History.

I dont know which thing hurts more
The extended hand or the drum sealed door
Wounds burn and sting and bring pain ever more
Tidings that ring singing dark metaphors.
I’m on my own and alone this New Year
The flesh and bone of a crone lives here
Long gone is the thrown of the insincere
I sit alone chilled to bone feeling insecure.
A forgotten vow now drowns out the past
An unbidden sound pounds in wicked contrast
A downtrodden clown bound to eventually laugh
A filth sodden town crumbling down when I pass.
I don’t see how things perceived
Can cast the runes of possibility
At last I do grasp the doom you conceived
The fact that you belong to my history.

Turbulent.

The shifty turbulence,
Cruel and purposeless,
A great big oozing lie,
Can’t look myself in the mirror,
At a lie so insincere,
A plight so insecure,
So unaware,
It’s clear.
Until I throw them up again,
The feathers of a friend,
I’ll be choking on what could’ve,
Would’ve, should’ve been,And my smile still represents,
A path of wild turbulence,
Nothing has a meaning,
The words make little sense,
The world oozes petulance,
A tilt that’s off by mere degrees,
Stirs up the fear, hate and cruelty,
It spins the tattered yarn of humanity,
It kills us when we’re feigning sleep,
And worsens the curse of the seed,
Lengthening the reach of power and greed,
It quickens the wound that perpetually bleeds,
It thickens our ties to the lies and deceit.

 

 

 

 

  

Flounder.

I’ve been circling the moldy, plankton encrusted bottom layers of life; feeding off of the slowly sinking debris that once littered the surface layers: the leftovers of a long-ago feast that I attended up there.

My vision has adapted to the murk; my breathing has adjusted to the oxygen depletion of dangerous depths and harrowing heights; my skin has settled into the wrinkled prune-esqueness of an over-long bubble bath; my hair now growing shafts of seaweed and tangly kelp in place of it’s natural fibers.

I’m a flounder, living with a great white shark who is lazy with a eating disorder; I am stuck in the suction of his hefty submerged wake; I am seemingly happy to gobble up the chunks of shit that fall from the sides of his razor sharp bite as he chews incessantly; I am his shadow down here.

Been.

Been feeling rather

like I’ve been,

tossed out with the trash again,

been hearing laughter

inside my brain,

for getting played like a slot machine,

been taking refuge

in a jackal’s den,

naked, with a so-called gentleman,

been driven into

the wall again,

petal to the metal into the median,

been feeling nothing

but pure obscurity,

a vague and insecure uncertainty,

been here wondering

ponderously,

imprisoned by my own duplicity,

been tapping constantly

on the keys ‘til my fingers bleed,

to dispel the hurt I’ll feel inevitably,

been like, yeah – well, maybe,

I’ve been shafted again,

 sour, that out-dated milk carton,

been eating candy,

vainly, to try and sweeten,

the taste of my faith going quickly rotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anonymous.

“Anxiety is the hand maiden of creativity.”

~ T. S. Eliot

I believe
that so it goes:
the gift of humanity
is bestowed,
to souls with empathy,
and only those,
a carrot hanging,
a step ahead of me,
ever-dangling,
before my nose;
and not just mine,
but anyone,
from the assembly line,
from which I come,
we’re made to ache,
to hurt – to burn,
from day one,
to ride the wake,
to bend and break in turn,
until our last words,
to be heard,
have finally come;
the world is cruel,
unless you’re blind,
it’s a flea-ridden fool,
that succeeds the unkind,
it constantly bleeds,
sucks up my energy,
drains the tide pools,
swallows the sunshine;
for those like us,
nothing is anonymous,
nothing can ever be fine,
no peace,
as we sleep,
only the fire,
from the front-line.

Deal Re-Breaker.

There’s this threshold inside of my brain that others either cross in a grain cut painfully against me, or never cross at all. It is a horrid barrier that I’m sure I have created myself; but it is a sound and solid barrier, all the same – an impenetrable construct by my own mind, immovable in my own mind. This is a threshold that grants closeness and kinship or falseness and nothingness between me and other people who come into my Life.

 

It’s hard to explain, but I’ve been trying my best when it gets brought up by (a) certain (male) people (person) whom I struggle to maintain “healthy relations” with:

 

  1. the way that my ability to even experience anything good or positive with an individual diminishes completely once I feel the slightest bit of vulnerability to him, because I am fucked up and my brain doesn’t work normally.
  2. the way that after I experience any vulnerability on a conscious level on his behalf, I seem to automatically try to sabotage everything.
  3. the way that if sabotage fails, I will resort to some innate mechanism of my emotions to execute the process of shutting down to him.
  4. the way that I spend the entire time this hideous process plays out in hating myself and constantly having to re-focus myself on what’s right, as opposed to what feels right.

 

 

 

Can’t.

Can’t shake off the burning sting,

can’t scrub away the tub’s dirt ring,

can’t free up the congestive cling,

can’t give up or lay down for the terrible things;

can’t understand my lifespan of such cruelties,

can’t comprehend the game plan that’s ahead of me,

can’t find my way down from ledges: all crumbling,

can’t get my fingers to knock off the fumbling;

can’t see the end of the month of December,

can’t snap myself out of this fugue to remember,

can’t shake off the searing feeling,

can’t break through to do a Gods damned thing.

Not Me.

Revisiting…

a familiar thing,

that trails behind me like a string;

that same ol’ gnawing,

sense of drowning,

suffocating…

pressure building,

beneath a surface’s sheen;

steadily weighing,

heavily displaying,

alienating…

a full timepiece,

that’s already bending my knees;

feelings release,

freedoms decrease,

second guessing…

constantly testing,

the tolerance of my abilities;

uncertainty,

insecurity,

there’s no controlling me.

 

20-Hour Lifespan.

Can I fill your palm with trinkets taken away,

from the struggles I’ve come through to get here today?

Can I trail along behind every step that you take?

Can I open my chest and show you the mess that you’ve made?

Try to drive home to you all the notions abound,

like feathery thoughts gently showering down,

can I stay beside you now?

Sinking Me.

Have you ever felt its slice? …
Never seen the flash of light? …
Weren’t you there –?
a winding road up –
to absolutely nowhere…
indulge me with your disguise;
who is to say
stupid or wise? –
I’d made up my weary mind,
treading circles in square boxes
has been suiting you just fine;
I got up off my knees,
walked away
no goodbye –
I haven’t the energy, or time;
My darling, it’s gotten old,
tired and spent
like a tooth filled with gold;
soft enough to give with force,
and allow its form to shape new mold,
but too hardened at the edges,
scarred deeply
by tragedy –
carved in her skin in big bold;
the slice that you refuse to see,
the load you aren’t willing to pull
in turn with me,
You’re sinking me.

The Midway.

I don’t pretend to know,

which dagger of mine to throw,

you know, I’ve built up an arsenal,

the ubiquitous, carnivorous carnival;

 

the sound of a broke-down calliope,

worn through that last shred of sanity,

drawn to the worst magnetically,

out of the huge crowd of humanity;

 

but before you sink your fangs into,

such a back-stabber’s dream-come-true,

help me decide which blade best suits you,

to wear forever as defensive scar wounds.

Been.

Been feeling rather

like I’ve been,

tossed out with the trash again,

been hearing laughter

inside my brain,

for getting played like a slot machine,

been taking refuge

in a jackal’s den,

naked, with a so-called gentleman,

been driven into

the wall again,

petal to the metal into the median,

been feeling nothing

but pure obscurity,

a vague and insecure uncertainty,

been here wondering

ponderously,

imprisoned by my own duplicity,

been tapping constantly

on the keys ‘til my fingers bleed,

to dispel the hurt I’ll feel inevitably,

been like, yeah – well, maybe,

I’ve been shafted again,

 sour, that out-dated milk carton,

been eating candy,

vainly, to try and sweeten,

the taste of my faith going quickly rotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blow.

I know which way,

wind tends to blow…

From day to day,

It changes, I know…

clever word play,

I’m taking notes…

I’m on the belay,

but missing the rope…

I see the mask,

beneath the mists…

A deep overcast,

A darkened glimpse…

of shadows amassed,

between our kiss…

questions unasked,

blissful in my ignorance…

my faith has already burned,

I don’t say any desperate prayers…

Certain things can’t be unlearned,

certain feelings can’t be spared…

have the tides already turned?

and you’ve left me sitting here?

I know, typically,

how the story goes…

it ends quite abruptly,

a chop to the throat…

heartrendingly,

and POOF! I’m a ghost…

just a shiny memory,

missing most of my nose.

 

 

 

 

 

Inward.

You don’t need
to know the science of
how a supernova glows,
in order to see,
so vividly
with clarity
these scars;
I sport them
proud, like how,
you probably sport
your caviar,
your mini bar,
Cuban cigars –
Dom Pérignon,
yawn…
this bores me;
shall I go on?
act like you don’t
secretly adore me,
forcefully,
bitterly,
lips sewn closed,
you’re confusing me…
how should I
have somehow known?
It’s not like
it’s rocket science,
my compliance,
I’m submissive
dismissive,
ever renewed,
do I ring true?
You bet I do…
Again,
Big Man
spin my head
around the room,
you’re mad because
my spirit doesn’t
comprehend the likes of you…
But you know the feeling…
good and well, too…
don’t you, Blue?
Mr. Passive Aggressive
in designer
spit-shined shoes…
never did I question
what the fuck
I see in you…
your horns curl inwards,
just the same as mine both do –
combustible
ignitable
you’ll see no surprise
in my open eyes,
I’m already onto you;
too ornery
too lonely
to look me in the eye,
even on the days
when they happen
to stay dry…
no time,
you’re driving,
or flying,
or speed-writing…
no time to talk to,
the Ace up your sleeve,
make my heart
childishly and stupidly
waste time in belief,
of anything
more than what,
we were, already,
turn inward again,
backward
wayward
can’t open your eyes
unable to stir,
the ash back to fire,
this place is absurd,
chasing the promises,
made inward.

Pleased for a King.

Stand tall and silent in the face of me;
against the trickery of the Milky Way…
in compliance with the God of Defiance;
forget ever seeing me broken this way…

This prayer is born of necessity;
these pitiful tears turn out to be mine…
I again, come back to feel your whip crack;
I’ve been lost: following the eyes of blind…

Please grant to me: your moments asleep;
I’d be pleased if a King was to still dream of me…
don’t cast me too far beyond your sovereign reach;
please circle back for me, before you finally leave…

Without your presence of balance, I’ve lost my way;
I need your conversation and I want feel your kiss…
time to act, no holding back another single day;
what’s most important here is that we can still do this…

Palms up to push at the bottom of your heart;
but you cursed and swatted me away…
I bet you will look for me here eventually;
after I died waiting to see that “someday”.