pacified

my loyalty is frugal and shy. i am unable to guard while stationary, and i pray my arms my soul to keep.
i throe with the haunting - yes, i see your words and hear your images.
you were once midas to me, and i ventured after my own platonic in your library mind.
what i found were the tragedies and romanticism of isolation, though now as my thoughts pull themselves through scathing cracks, i realize it was devastatingly perceived.
i found a subtle rebellion, a chaos, a revolution. and to fight the ghosts, i begged for a shell of you.
when my hands clutched the vain wind in triumph, i found the stench of my days in pretense, and resented you for my own request.

to put it simply, i said words in ecstasy that i should have ensnared.
i cried with angst because i didn't know what to say.
i was an awful tangled mess of beginning to be me, and ending as your impostor.

the wrong you have not yet charged me with.

so ask anyone - i elude. i'm no more than a thief sustained by the thrill.
i don't know if i'll ever be my own pillar, and until then, collapsing at the base of you would only cause your temple to fall.
to suffer you that agony again, believe it or not, terrifies me.

"to love, and lose what we love, are equally things appointed for our nature." -lewis

i merely haven't cradled the first. i'm sorry i let you down.

Question:

Is it better to be lonesome and free?
Is it better to be petted and caged?

11-1-10

These days are colored in the Impressionist style. Today is fog, early persimmon; the subject a sick flower. I'm no more a little school girl, perfecting my cursive spelling words. But my fingers scroll the same. Recreating what looms for kill outside the heater-vents. Supplanting myself as frightened beneath pervading rain. Always running. I wasn't meant to be the savior - I'll leave that to God. Macabre and journal in hand, I'll document your downfall. It's what He made me for. If only the critics weren't shy.

Let me lie.

Coffee has been crippled by the doe - this trembling dry throat.
A cello haunts my chest like a fluid ghost in tapestry, and
I'm tormented with uncertainty of the drum's aim -
Celebration or War.

I don't mean all that I say:
"I'd rather be alone."

Photographs, neglected to keep me ardent for my isolation,
Are tattered when reflected upsidedown.
Now I see you are like my father,
Securing me in your Indian summer.

Blue eyes proud.
Green eyes storming.

Horror unlike gore is taunting me.
For in my last sight of you,
I stand small -
Charmed to be yours.

And now I am large and maladroit,
Unstable as to where I stand at all.

thorn

my eye's veins are in love.

inhaling underground,
comforted by tree root's fortitude,
exalting in red wind mantra,
wearing the veil of dragonfly wings,
steps resounding off my heart's swing....

you held to me a weed -
violet thistle.

my eye's veins are in love.

At Fault

I wish to transpose my gypsy mind to who it was before I suffered it to pattern.

Granny

Her scent pervades her photographs.
Nearing my vanity, I educe my truth;
She, the patroness of quest,
Bids me "digress."

Her scent resides in her pillows.
My wayward vernacular induced coma attempts
To deplete me,
But she
Tucks me in with Ecuador.

if i wrote a song

so in my plaid pants and obscure band shirt i'll sleep
after deluding that screamo is not my propensity.
i'll dream i'll arise content at 6:15
and at my 9-5 i won't sing asinine mainstream.

life's a ruptured balloon - shredded askew -
each withered latex fulfilling only while new.
every rose - bloodless. every photograph fades blue.
weary of procuring myself - lonely - i'll hunt you.

grey hairs not from thought but lack thereof.
my depth is reduced to paste and makeup.
i'll skip, like on sinking bricks, on hearts depleted.
inspiration. my power. unplugged.

a sculpture injected with styrofoam
cursory metropolis drinks and i'm home.
this rhymed meter is moronic like the death of our phone.
like a sloth-minded bird, oh God, i'm undone and alone.

black widow

tombstone rooted weeds are planted by the lonely.
we, ones who inhabit grass and ground.
dragging the bodies fettered to our feet, we stumbled into a puddle and made it our sea.

but, my love, you erred upon assumption that i am human.
you're my muscles affliction.
my toxic epidemic.

my sole antidote.

these robotic fingers will sew my love into your skin and inject the shrapnel of my heart.
resist embrace of my eyes – razored glass compost.
eyelashes clasp like lacerating teeth.

i'm a black widow.

when the sun rains

nightmares feast as i'm half alive.

my eyes' detached veins snake before they ride through glassy teeth.

enamel sloughs away like noodles.

illegitimacies of molested sun fall, festering between my every rib.

they dissemble my mind's chords and let my body writhe.

haunted gaps of gray between black trees gracefully sway me into the sky's boiling mire.

and when the sun rains......

two children drowning on a stairwell

i licked my fingers when you threw up your heart in my hands.
i bathe in sickness with a smile and swallowed my fingernails.
you kissed the sad spot beside my eye, warm beneath my hair.
when your broken limbs fell they jerked the safety pins of my jagged heart.
my face's home is your shoulder where you carry me.
with your shaking hands, you held this corpse.
i pray the cold would drink or sever us.
but instead of you, i smell the dirt in the carpet as it climbs into my skin.

C.S.Lewis Photography

1 Corinthians 13:12

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.

please don't keep me

your humble arms, like an awakened tree, are my faint wings' asylum.
your cradle exposes desperation.
my face sinks to the bottom of your heart.
lead fused eyelids are sleep hungry.
melancholy ringing love,
as gossiping walls dull like a theater's bow.

raven

she has a mother's face
and a child's elite delicacy of trust.

window shadows and stars bathe
and echo her chocolate face.

her eyes - rivers of peace -
caress tears.

guilt disassembles her delight.
she does not know why she cries to me.

and i do not know why either.

dear mommy,

you've breathed into me
a seed.

an early tickle - a surge of life

writhing in growth - snapping my veins

excruciating firming of roots

soft lace nourishing blossoms

tsunamis echo.
but i have mommy here.

Wisteria is my Wine

Planted piano keys - trees -
are parted like ocean waters when
Lady Sun bashfully spies from her corner.

She undresses slowly, innocently
from polyester work garb to a
hazy sunflower ball gown.

She is radiant,
passionately swaying.

Her balm spills to awaken kindred earth's
rapture.

Wisteria is my wine.

Drunk with beauty,
I am pupil of whimsical Sun.

She flushes pink from her secret lover's
soft kisses and carassing voice.

Rose, she accedes him,
and reclines
as she lays until waking.

vicarious

perhaps it (the untouchable all-comprehensible infamous life or time or state of existance etc..) is better to dwell alone. why is it we feel acomplished upon non-existance of sleep for reading? hollow pregnant romance novels (better yet, romance novels involving vampires) or significant works of cannon - no matter. i exist vicariously though memiors of those who claim misfittedness. i then rotate in my swivel chain to write my own personal memio of this personal nobody. i'll hand myself the ragged truth on a platter that will do no good unless used to end my life and shout that we're all simply blundering nobodies attempting to be beautiful and feign adventure.

will you carry me away on an eagle?

my adventures are composed in sweet invested books. i let the words write themselves on my face, scrawling across with each thought of attaining (and excusing life to attain) that insurmountable something.
a'gape. peace. red.
however, "first art will imitate life, then life will imitate art, then life will find its very meaning from the arts." - unknown
that is why memiors are so uncomplicatedly genious. they allow me contentment with my own mundane, for, if they can see the beauty (or at least sound poetic and profound when discussing life and death) then so can i.

right?

Loving and Devouring are the same

Tis' better to love not at all,
Than to love perversely with crooked spine.
My stor'ge will devour the both of us.

3-22-10 (Oh yeah, she's losing it)

I could scribe my life in song.
I think that is what all artist think, and then they pick up their laptops as I do know, and write some ridiculous nonsense like “Code Monkey” or “We the Dreamers” or “Like Steps in a Dance.”
And then, lo the beerholder, voila splits a song that all other artists can relate to in completely relative ways.

It probably started when they had an asi-asi day at their prep school, came home, drove to their empty best friend's house, immersed themselves in that person's scent, and observed their domicile whilst the said person was out and about. They then turned into The Almost's song “Say This Sooner” which made them realize their insociability and disgust/curiosity in the eyes of most people. They then drove a rode that was once, two days ago, new to them, but no longer has the lemon orange taste of freshness. Now, they know where they are going, that it will lead to another road on which their bodies will autopilot home, and all will result in gas waste. Upon arrival at their own dwelling, they logged into a social networking site, on which they spent an hour enraptured with the live of others. They live that hour or so vicariously, and then feel sick afterward, with a reminder of the hammering homework ahead. They begin to finish a book, for a test that they probably shouldn't take, and eventually close their eyes. They dream of outrageous trinkets and escapades that occur in seconds of unconsciousness. Life in anime or something or something or something. Upon awakening to a mother's yelling voice, they forget every excitement the day held in those few minutes or hours of deadness. They proceed to make a sandwich, and think, I could write my life in song.

She eats the same bread every day,
All those who know her call it by name.
She drinks coffee in the dead of night,
Finally realizing sleep is for the weak.
Or invaluable. Or not as valuable as awakeness.
And she also happens to take showers only so the next day she can skip one.
She burns her icy tongue every day of the week.
Her life consists of dead flowers and candles.
She blatantly speaks in secretive oxymorons.

…..I have not the patience for a song at this point, I realize.
I also have not words to elaborate my ill disposition to my wondering mother.
Perhaps it is because money is so very short.
I then remember a part of my dream/dreams, where when told the miniscule-in-comparison-to-total amount of money in my missions trip account, instead of smiling politely to Mrs. Dickens and thanking her for her concern, I took a sword and sliced down my leg. It is easier for me to give blood than money. Perhaps that is where the aphorism “blood money” came from.
No, probably not.
Perhaps my foul mood is result of a timid fear. A fear, like a shy doe, that has been frightened and runs with calamity, displacing all the neatly orderly placed places inside my chest and stomach.
I fear the lumps in my tissue.
I fear the lack of feeling and poor circulation.
I fear that my knee is still unhealed.
I think I have my memaw's disease.
I cannot escape it.

But my mother drops the topic without further prodding and I mount the stairs with my life and curse (coffee) and force myself to believe that I am too young for health or money problems.

Then my coffee gets cold and my mother calls, and I know this is the beginning of my (their) evening.

Shed the Glib and Bones

Public interrogation swelled and ceased.
Self proclaimed verdict of
Counterfeit.

I unzipped my plastic skin,
threw my havocked bones to Flight in migration,
banished my
glass green eyes.
Nothing left of my lonely, fine figure but
metal
teeth.

Mr. Dead Sea gorged himself on my crackled shell;
Next day he “spewed me out of his mouth.”
Tramp, Or my soul, acrid and heavy like sand in the mouth,
Convulses in space for its rightful owner.

She decorates murderous detached hearts and sobs when embraced with love.
'Hunger' is her middle initial with calligraphy curls of burgeoned eyes and skin suctioned ribs.
Her nests of idle words scrounged in trees of “vanity underneath the sun...”
Fall.
She is ink mishaps in books.
She storms with elephants and Preys with octopuses.
Stars are enticed by her.
Sun is her sea.

I am a mere vestige now.
Devouring time with my metal teeth in desperation for a Mother
Something.
I donated preconceived eloquence I've yet to attain.
Vigil to my hollow words and pulped art -
I am a mere ghost.
Reconstruct our memories and mourn that I was good.

She is insatiable for bona fide.

3-18-10

“Good'ay, neighbor.” An elderly gentleman in a grated familiar fire red plaid shirt and useful sky blue jeans.
I know I am the only one who would wave back with a genuine smile in my stomach. I also know I am the only one to use the peripheral vocabulary to describe such a trivial event.
I had never seen him before.

The sky is like a fan. Such turret like trees are its folds. And lamp post yet unlit...I am still deciding what it is in the grand scheme of things. For I am merely an artists finding metaphors for perfect art.

How is it impossible to laugh with my best friend? My silence is not forced – it is automatic. In my awkward stage of a sprout sweating fruit, my tendency is to brag and to protect without social skills.

With decision, I extract my beauty into my art and words. Why else is my hair knotted, my eyelashes whipping with thick paint? Sores on my feet, sores on my hands, I just unintentionally tasted my own blood. The ceiling of my mouth is scaled like seaweed.

I miss my peaches n' cream kiss my face lotion. I loathe the thick smell of mystery I tote with me. For it is liquid and not soul evoked. And I cannot find my tweezers.

Today, lack of sleep feels good. Accomplishment and fulfillment with every additive caffeinated coffee. But I fear premature wrinkles and envied white hair.

I know this doesn't make sense, so please don't ask. I keep my monk-esque life to myself and selfishness. Just another day imprinted in the ground after rolled over by a barrel.

Is it a sin to offend?

“You are a Soul. You have a body.” -C.S.Lewis

From vast black void

Is fashioned our blue-green face.

Perfect Hands patterned earth's hands' momentum.

Cursed. Delicate Ticks melt to

Daunting gongs.

As the eroded pendulum,

Heavy,

Begins to

Fall.

Tick

Tick

Tick

Tick

Mourns now

Gong

Gong

Gong

Gong

A mere hour after it was begun,

The earth plummets from generations.

As time is to a clock,

So a soul is to a body.

Residing in towers

Above

or

Below.

After the dear acrid bronze pocketwatch is

Cauterized,

Hanging alone from a calligraphy tree.

But inviting snow caresses this hour.

Red Patriot

Slowly, the greased barrel is slithered back, with a shush
A'fore a little boy's heartbreaker eyes.
His little finger caresses the trigger
Without grief or thought of

Dead Dead Dead Dead

A red cardinal is dead -
Unable to point a now limp red finger to accuse
His murderer.
Red beak,
Red with love.
Red with spring
Or lack thereof.
Red his blood that melts on my
Sad fingers.

Red Red Red Red

In misconstrued disrespect
The koolaide served is more vivid
Than the innocent patron.

Muse

"when you name something, you identify it....and take responsibility for it."

Bleating

The body under the influence of exhaustion is likened in unpredictability to the body under the influence of the influence.
Ordinary voices muted to demonic slurs.
My strength is siphoned out - gripping the wheel is arduous.
As I drive, the car pleads to eat the yellow highway lines, instead of succumbing to be their parallel.
I allow Mariella to do as she pleases, with a P.S that perhaps this is dangerous.
My core feels like cooked limp noodle.

Sleeping trashcans look like black sheep.

Life and/or Death

The World War One documentary fuses itself into an irreplaceable 50 minutes saved in my brain. The Germans, the Russians; regardless of nation, their intent of destruction is stomach wrenching. Words used in this documentary are Gothic in nature - far too primitive a syntax to be used as colloquial. Field of blackbirds, exhaustion, funeral procession, torture, poisoned gas, extermination, death rate, etc.....

The sounds of birds break the horror film's demeanor like a laugh in a slaughter house. These are human beings, tainted by biasness, enraged by presuppositinos.

I am sure that not all were racist ignorants. I imagine teenagers around these theatres of war angrily spitting upon their faulty governments and blinded predecessors. I imagine the revolutionaries, vainly suporting their non-support. Muted to their own destruction, for revolution changed everything but solves nothing. I imagine loving one who was drafted, and the hollow insides that would venture to collapse at every words of war.

War unwravels. War mends. War unintes.

It unintes the cowards. It unintes the brave. It unintes the blood-thirsty. It unintes the protectors. It unintes the gung ho. It unintes the anarchists.

Welcome to the most disgusting paradox life has to offer.

but such is life

plastic flowers turned acidic waves crash through the graveyard and its inhabitants.
the harsh wind strips warmth from all, and only black ice infringes.
my soft eyes open to the bitter agent of chill,
evoking muddy tears that confuse my demeanor.
and me.
i remember, with unstable steps, my familiarizing days with the graveyard.
i pass the great window slowly, baffled as to why the dead are intentionally made visible to the living.
how i wish i were a manatee.
able to dispose of the dead to the depths,
never again being forced to remember
that all things die, that i have died several times, and will continue to die.
but i am a manatee in human form.
large and imposing,
small and shadowed,
exploring the deplorable burial grounds.
looked upon as a freak by the surrounding brightly colored fish.

abstraction

it's terrifyingly comical - the ignorance in which i've been dwelling.
demeaning, that most profound realizations are issues we instinctively know in our heads, but are too proud to say with our mouths.
revelations are derived from the most sensible obvious facts.
and yet, we humans are only allowed to feel accomplished when we skew life into complication.

i am animated by an idea. i am not the patron of an idea. i evidence the idea. and what better to expose and sponsor and idea than a five-sensed breathing relational human? i am the mediator between the watchers and the unseen.

my words translate foreign tongue into colloquial speech. they do not compose the standard; they explain a minuscule aspect. my attire reinforces me. i am not defined by my clothing anymore than a wolf in sheep's skin.

i, today, realize and repent for living my life backwards. my words have revolved around trivial nouns.....and not the imperishable subject.

enliven the mute

...sing praise upon the harp unto our God:
who covereth the heaven with clouds,
who prepareth rain for the earth...
psalm 147:7-8

storm clouds paint the heavens
with a myriad of charcoal balloons.
the skies groan with their pregnancy
like my body groans to take flight.
the curt gray pier's edge
reminds my feet not to plunge in attempt.
stimulating wind breathes into my hair
with the smell of winter
and the taste of spring.
all is black and white here.
here, i plead my Father for color and joy.
a lone raindrop replies,
cleansing the murky tears from my eyes ashamed.
consolation descends with a multitude of messengers.
like drums and cymbals, they beat the harbor.
the sooty opaque costume of pinebluff lake
is shredded by the silver rain
to reveal its royal blue belly.
each cascade rings, like a harp,
merriment from the water's strings.
i dance – my mournful insides feel a shout of orchids.
my sooty eyes opening sea-green once again.
my voice, the harp, clouds, and rain
shall sing praise unto our Lord.

Hope of a fish

The flightless wavering body pulsed froward and slowed in an undying rhythm. It examined every observable space of the circular fused glass barrier; searching for an escape. It's one eye is void of life, exactly as it's fallen one.

Perhaps it truly believes that all the world could be seen through half of sight. Perhaps it's unattached eye was still open when plucked out, only now looking forever down so that half his perspective remains unchanged. Perhaps his pale sallow skin swallowed the eye whole, sucking it inward to derive him of half the joy he could have glimpsed.

Sight equals survival.

He is hollow - halfway gone.

A mirror is presented to his face, where he views his corrupt condition. Vibrant scales turned putrid and moldy. Playful wings turned numb hollow fins. Gagged by his wretchedness, he monotonously circles, glimpsing upwards, towards the window, where his free eye wishes to be.

Reverie

Sew strong wings into my shoulder blades.

The needle's pain would be well worth it
To rise at the eagle's pace
And to allow whipping wind - my bones to lace.

Break the windows! Let me out!
Every muscle pulses in prolonged desire
To escape the ones who feed to devour
And to free my cluttered ears from their roars and shouts.

I need shelter from angry hands,
And warmth to clothe my crawling skin.
You fancied, perhaps, Valor's chance,
Victory's satisfaction and Freedom's breath.

There's nothing here left to reminisce,
Instead an expected end to attain.
Soar with my out of this gnawing abyss
My strong owl and loyal friend.

Untitled: For lack of a better idea

Q. "Why don't you talk?"
A. "Because I have nothing worth saying."

God knows the world needs not another talking head. My ideas are not mother or virgin or even daughter. My ideas are whores and daughters of whores. Taken from thoughts that were once genius, but were used until invaluable. I actually wonder if there is anything left to discover in the world. Anything left to say that has not been said already.

You're eating yourself. Don't ask me to join.

AGAIN AGAIN
I CAN FEEL IT!

Your silence is too much proof.
I wish I didn't know you like myself
I wish I could ignore the tug of wires on flesh!

NO NO!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

You've had too much,
But never enough!
Your full of the same shit that's killing you!

PUTRID FLESH
AND WHITEWASHED BONES!

And you're full of it
And while you throw it up on your shoes,
You're picking it up to regurgitate.

Nomad

Confined spaces where the mind is cramped
From being unallowed to unrobe and stretch.
I'm restless but weary,
Relentless and fading,
My fingernails still grasping the edge.

I rehearse preconceived limitations
Fencing in every surface on earth.
And cannot join company
With any singularity
Perchance my dispassion becomes evident.

So I'll drive
Cursing red lights.
I just want to be anywhere but here.
Perhaps misery does love company,
But sadness fancies solitary.

Embracing Robotics

Your eyes don't flicker.
They are like marbles in cripted diamond,
Or coarse sand that ne're witnessed rain.
My God, what has he done to you?
You look like a shock-treatment patient,
Or a mental house victim.
The wires are disconnected from the outlet.
As you sit and stare. Static.
Your mind sailing upstream
In search of what you used to be.
But you absorb life - while lost.
Lost in the aftermath.

Better safe than sorry (It always applies)

There are two lovers
In my life. One is named Safe
And one named Sorry.

Leave well enough alone (Eaten by the shading)

As I was walking,
I fell into a shadow-
Like my barren mind.

raven's eye

windchimes glisten.
but the wind cannot rip reality - black fingernails - from the cuticles of tree fingers.
your breath is sad.
like humanity.
as you deeply expel the filth that you have no say but to swallow -
like cigarette smoke.
did one who lives in the icebox ground
once plea to habitate their current dwelling
before their time?
would they be sorrowful to see us...
wondering to be in their company.
two ghost.
we prefer community of the peaceful dead.
rather than those who contribute to clique.

Mind numbed.
It's been pulsed down with a grinding tool.
Unable to speak after the fact.
What has become of us?
I thought you were my savior.
Now the damsel is her own rescue.
You're just like all the others. The ones I differed from.
Proud and full of mass produced bubbles.
Your ears are sucked inside themselves.
Your anger is reverberating off my words.
"I" am beautiful, but I don't mean a thing to you.
Refrain from using that slang.
I can't bear to think how it suffocated me into my willful chimera.
Either punch my eyes or turn away.
You've turned me into something strange.
Something that is estranged from you.
I love the raven,
But you are not a raven.
Because I'm not dead yet.