RPG

I’ll be your dream: punk rock sans the edges and teeth. I’ll be your
heroine- HP and MP sufficient
for the night and all its games. 
Librarian, artist, girl
next door. I’ll let you pin me down, 
call me names you’ll never speak 
to her face. I’ll hold you
where it hurts, I’ll let you run 
your hands over the small of my back- 
I’ll let you pull my hair as you spill
your desire into the sheets. I’ll be your love
eternal, sweet peach, baby
girl, darling, slut, valkyrie
in golden armor. I’ll be the Beatrice
to your Dante – love doomed 
to circle through hell
from the start. I’ll gladly swallow
this honeyed secret down
to the last drop. I’ll be everything
you wanted but never dreamed 
to ask for. Baby, I’ll be perfect: 
I’ll be the moon and stars 
to your sun: watch 
how the universe aligns 
for this 16-bit downfall
we’ve both been aching for. 
Select Start:
Pull me in closer.

Instructions

Tell them about the scars – lacerated, gashing, punctured
little wounds that add up into some survival
story. Add details as necessary: the injury resulting
from pen, knife, sword – the dragon
need not breathe fire. The knight – perished
or parted ways some years back? The coffin
need not be made of glass, the girl sleeping
need not wake up. The men need not be three feet small.
Yes, you are allowed apples in this room.
Tell them about the pumpkin, warmed
by medicated porridge, the clock that struck
its alarm far too early. Map the scene: take ten paces past the dollhouse
castle, tread through the goldmine beneath the hospital wards, take a left and hang
right. Pay homage to those without names and faces, dwelling
beneath the sidewalks. Heed not the hipster fairies- tonight’s dance involves
no coal. Ignore the golems and their silver bells, their electric guitars’ enchantment
only works on the weak-willed. The wolf
in the red hoodie will give you a name
for a name. Make no mention
of his smoke-stained teeth, those prosthetic claws.
Respect the old rules.
The crone with a mud-caked face will barter you
the truth for a single lie
guaranteed to save your life. Tell her what you saw
the night of the 17th: the witch’s limbs brewing
oxycodone with some crystals and spice, her eyes rolled upwards,
elsewhere while her body seizes, divining, and how you stood, unflinching,
eagerly awaiting a future among other futures, one where the scars didn’t stem
from your own discontented hands, a world where you would’ve lived
happily. Keep some secrets
from yourself.

wordpress made the linecuts wonky & it’s not super wow! but it’s the first thing I’ve written in 4 months & I’m at least happy for that.

Contentment

It surprises me how we fell into each other’s lives
in the patient span of seven years. We began with resisting
the pull of loneliness. We prayed
to the gods and let our bodies be eased
across easier bodies: all those people who demanded so little
for slivers of affection. Whose name do you find yourself calling
amidst those seasons of entropy? Remember the taste of all our secrets
done right? I fervently believed my heart
a caged animal – its hooves pounding songs
of longing: the sweet lack
of self-control. How you stood
unflinching when I confessed my eyes were blind
to the color of kindness, saturated with sighing wavelengths
in a universe eager to keep its distance. How you held me
as I shook, frightened of all things good. Your hands steady
as my bones rearranged themselves to accommodate this enormity
called love. Our shadows titans resting
against the white wall of your room.
I reach out to touch your face and my limbs grow wings
wide enough to map all the landscapes of happiness
we planted in our sleep. All those golden seeds blooming into beauty,
certain to rip our bodies apart.

It’s been awhile since I updated this thing.
Poem above is going to come out in a publication with some of my newer works sometime soon.

Also, you probably know whom this piece is about. Heh.

Despair 101

Seek out the light
leaving your lover’s eyes. Seek the song
strummed from the remaining
fingers of a god, cursed and withering
in its quiet temple. Seek the solace
offered by a kingdom
of stone. Seek out a cure
for the many antidotes of loneliness. Seek out the perfect
bottle more potent than all the whirlwinds stirring
your chest with regret. Seek an ocean
that will deny you all your desires
of drowning. Seek out the absence
of memory: landscapes exempt from time, wine
sweeter than that fatal lie. Seek out your name
in the alphabet of forgotten faces.

Misanthrope

Spot a stain: a trap,
oh those parts torn open
at the nape. Impart ire: aim
the sin at home. Spit
the ear. Hear harm, stare
then stir – his ripe heart
a nest of heat atop a train. Spite
the saint risen in resin. Spin then pine,
parse poems, host those horns
sent on a spine. Set hope
to emit another time:
Oh, Era of Haste:
snare this star, this prism- pith
its sore, sore arms so spent-


It’s impossible to be completely honest, completely happy; therefore slink and sink back into the warm familiarity of being without

Innocence died screaming ♪

Because I was reading Eliot again.
In a minute there is time    
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.  

From The Comprehensive List of Lines Left Out:

 

I am from the refusals and misdirected musings of past loves. Burnt letters, poems too long, one photograph too many, notebooks filled with theorems and equations that flew further than their predicted trajectories.
/

in exchange for both my eyes. The continents went dancing
while we were out. Submarines were invented
/

We constructed ways to ease everything in – the world of the body built on knowable signs: blood smears lit with starry skies under the microscope, currant jelly stools, apple core lesions; bird’s beaks, footballs, ground glass lodged in your lungs, steeples reaching to the sky of your throat, stepladders rising from bowels – all answers hailed by the advent of radiation: a world bathed in black, white, and gray. The body’s topography mapped in entire by density and ingested dyes.
/

They said: Write. Make dying
beautiful. Someone else said: Stop.
As a reflex I let my fingers search the cold wrist
for a pulse, but felt only the pounding
of my own, feeble heart.

Revising some pieces. Here are some things I cut out, from various bits of text.