countdown to Self-Immolation/Explosion, new verge into briefand lolz - submissions session yet again? I never had a betterfriend; I never wept a better end. ship of theseus: mother metaphornot yet over-run, Default Virgin on the surface of online, on the coral reefof interwebs. going skinny like skinny-dipping new girl/old sex in New York, I briefly… Continue reading poem: blog update
Tag: orginal writing
poem: swan song for november
the whole bedrock for our silly little post-renaissance project is underground; the women with longsilver hair construction vest gray/blue tennisshoes: I can imagine her as anythingelse. in linen and singing. please rip me open and countmy ribcage, there is an maladjusted chromosome there isa space. yesternight i was listening to the cranberries and i remembered… Continue reading poem: swan song for november
writing: talent is its own expectation
She was determined to not be someone who projected her regrets onto her children or had a mid-life crisis at forty-five and so needed the reminder of her twenties to be an exercise in living dangerously. This was wrapped up with the desire to read philosophy and to do it fast and do it now… Continue reading writing: talent is its own expectation
poem: geoff rickly only made it on the streets
television was his anti-hero; a thousand suicides is tolerable -- talent is its own expectation. sweaty brown-dimthrashing basement, my girlfriend says you smashed her sidewaysinto the makeshift stage and I licked the pale red cutson her shoulder - clean, her head thrown back and zombie hoteyemakeup, the malaise shaking shaking all of usout the bass… Continue reading poem: geoff rickly only made it on the streets
poem: whoever
the last altered man, the cathedral drips upon and rends his knotted hands to dirt, their attitude undrawn. his are eyes flew'd hours to sleep, he is keptthe blessed meek. while i stand graveyard watch --the statues all asleep.
poem: hamlet
my mother ran out of my sore emotions/ my rawopen mouth, with her hair on fire. pushkin heard there was plagueup ahead, in the estates at bodin, and said fuck it. he wrote well there, the universe the gods came and sat, wondering at him: guess this is mozart, guess the rest of us can… Continue reading poem: hamlet
writing: hunger and boys and poetry
There was a storm coming and she had run six miles and she was not hungry. She sprawled on the couch and ached pleasurably, but her stomach was ringing hollow. I am going to vomit, most likely. Why the fuck am I not hungry? Why the fuck? It was six miles. The last time her… Continue reading writing: hunger and boys and poetry
poem: touya
the boy he told me i don't believe anymore in the rest of my far away life and i told him none of usdo that is the secret everyoneis lonely and no oneis lonely everyone is separateand languishing
poem: shifting
remember? i dreamed aboutthis kind of bliss but now in the pulled-apart strings of myheart there is onlya dull long ache and the aluminum footsteps of heart-burncoming up from my chest like a foreign man crossing overmy seven boarders his handsstill wet. remember? we were going to takethe world i woke you up in the… Continue reading poem: shifting
poem: I have lost reality many times
and yet she always come back, that unreliable bitch. you'd think I could let my organs run off in snot safetyfor several hours and not return to disgusting wherewithal when I shower or finally sleep, as if everything wrong with me was merely situational. I can write claimsin mad tongues that I am also doomed… Continue reading poem: I have lost reality many times
the last pavilion 