and she did not believe it. because the Unrequited is soft, it is gazing out glazed-over windows and waiting for fictions in the mist and the raining grey. but when the boy—is horribly real, the Emotion comes wild, exploding imploding burning loose—the system torn up, the inheritance bolshevik-ed with three smiles. she makes the Raw,… Continue reading poem: they told her—Love is violent
Tag: orginal free verse poetry
poem: suicide is metaphor
she is leaning out the window, considering— the view. she cannot hang here forever, she will either step away and keep the sky a separate god or she will lean into the inevitable, her fingers splitting in the air her head smashing into damp pieces. her skull is a throbbing lump hanging on a broken… Continue reading poem: suicide is metaphor
poem: young love is a horror flick
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
poem: the unexpected boy, the girl rewriting her ghosts
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
poem: we are writing, we are killing
I wrote an artist but did not give her art, she was lonely waiting by windows for bluer skies but dying in her head, re-castling to save me: the other girl, the one writing her. we were in hell together, the mafia maniac pixie dream boy blowing her kisses from the burning room, the emo… Continue reading poem: we are writing, we are killing
poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)
I want to have God even in the dark places so that I am not writing revels or anthems but writing glass, writing kitchen-windows so ninety people can see inside myself, inside the chaotic parts where my mind is already on fire, already dancing like tomorrow is myth. So that when I say "I am… Continue reading poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)
poem: my father is a sociopath
number the stars, the sluts, the saints: we are all here, in a hell we can't escape. and my father said I was just like him. my mother said if I painted my nails black I would become a heroin addict, a fucking drama queen. can you hear the lights in the city flickering? they… Continue reading poem: my father is a sociopath
poem: la femme n’est pas politique
the persephone concepts, pt. 1 Persephone voted for a fascist; they killed her in the street. later, it came out that the fascist was a woman. they resurrected Persephone, gave her a medal, ripped open her vagina and sold her blood in jars.
poem: crush
you were not supposed to do this to me. this is not fair, this is not what I wanted. please get out of my mind and stay brilliant somewhere else. Don't you understand? Everywhere you are and I am, there is so much in the air, I cannot breathe: Color still chokes. soft death is… Continue reading poem: crush
poem: summer fruit in the city
so is this what it takes? we are not meant to speak of the inner life, the girls falling like apples; it should all be chaste: small stories of people kissing in stations and camps, her glory fluttering under your hands, her becoming all raw and red. you thought you were a god because she… Continue reading poem: summer fruit in the city
the last pavilion 