not all of the following makes sense, really, but I'm publishing it anyway. call it "writing practice" and read at your own risk. "The meaning of literature" is something I think about often, especially after fucking, when my boyfriend has rolled away to stare at a book and I stare at the wall. I know… Continue reading writing: the holiday girl
highschool-me listened to far awaymusicals, the rx a foreign and edgy thing, everything sex, men smilingand cum dripping out; now the normalis redone and i watch – ravens land on old buildings,the turrets gothic, lined against the fall;nothing is magic – not the rawcoming in calendars, the daysfalling into vampire schedules, five a.m. blinking, late… Continue reading poem: autumn / catch me i’m falling
i met you under the meter-blockwith madness in my head—you pulled out— my spinal cord,you thought, you asked, i said. love comes down, i guess,to this: the ramones and black mornings,your hand in the mooring,my chemise and semenin the painting, the submissions—a literary edition of two peopleliving nicely, the prague-parissplit: we'll have sexand call it… Continue reading poem: pornographic europa
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
my heart is a hole,the picket fence tornup and stabbed through,the thief leapingfrom the window, holding—the I, the past,my old myself. whydo normal words not fitin my mouth, their edgessharp and snapping—the camera catchingthe stripping, and Ithe old, new girlstanding naked by the sill.
something inside medoes not wantto get better. i am violently addictedto my own self-destruction.
some people light small fires—I, am lit. someday i will be won and not waiting: it is an old refrain, told by older woman; in the still afternoon i watch three sparrows circle my childhood, the greens glowing yellow, and i think— there is something waiting out there, there is something roaring.
do you remember the red telephone, sitting like a silent cat, renovating the hall with its small plastic face? i watched you leave, the first day, and then i called my mother. the baby was twisting like an almond, a sliver in my ocean-split stomach; i put my hands over my mouth so she wouldn’t… Continue reading poem: stay-at-home woman
his hands, holding me were like the ocean exploding in my mouth. and I brought the long fingers, the star-fish arms studded with sea spray and drowned crow gilt— i let them buzz me, the edges of things breaking against me like i was the world and he was the water.