poem: even the angels are damned

it is four o'clock: we are fucking in my head. it is eleven-thirty: you have left the room, the lights are off. you did not talk to me, you smiled with an odd, dripping darkness; I am ripped down my inner thigh the pooling coming faster, I put my hand inside myself and I become… Continue reading poem: even the angels are damned

poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason

girls in books do not have interior lives; they are emotion, they are not Thought. And here I am, sitting alone in the dark terrified to go out terrified to stay in— if I pulled myself apart you would find text, an introversion good enough for Tolstoy, but not good enough for—who else? Who else—is… Continue reading poem: i have no reasons, i have no reason

poem: girls alone go mad

keep him as an unknown, do not soil him: he is nothing yet, he is just shy; the infinity of possibility in glass lights, in small smiles. do not drain him out, or make him (yet another) overly-constructed fiction living in the city of the dead, whores cheering for rat fights and love sold like… Continue reading poem: girls alone go mad

poem: I do not want to mistake another boy’s kindness for love

Welcome To The Bottom of the Erotic. The Mood Swings Pure Chemical Hormone. I lose skin and I am watching the curtains make double-colors: the red too fresh, too fake the black like insomnia, the artist's friend, climbing in for psychotic kicks. I make my reflection in crescent nails I find that (once again) I… Continue reading poem: I do not want to mistake another boy’s kindness for love

poem: we are writing, we are killing

I wrote an artist but did not give her art, she was lonely waiting by windows for bluer skies but dying in her head, re-castling to save me: the other girl, the one writing her. we were in hell together, the mafia maniac pixie dream boy blowing her kisses from the burning room, the emo… Continue reading poem: we are writing, we are killing

poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)

I want to have God even in the dark places so that I am not writing revels or anthems but writing glass, writing kitchen-windows so ninety people can see inside myself, inside the chaotic parts where my mind is already on fire, already dancing like tomorrow is myth. So that when I say "I am… Continue reading poem: the last pavilion (for me, for you)

poem: my father is a sociopath

number the stars, the sluts, the saints: we are all here, in a hell we can't escape. and my father said I was just like him. my mother said if I painted my nails black I would become a heroin addict, a fucking drama queen. can you hear the lights in the city flickering? they… Continue reading poem: my father is a sociopath

poem: the humanists are narcissists

it is hard to consider the human condition without considering ourselves overmuch; she has constellations tattoed on her neck but she is finite, a small person never living. we pretend man has galaxies inside his eyelids, that he is endless, but even the poets are stained, their pretended infinity only an echo chamber for the… Continue reading poem: the humanists are narcissists

poem: “inside the outsider (on my own again)”

my ambitions are small things, held and taken like pills. I am unstable, crashing like clockwork; I tell people it is for the art, but I spend Monday nights alone: the cats throwing their faces at the well and laughinglaughing at the way the skulls smear. I have plans I had plans There are cities… Continue reading poem: “inside the outsider (on my own again)”

poem: love or lust? saint or whore?

the moths on the backs of my hands will not answer me; they sit mute and flutter at the traffic. once again, I've made the wrong decision: whose idea was it, to come here and wait for him, to run a waterfull over the chairs and tables to let him see the desperation, the dark-blood… Continue reading poem: love or lust? saint or whore?