster than last year; my heart is closer to the skin, barely buried beneath ribs whose surface visible ghosts write on my flesh like thick paper.

Taped together parchment doll, falling apart at the seams to let the contents of my heart pump into cyberspace, swirled away like coffee creamer. Best consumed in small doses, build up your tolerance to the new drug before tripping balls. My best guess leaves eight strokes till winter freezes the peaches on the tree, but there’s still plenty of autumn left to fall through, and I could be wrong. (It happens more than anyone notices, electronic distraction being the perfect medium for satellite miscommunication.) But it’s twice written, and so doubly bound; spring is cold and deadly, darling.

Face Value Sex Hurts Less

Logic:
emotion broken
Last ditch pit stop
glittering cheeks, sleek
tear torn slasher
smile

Face value sex
teeth worked tongue
chewed language
Silent night spent
finished
uneasy dream
lonely morning lead

"It's just the way things are
No, no
You don't push, little girl"

Rag tag tatters
End of a dry cough
Cold light cooling coffee
No photographers in this town
Everything empty
Nothing malleable

"You're lucky
You
can have anything
you want"
Lovely misconception.

This town closes early
Runs on half truths
face value sex
don't push

Your Death.

When winter comes
lashes gather lonely snowflakes
bat against frozen tears
I will miss you terribly
Zombie stumble Philadelphia
I am no optimist
Winter is coming
In eight strokes
My autumn man will fall
As hideous snow.

Breathe.

hey mister sarcastic pants
throat scraping caustic tongue
take disbelief
fucking suspend it
I don't subscribe to all reality
only believable surrealities
all unspeakable things
all cothought
hey mister page turner
palm stroking psalm reader
kiss me
fingers dug in shallow ribs
heart convulsor
pressing electrified skin
I believe in this.

Exponent

Goddamn, you're inspirational.
The way you hate yourself
The way you love me
The way you talk about it
All the pieces of you
The totally terrible
The gut wrench gutter you gutted your dreams in
Trying to be perfect
You impossible thing
Affecting me
Effecting me
Dividing joy into mirror shards
I have glued the shattered dreams to my skin
And, naked,
Now reflect your dreams.

15 minutes with you?

Four sets in two hours, including hair and makeup. Shooting with Vance involves a lot of him asking when I'll move up here and me saying I don't know. Unfortunately, I seem to hurt feelings without ever even trying. Ah well. I did warn you, I'm generally a pain in the ass.

More images to come.

Flesh Pillow

With my head on his chest
His heart beats so strong
I feel it in my jaw
My voice
Is his heart throb
when I say
I love you.

Relating

Poetry junkie dancing with photographic burlesque artist,
shut her snap
slash flashing,
tits exposed
bounce frozen in
cold white light
more judgmental than God.
Side sitting with finger barren,
He's her priest,
she's forking over
leaflets of confessional poetry
cryptic language translated
through technologic cyberspeak.

Alpha Station Alpha

Wandering from love to love, this world is full of lonely people, a field of hungry mouths gaping and blank eyes like canceled checks. Yawning, gasping NEED greed supersede superimposed testament to the path less traveled; the one my boots are walking. I float five inches from the ground, the better to look down my perfect nose at an overfilled datebook although I never seem to go on dates these lonesome days.

I ignore the phone when it rings but I place calls. I think about you, Michael, but I don't call. You wouldn't answer any more than I do. Hard to be less than nothing, easy to be something. Excellence is simplest of all, small in the editing. A tinny voice picks up the other end of a disconnected line. My disjointed voice arranges syllables to the effect that I'll put my body on a blue streak to a sleepy Southern town in a flat week. Irritatedly confused buzz demands to know why I'd DO that. As if going home were the strangest thing this girl could ever dream up...

I doubt my state of mind and forget my state of being. I am unsure of my physical location and do not discuss my home base. I am melting away into unreality. Schism. Back brain on the front burner, this is my life on sobriety. I don't like it very much but it's too early for a drink-one's mother would be mortified to find one being less than polite. You know.

Wistful Afternoon

Face off showdown end
of a life of mine,
regrets spring from mind
fully formed
(though I'm no goddess)
I think of you
And the most painful thought
Is that you don’t think of me.

To all my someone's once
Upon a time now lost:

I wish
I’d been unfaithful
to that lying abuser
when you stripped naked and begged me
to touch you.

I wish I’d been unfaithful
In the face of your possession
And drove my other lovers away.

I wish
I had told you no
when you quit
no
when we left
no
before we started
I was too accommodating,
which may have destroyed you.

I wish
we passed each other
on a street full of people and sunshine
so I could see how time
has blurred your faces.
all you un-dear darlings
who simply complicated everything.

Peripheral Girl

I like to listen to you
listen to you talk
talk to other people
so I don't listen to you
listen to what you say
you say I like to listen to you
like to listen to the sound
the sound of your voice
your voice rising, falling, bubbling like water
like streams full of sunshine and catfish
like your riverbed eyes
eyes full of rounded rocks and wet leaves
I like to listen to you
to listen and look
I like to look at your face
to listen and look
I like to pretend
pretend I'm too young to care
to care about sunburns and tangles
run into your eyes and your voice
like the girl I was before I grew up
I grew up a little and ran
ran into a creek now run dry

crush

at least twice a day
I think you should get the fuck out of my head
but then I think
not really
i like you
being the fuck in my head
I'm the type of tease who crawls
into your spinal cord
fucks up your sleep cycle
i like you
(you're fucked)

Jason

Yards are a staple component of the South I grew up in
More lived in by children
Than the houses of their parents
I used to live with a tree
Tall, skinny, beaten
Windswept and worm eaten
Dripping aesthetic parasites
Too weak to climb, even for a little girl
That tree taught me
the meaning of frustration
and I think about it
when I listen
to you
hating yourself.

Like Kissing God

God totally slips you the tongue
and sneaks a hand up under your shirt
God finger fucks me in an airplane bathroom because he can't wait till we hit the ground
God grabs your ass in public, when he knows the others can see
God waits til you're surrounded
and tugs your hair and scratches your back
when he knows you can't do anything about it until you've regained your privacy but not your composure
God knows the shape of my thighs in stockings like the back of his hand
he day dreams of holding me when he's supposed to be conducting business
God loses his train of thought when he muses on the outline of your nipples visible through your shirt
God blushes when he thinks about fucking me in an unrelated conversation
which happens more than God cares to admit
God just loves the texture of my pussy
God's never had it so good

(halfway conceived by Jon Mmmayhem, and desperately in need of a picture.)

Headspace Crawler

She walked into my brain while I slept with a smirk on her face and a cigarette dangling from her lip. Arbitrary surreal location: oversized bed, red sheets, black cave open to the ocean. She came from the right and I watched her approach; she didn't walk, she sashayed.

This lady knew what she'd come looking for, and she looked like she'd found it. Still that self confident smile and a cool pale hand pushing my bony shoulder till head hit pillow and she hovered over my face and parting lips. I watched her hair grow, our clothes sheered to nothing.

Seashell hands pushed away my cobwebs sliding over whiter skin till I was arched and gasping; This Woman was undoing my scars, sliding fingers into my heart.

The pain was exquisite, narrowing the world to nothing save those eyes (those eyes hold oceans) looking at me cocksure as she spread my skinny thighs laughing as she filled me till I felt her coming from my throat. I opened my mouth and she spilled out screaming, fucking me like she was in need and I was the answer to everything she'd ever asked for. Pinned, fingernails cutting my breasts, hipbones bruising mine, pretty face passion snarled through red hair clotted like blood.

I grabbed her wrists bones grinding positions reversing. But taking her control broke the magic. She lay stiff and mocking under me, responding to my passion with cold laughter. This porcelain mannequin with bloody fingers inside my wrists could have been a ghost except for those terribly alive blue orbs with their cruel glitter.

I turned away. She sat on the opposite side of a wooden table, separated from me by a plate of sushi. Gleaming sleek as a loved kitten, she smiled and pouted. I felt cold. Forced a smile. In a room of tables she stood behind me with her hands on my throat pressing till my lips parted. She filled my mouth with golden liquid and kissed me. I swallowed with her tongue in my mouth...she tasted like summer as I drank her.

She oozed out my scars red and gold reforming the shape of a woman with her arms around me. I put my head on her chest and woke up.

Processing

Burgling electronic isolation with words to make me run
because I am human
and fear what I don't understand
I'll wait for you
he says
By the way, how's your face feel?
Tongue tip tripping, he's laughing at me.
He makes me laugh at myself
tub edge sitting
dying my hair for a bald man
hours away in a city I can't stand

My face?
it's going to stick like this

small alternating smiles hiding behind confused fingers
I say
This will take years
Unkissed smile shine in my general direction
women who fear commitment cause evolution
Y chromosomes now contain x ray vision
The man's a flight tracker.

"You brought me up from a very dark place

I'm not sure you quite understand how much that means

Or the significance it gives you in my life

it takes someone that i have a great connection with to do what you did"

Do I dare disturb the universe, Mr. P?

Do feelings like those require a spectacular focus?
Does left field eloquence deserve any less?

I'm waiting for you
he says
I'm waiting for you
he says
I'm waiting for you
I say
You're crazy.

Zen Color

Space with only stars and rockets
stolen shade swept over
pale eyelid winking at another painted face
half seen through peopled haze
Mars spiders dancing in death clothes
Thanatos flirting with a leather jacket
body so slowed I can feel my heart beating
beat box breaking
the man doesn't know what he's saying
speech without sound
bold text in a bathroom stall
the unwritten is what I want you to read
define the color
of negative space for me

graffiti heart

Photographic burlesque artist
muscle, bone stripped to two dimensions
viscerally screaming for three
He goes largely unseen
believing visionaries impossible
unregistering painted signal

outsize eyed undermuscled muse
artistic rescue operation
Eye scream aquamarine
soul kiss eye contact
heart pounding asylum-eyelid
recording for preservation

undertoe

Sprawled back
Feet elevated, pedestalled
the altar is raised flesh
Spit slicked sweat
Curves aligned, spread
Pinky planes tongued and fingered
by unafraid pilgrim
honest fetishist prostrate
before the sole texture of sex
cock ache arches flex
walk with a subtle undercurrent of pussy
to an upstairs room
where a man kills himself
over the beauty of those toes

(Photo by Rebecca Brown)

Smile

Like most modern Americans, I am obsessed with teeth. Childhood punctuated early and often with visits to various dentists and orthodontists, cruel children laughing through perfect fangs viewed through the red shame of lunch with a retainer.

The first time I remember utilizing a mirror for self examination, I was eight. The mirror hung ceiling to floor on the back of the bathroom door showed me a short pale body with oversized blue eyes and long sunshine hair. I smiled without parting my lips and was surprised to find I found myself pretty.

The first time I remember being mocked for my teeth I was six. Within two years an elephant eared orthodontist told my black haired parents that my undersized, deformed jaw would not grow correctly and they stapled frowns over their straight, even teeth and spent one hundred and ten dollars every month so I could be an adult with a functional mouth.

My braces came off at thirteen. No one noticed. My teeth were slick, exposed, unnatural. I wore colored gloss on my lips. I chewed gum and crunched ice.

By sixteen, cruel mouths vomited laughter and I just puked. Splendid functionality ignored till mandatory family dinners, I wore my nails short and I jammed stiff fingers down raw throat tube, risking my enamel. That was my life till twenty.

At twenty and seven months, a steady diet of travel and tequila combined so that I lost my appetite for public approval. The holes in my cheeks formed black scabs that are now soft scars under my tongue. I grew my nails out and smiled at my teeth in the mirror.

At twenty one, there’s a gap in my atria. The hole from a wisdom tooth surgically removed and not stitched up. The wound will heal, but that was no milk tooth. Tongue probes soft edge, remembering hard red cored white bone.

I will die with straight teeth and scarred cheeks and I will be buried with red paint on my mouth.

(photo: www.asylum-photo.com)