is it fall? —outside the madhouse windows?i have not showeredin three days, but i would liketo let the air cut me, the trees loose — danse —the new and old risingtogether: foreign dramasin dead worlds, patchinggardens, spirits in oldbooks, old spells —the split apple on my lip,wet like sex,dark and strange like innocence. i would like —to wash myself… Continue reading poem: september mental illness
Tag: creative writing
poem: the millennium after
this is how it goes: we sat in the blue grey and i licked your nose, nostrils twitchinglike cats: whiskered fuckerslapping at my milk. you pulled the sheetsfrom my breasts and climbedinside me, like we are some grand city —what did i call it? the sex life of the centuryresurrected between your handsand my getting… Continue reading poem: the millennium after
poem: strangers far away and very close
girl looking out a windowdo you remember Rennes—where the stars— almost bloomed?where men cut themselvesfor eternal random truth;saying: i miss the dysfunction,the late, exploding nightsyour hand in my mouththe spiraling, the fights;girl looking out a windowis he caught in your head?—the boy over the ocean, his hands pulled into squareslet the riot fall— and find… Continue reading poem: strangers far away and very close
poem(s): split
boy in his head she is a woman I knew, when I was younger. she starts and stops— like porn dissolving, reloading into a face like Iceland, two eyes, two fishes swimming into my mouth— reloading their shaking pupils. when you tip your neck, I would like to bite the wet skin. - - -… Continue reading poem(s): split
poem: medieval rhapsody
maids stand legion— we have nothing but the iron on our checks, the sex rimmed over our lips as if we were bowls, made to pour out and be poured into. sir, if you would touch my check and untie the red skirt, I swear I will be true, I will not send letters to… Continue reading poem: medieval rhapsody
poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)
i put hope on the ceiling fan and turned it on and watched it fling off and splatter on the walls; my mother will be pissed, but I want her to know that the blue and the black now coating her plaster is how I feel, most of the time. for context, mother, let me… Continue reading poem: Emily Dickinson was so wrong (or: moving on like a mature adult)
poem: the pandemic is us
she is waiting at an inner-city line the bus pulls up blood-red, it is weeping corpses the bodies are old personas, old dissected diagrams of the same girl: she is ambition, desperation, romanticism. but now— she is washing and washing her hands trying not to be something she is not, trying to find the small… Continue reading poem: the pandemic is us
poem: there is always a lost generation
she is sitting with her face in the window watching the country blur into Monet and his outcast friends— she is always afraid, if she blinks she will miss the important moment when the universe pauses and catches her breath. the country falls louder and longer when when she picks up culture and tries it,… Continue reading poem: there is always a lost generation
poem: friends
the earth was spinning down into sunset and I put on—welcome to the black parade. you said you knew it maybe, you hummed to the chorus, to the rise and fall of one thousand suicides, one thousand children deciding—not tonight. we are the same people, we are split into different bodies. I could tell you… Continue reading poem: friends
poem: disenchanted
when i last heard this song i was better, i was in hell but i was managing: i would not have stabbed my arm with a fork because i forgot where my knife was kept, i would not have spent the next day staring at the small break in the skin— thinking about nothing, feeling… Continue reading poem: disenchanted
the last pavilion 