poem: they told her—Love is violent

and she did not believe it. because the Unrequited is soft, it is gazing out glazed-over windows and waiting for fictions in the mist and the raining grey. but when the boy—is horribly real, the Emotion comes wild, exploding imploding burning loose—the system torn up, the inheritance bolshevik-ed with three smiles. she makes the Raw,… Continue reading poem: they told her—Love is violent

poem: young love is a horror flick

I will make you my let-down song; so that when you are stuck in my head— I am sitting on the edge of swimming pools my feet in the water, the water going red. it's not blood—don't worry, this is not another sadistic, sardonic poem. it is only pink nail polish, melting in the water,… Continue reading poem: young love is a horror flick

poem: night terrors for dead girls

she is split open once too often; they dip into her for communion bread, for vampire wine-tastings. she is fresco, oil on canvas, chalk, watercolor: there is something addicting about virgins, about the girls with universe side-splits and the cosmos falling out of their brains onto the dirty dirty ground. you are the monsters, catching… Continue reading poem: night terrors for dead girls

poem: summer fruit in the city

so is this what it takes? we are not meant to speak of the inner life, the girls falling like apples; it should all be chaste: small stories of people kissing in stations and camps, her glory fluttering under your hands, her becoming all raw and red. you thought you were a god because she… Continue reading poem: summer fruit in the city

poem: James Dean and the Savages

now that he is gone the dreams and the sex and the writing are all pathetic. she was going to change the world with poetry; she had such plans.   but he left the room in a red jacket; she is listening to Marina and The Diamonds.   In the end, she is the one… Continue reading poem: James Dean and the Savages

poem: “guess what? i’m not a robot”

what we have is not social justice, it is not even justice. i am sitting alone on the ground, there is blood around my legs and you are gate-keeping, putting your hands between my brain and my spine and pulling out the pins, tacking me up like a dead flower, a dead girl, ice cream… Continue reading poem: “guess what? i’m not a robot”

poem: the downsides of unrequited

i try to read but stare out the window. everything is raw and warm: the sky is touching lips with the snow. i try to read; i ignore the wet slowly spinning between my legs, i shift in the chair and wait for the boy   i do not think about thick, ripe peaches falling… Continue reading poem: the downsides of unrequited

poem: small chronicle of living in my head

silent, silent girls play at depression, play at deep aching wounds: as we really saw battles, as if our mothers died and our fathers went mad; as if we were raped on cement floors outside cities, men standing at the door and sharing cigarettes.   but, really, these girls are too fantastic and too normal:… Continue reading poem: small chronicle of living in my head

poem: the other black parade

the pretty people are still alive: the girls in white blouses, the boys being kissed from train-windows.   I was alive in aftershock: I had sex with ghosts and wrote love letters to the gods, to the dust motes in my hair. I was waiting for a boy with too pale skin and black eyes… Continue reading poem: the other black parade

poem: the human glory of political economics

there are times when I am fascinated by politics and the rollicking play of the market is a sort of sweet drug, made into a gladiator fight between the two colored corners of this universe, rushing always into bright contact and history falling away in the process as little glass pieces for children to pick… Continue reading poem: the human glory of political economics