the boys haveall gone; the city lightsswallow, the girl curledin wine dropletsand drained out— lastsupper, last chance. she has her shoulder-blades bare, she is waitingwe are allwaiting—where are the boyswith the black smilesready to devour my face;i have reflectionsin the alcohol glass, thisis modernity: i and i and iagain, eternal and gloamingand waiting alone.
alternatively titled: "buffy, season six" i am New York in the window,i am Paris in the glass.can you find me, i amlaughing—can you find me,i won’t last.cities in the stardustmake shit inside my head,can i sleep with Prague?with the adolescent-dead?the boys are saving nothingthe boys are going madi am just an illnesspathetic, never had.can you… Continue reading poem: emo song where the boy saves the girl, actually
when I was younger I wanted to be the personification of some artist's inner life— i would be the girl with the mask tacked on backwards, the girl over-thinking her image— i would be youth, hope, the red blushes in forests, the red blushes when boys lean in close and say things from books—like this… Continue reading poem: maniac pixie dream girl
he has become worth a great many things—she reflects in the mirror, waiting for him, trying to think how to explain: I feel calmer this time, but everything is more extreme. I am crashing into myself with a neck- breaking speed before only reserved for the real breaking of necks, when pretty girls fall from… Continue reading poem: even the expressionists could not capture it
I will make you my let-down song; so that when you are stuck in my head— I am sitting on the edge of swimming pools my feet in the water, the water going red. it's not blood—don't worry, this is not another sadistic, sardonic poem. it is only pink nail polish, melting in the water,… Continue reading poem: young love is a horror flick
I do not believe men speak to smart women as women. They talk to us as men, as nameless faceless hommes d'affairs: we are leaning against the conference desk, in a (power) suit, with pin-tacks in our neck and the unfortunate addition of long hair, breasts, adultery. The young adult novels lied: there is nothing… Continue reading poem: the unexpected boy, the girl rewriting her ghosts
keep him as an unknown, do not soil him: he is nothing yet, he is just shy; the infinity of possibility in glass lights, in small smiles. do not drain him out, or make him (yet another) overly-constructed fiction living in the city of the dead, whores cheering for rat fights and love sold like… Continue reading poem: girls alone go mad
Welcome To The Bottom of the Erotic. The Mood Swings Pure Chemical Hormone. I lose skin and I am watching the curtains make double-colors: the red too fresh, too fake the black like insomnia, the artist's friend, climbing in for psychotic kicks. I make my reflection in crescent nails I find that (once again) I… Continue reading poem: I do not want to mistake another boy’s kindness for love
I imagine he needs me as much as I need him: I am not idealizing a personality, I am just making a desperate boy who lays awake and would rather have me curled into his side than to have another night spent alone, crying when the color drips, crying when he steps inside his mind… Continue reading poem: the stars turned off, for dramatic romantic effect
the moths on the backs of my hands will not answer me; they sit mute and flutter at the traffic. once again, I've made the wrong decision: whose idea was it, to come here and wait for him, to run a waterfull over the chairs and tables to let him see the desperation, the dark-blood… Continue reading poem: love or lust? saint or whore?