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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
| He said to her, you are the thing I was waiting for my whole life. I wouldn’t want to live in a universe you weren’t in. She didn’t know if she should believe him. It was the kind of line designed to make her heart kick up a beat – which it was; like most of her kin she was unreasonably sentimental – without necessarily meaning anything. Yet this was the most serious she’d ever seen him, a rare furrow marring his brow. From what she could tell he was sincere. At any rate, she’d already made up her mind. She threw herself into his arms, her spastic arms clobbering him across the chin in her haste to embrace him. It would take time to learn her limbs, awkward and pubescent. He didn't seem to mind. Up close she could see her true image – a small dark fairy with green hair and sharp teeth – smiling back at her from his pupils. Ouch, he complained, that hurt. Still he enfolded her, making a nest of his jacket for her to burrow in. She was safe for the time being, wrapped in pixie magic and lover’s words. I want to eat you up. Then I will always have you with me, she murmured into his chest. The words were too soft for him to hear, she imagined, because he jumped when she bit him. Her teeth were sharp enough to draw blood, even through the layers of clothing. Licking her lips she snuggled deeper, satisfied. The bindings would hold true now, whether he had meant the words or not. |
Inspired by theoldwolf's similarly titled poem "Invalid Item"  Learning to love unconditionally, swallowing the Overwhelming fear of his leaving, of Never knowing, of always hoping, never Giving voice to the mirroring despair you see In his eyes sometimes as he turns to you Nuzzling your neck, kissing your lips before Going places he might never come back from. |
Craving, yearning, burning all those words that mean hunger, nasty brutish hunger for the forearms of one, coated with coarse black hairs, for the vulnerable spot where the nape of the neck peeks out from the collar of a dress shirt of another, men on the bus, the train, walking their dogs, their children, their wives, men queued on the crowded line of a deli counter, short, fat, beautiful, tall, ugly old men, I quake with the hunger of a swooning romance novel ingénue’s mousy best friend, willing and trembling, quietly desperate with this insatiable need for that one’s hands, fingers blunt and blackened with construction dirt, the jeans clinging like my hands, nails cut short and sharp, ought to be, for another one’s lips, full and well-formed, as he worries his bottom lip with Chiclet teeth in concentration before taking a drag from a water bottle I feel the need to replace with my breasts because I imagine those hands, those lips stabbing into me, biting down on my ass until sitting at my desk thinking filthy thoughts my hand works its way down into my pants to touch the pussy I had left bare since it is lunchtime and nobody is in the office to see me squirm at my desk with my eyes closed, head thrown back against the ergonomic chair while I fuck myself to those strangers, to the blue-eyed man on the train who said, 'excuse me' as he brushed past me smelling of winter and leather, to the memory of the silver-haired black man sitting across from me in the café who I would not in real life ask to bend me over the table and paddle me raw though I furtively pleasure myself all the same to the idea of it, that he will look up again, catching my eye because he knows what I am doing, what I am imagining, urging me on with a sly smile because he likes what he sees, this being, with a clitoris engorged with fantasies, enough to tumble me through, though I have the presence of mind to turn the triumphant scream into a muffled cough as he goes back to reading his paper, smile still in place, and I take a bite of a sandwich that has gone cold. |
You only write sad love songs. why not try writing a poem about a tree a story about the ghost in the machine? It’s the same thing you’ve nothing original to say about it anymore if you ever really did. The kiss of death – dear god I even think in cliché – is that you are right. When I try to write something else something beautiful something false the words mutate into cracked reflections of deep-set insecurities. What I actually say is: I write love songs to trick you into staying. You’ve already left. It cannot hurt to try to keep you this time by exorcising the demon of the first leaving with my pen. That’s seriously strange and besides no one these days uses pen and paper; you need new metaphors. Everybody knows the only way to cast a proper love spell is on paper with heart's blood, your comment being cleverly designed to free you from my incantations. Too bad I am relentless in the pursuit of my desires and cannot take into account yours. What I say is: You left and those songs brought you back. Then you lay your head upon my shoulder saying nothing at all. |
| smashing atoms together at lightning speeds turning something into something else a man-made machine seeking to lay bare the stars an unparalleled attempt to solve the fundamental mysteries of the universe like how to make something out of nothing various real or imaginary forces countless other quantum questions will we one day discover that envy is the missing matter that lust dances with gravitons that the problem of symmetry is merely you looking at my world reflected through the upside-down prism of someone else’s eyes? |
Hauling the nothingness from whence the world was made over mountaintops across the expanse of an unforgiving sea I am one of the many words that sunder the pull of gravity feeble chains streaking across the world I am lightning I am the thunder In my sack I carry songs of the earth which sound like freedom I walk to their rhythm and it lightens the load |
Splotchy dark mosquito bites badges of childhood marks of summer proof of sweet blood Thick ridged surgical flesh a dead man gave me back my legs and thus my life Thin clean line adorning a partially severed thumb which cooked, cleaned, fussed while weeping Hollow indentation of cracked bone crooked dealings crooked healing the skull warped but not broken Fading ones upon the wrists designs of sorrow etched in blades and blood What could I want with smooth skin? |
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