If I come home after a certain time
I still stumble automatically
(out of habit)
I still fumble with my key in the lock
I still stagger up the stairs
I still fall asleep in my clothes
I still wonder where you are
There's Time To Be Alone Once I'm DeadI've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
I don't know if that's because
it allows me to keep you
at eight hundred thousand arms' lengths,
or whether it's because it rationalizes me
turning down every chance of happiness I find
closer to home,
or whether it's just because
I'm in love with an idea
whose reality I don't have
to deal with until October.
Or whether it's because I actually found someone who's worth waiting for.
Whatever the reasons,
I've never really been one for reality checks,
and I've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
Give Me Five YearsGive me five years to travel the world and then I'm yours.
Five years to grow;
get the wanderlust
out of my system
and learn how not
to want to be
My love will be all the better for it,
Give me five years,
and I will try to give you forever.
AliensYou told me once that your passion was for travel,
although you've never left the south of the country you were born in.
But I have a passion for passions
and collecting experiences
in compartments in my head marked 'adventure'.
So let's travel the world, you and me,
and turn two dreams into a living, breathing reality.
Making SenseIt's easy
(when they're not there)
to make somebody into the person you want them to be.
to fill gaps in language
with what you want to hear.
It's very, very difficult to walk away.
Surrounded By Dry LandIt is not mountains or cities that you will find in her heart,
but the deep, dark, depths of the ocean.
Her first language is temptation;
she speaks it fluidly,
but she never can be won
for her heart belongs to the tides.
Many have tried;
but no lover's arms can compete
with the swell
that washes her clean, clean, clean.
Dirt can be rinsed out,
but stains remain
that pull her down
to the only place
where she has ever felt
Thoughts On LeavingThings that I am afraid of:
Talking to people I don't know,
Falling in love.
(Doing all of the above at the same time.)
The Un-TitledThey work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They work in schools
and clean lecture hall floors.
They scrub tables.
They are adding experiences to the internal data bank.
They are quietly subversive.
They are counting change.
if they appear a little vacant,
for their minds are not on
(Though they will serve yours with a smile.)
They work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They are waiting.
Someone once told me
That my mind was poisoned
By the white man.
That I was already dead
To my people.
I don't believe a human being
Is inherently evil
Or wishes harm on someone.
The beauty of being a puzzle piece
Is that we're equally important
But remain different.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
The Owl's RiddleYou come and ask me,
but you don't always understand my answers.
You meet me in the night,
but I'm not a bird of darkness.
Venom QuillVenom Quill 9/26/14
I'll tattoo you with a poison quill
all the venom I will spill
So all the misery you imbued
will permanently stick to you.
I cannot find any time
when you did not feed me lines.
So I will etch on you all the
pain inside my skin
until the message sinks right in.
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
muddy waterthe sun rises late now. or hardly ever.
or belligerent carmine on the underbellies of plants.
a shot of sleep to the head, a boxing glove punch.
the metaphorical rooster crows with the awful clamour of its lonely breath.
the thing is, i can substitute the body.
the thing is, the slit
is a fantastic shade of orange
i saw god but he says you still need to get a fucking job
the thing is, i am bathtub water and rotten leaves.
and the taste of power on the morning wind,
a wet newspaper
with the headlines of a presidential divorce.
there is power in the young eagle
hissing at passersby from its trashcan throne.
i know one thing: