Monday, January 20, 2014

(there's hands and a violent softness)

(there's hands
and a violent softness)
that's drowning

(and there's lucidity
which takes me under)
like a calming touch

but there's nothing to be done; 
all is desperately reaching 
for the hands that were once there
with their violent softness

(which was nothing more)
than a rouge tenderness 
of a still night

and i can still hear 
the heartbeat


through the ribs you 
let me cling
to when i 
(needed to
and especially when 
didnt need) to
or want to

please, tell the usher
to show me to my seat; 
the stars are         ( unalig)ne d
and youve set the table

for a show. 

a study in denial



hear you
about me;;

i couldn't 
bear listening

to you

in the

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

"theres no biting of the lips"

theres no biting of the lips
when theres a ripping
at the door
and the only proof of such an event
is the pulsating skin
that youve 

decided to leave on your flesh
and all anyone can see
is you

standing there
taking it all in


and nothing will ever feel the same
because youve just gone 
through the

and fuck all that came before. 

Saturday, January 11, 2014

there is but one divine sanctity
left in this momentary torrentiality 
that is the very cataclysm 
of institutionalised absence
of regurgitated diligence
of exquisite stillness

this is but the very moment 
that will lead us to an eternity
which does not exist
in any form
except that of an endless hell

me up a separate existence;
a drowned innocence

for i have done nothing to
earn this jealousy which fills
me in a way

that is far too real.

given this full disclosure:
Fuck me until I forget who you are. 

Saturday, January 4, 2014

There's a violence on the tip of my tongue

There’s a violence on the tip of my tongue:
it smells of the acidic silence

that leaves me shaking 
when your 
voice has decided it is done
filling me with music;

it tastes of the vulgar bitterness

which I feel towards

       the air that moves
                         all around you
because it gets to touch
   every             part                 of you
at all times;

and I don’t even know how to
address the way it 


it sounds exactly like every word
that I am way too afraid to say

I am afraid of what
you will say back.

There's this silence in my bones,

There’s this silence in my bones,
and a heartbeat;
it’s aggravating the tenderness in my veins,
and don’t even get me started on my blood.
My nails feel milky and way too neutral,
whereas my eyelashes sound like the ocean 
and smell of a typhoon.
My hunger yearns with the wisdom of faulty 
liver lungs and gluttonous disappointment.
My anger is distraught with a mild dose of gout 
and the insides of my thighs,
those burn with a dehydrated passion.
Whereas, my nose can see the difference
between an orange and a smile,
and my eyes can only smell from the grass
to the other greener side of life.
I can’t even register how my skin feels…
my skin isn’t talking to my brain right now.
My brain! My brain…all it knows is sadness and sex
and it is receiving too much of one,
and not enough of the other,
and the one does nothing for me except make my
knees shallow,
and the other leaves me cold
and tired and awake.

I do not want to be awake,
nor do I want to be asleep.

Friday, January 3, 2014

there were eyes in the flowers

there were eyes in the flowers

& they followed them everywhere
As they made their way through
fields o' grey
                        and the crossed arms
of silent palm readers;

           somewhere along the road
the ocean started whispering
the memories of past
mid-noon deliriums and scented

                        opiumden opera singers

and the virgin mary was hanging
her flowerydirty underwear

while the town children were discovering
their ability to sin
peeking in on her,
with their hands somewhere down
their front,

making the silent palm readers job
if it weren't for the giant
enormous monstrous sighs
of momentary clarity and reality,
the ocean would be still,
the grass would never sway,
and the desert would be just
another pile of sand,

lifeless & motionless.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Erotic Study no. 1

pulling up your skirt,
i stopped at the corner of Fifth and Broadway,
right where your thigh was,
and i allowed myself for the world to linger
as i pressed the back of my hand
against your thigh,

and all the birds of the wild
chirped as you moaned,

and i continued pulling up your skirt,
only to find that you forgot your underwear;
i searched everywhere for them,
under the bed,
under the house,
under a few misplaced clouds you had
in the corner of the room,
even under your mother's dress,
but she wasn't wearing any either.

then i turned you around
so that i could really look at you,
and i found an orchid growing
on a mole right next to your
beautiful lips,

shying away from me behind
a beautiful tuft of fur;
the damned sight was too much for
a grown man
to handle

i started to cry.

you told me to please hum your
second favorite song,
because your most favorite song
was saved for the next time,

and so i hummed and hummed
and hummed,


and god damn it,
i'm still humming.