Posts tagged poetry
Posts tagged poetry
lonely black horse with weightless saddle
and backwards boots, she walks solemn the course
led by the tall shadow
who hangs his head low.
Your feet should be in the stirrups.
"I don’t care where you’ve been,
How many miles, I still love you.” —“Sloppy Seconds,” Watsky
Will you still love me in the valley of ashes,
after the twenties have silenced their roar?
Saints and sinners, of whom I am the worst,
are you afraid of blood?
If I speak in the tongues of men and demons
if my doubt can crumble mountains, if
I surrender my body to flame after flame
be patient with me,
I can cut myself open, lay naked and bleeding,
on your kitchen table.
Will you walk away?
Here and here and here are the scars;
this one is still healing,
I’ve sewn it myself.
Can you dress to match me?
Because I’ll page through your broken images,
I’ll mop up your guts
when you spill on the floor.
And there is not a single place that I would rather be,
I’m fucked up just like you are,
and you’re fucked up just like me.
If you can love a hand grenade,
I will love a hurricane.
I dreamt that my heart
held ants and black blood
and I was not sorry
when I cut it out.
The parasite had fed upon me,
feasting upon emotion,
growing fat on passions. But now
of the red meat of love
I fed it only darkness.
I stuffed it with sadness. It grew fatter still,
but this was not
the plumpness of depth, the cheery rolls of sensitivity,
no, this was the morbid obesity
I carved the creature out of me,
away from the tortuous feast.
I left it unfeeling,
festering and ugly,
still beating in the bathroom sink.
As an acquaintance it is perfectly fine
for me to count the freckles on your neck
when you lift up your head
to watch me walk in.
It’s normal, I assure myself
to notice the color of your eyes
when I catch you staring
and the straightness of your teeth
when you grin in response.
There’s nothing wrong with tracing
the veins in your arms,
rippling under your skin
when you take my hand.
Believe me, I always laugh like this
around the other boys as well.
You are doing nothing special
when you make me smile.
Which is why I can ignore
your hip bones pressing into my side
when you sit next to me,
Why I can overlook the slant of your shoulders,
Why I refuse to read into the questions you ask
and the stories you tell and
disregard the smell of you.
It’s all so easy, I assure myself.
It’s all so easy, I assure you.
I carry you with me into the stillness,
the rise and fall of every sun.
I fill my guts with noise to drown
your ever-deepening silence.
I carry you with me like the salt on my eyes
dried from yesterday’s tears and the day before.
I hold grudge after grudge
against the world
for refusing to stop
since it lost you.
I could eat well, run often
to ensure my survival—
I chose smoking instead
in hopes to see you again.
You have been compared
to a ship in a bottle and
having sent your soul out to sea, I feel
we cut our hands burying
your broken glass.
For you I learned new languages,
for you I’ve refused to get out of bed.
For you I considered myself a caretaker,
for you I left church
and came back again.
I find solace in the knowledge
of finding you again
further up and further in,
but even in the unlikely case
there’s no wood behind this weary wardrobe,
like the scars on my hands
like the salt on my eyes
like this heart made of lead
I will carry you.
As I write this it is a common tradition
to have sparklers at wedding receptions.
I assume the crackling geyser of light,
spitting gold bits of fire onto their wrists,
give the guests much joy.
They are beautiful.
Or maybe it’s more symbolic than that.
Maybe it’s meant to recreate,
in a tangible image,
Love that begins
like the strike of a match.
The explosive first glance,
the sensuous heat,
the licking flames of passion
that await hungrily.
That’s all right with me too,
but I just wonder if the eventual fade
and the grey smear of ashes left on the skewer
should also be comprised
into the metaphor.
I am aware of my own sin the way
the rowboat observes the hungry cliffs
as it splinters against them
with a crash.
Blessed lighthouse that will never dim,
You will not take the rocks away
so that I may steer off course, and know
The knuckle-bleaching grip on the oar
is caused by my own deciding hands.
But crash as I might I never sink;
instead I am rescued,
again I am rescued.
The water will not
fill my lungs the way it should.
I will never fight you
in the current of conversion,
but if you baptize me, I ask,
Drown me first
in Noah’s flood.
It was good enough to wake Sleeping Beauty
and frame the ending to fairy tales,
a common symbol for innocence
and the wonders of new love.
I, for one,
For after Sleeping Beauty awoke
Prince Charming and she had a kingdom to run,
subjects to attend to,
perhaps wars to wage.
Surely that kiss was not enough
to ward off life
and all its unpleasantries.
And with innocence comes the loss thereof,
with the wonders of love comes the lesson that love
will not always be wonderful.
After the first comes the second third fourth,
the tenth and hundredth and thousandth, and I
am quite sure there’s an afterward
to happily ever after.
The girl with the sad eyes and pale white skin
had crossed her legs just so
the word could be seen
carved into her ankle.
The cuts were thin and many,
a scratch upon a scratch,
red without rawness
and not quite new.
There were two conclusions that I could draw.
The first was that the girl believed
that she was worthy of such a branding,
that her skin was not precious enough to preserve.
and the one for which I prayed,
was that this was an old philosophy
and her scars were beginning to heal.
I’m not lying when I say
that in many grotesque fantasies
I’ve stabbed you with an icicle
and stopped your heart.
I’m never concerned with spilling your blood.
The act is much more like staking a vampire.
You were kind enough never to bite my neck,
but something about the way
your arm slithered around my waist
drained the life out of me.
So in these dreams I gain my strength
and pierce the heart I never heard,
Causing the same jagged
and smarting chills
you sent down my spine
so long ago.
I don’t enjoy hearing your finely tuned laugh
erupting from your throat like
champagne from a bottle.
I can’t express my distaste towards
the ever-deepening curiosity
with which you look at me
I abhor how handsome you looked in that coat,
Standing there, reading my book;
Walking there, your thin hands in your pockets;
Leaning there, against my doorframe, with a grin.
The way your upturned collar grazes your cheekbones
is an abomination.
I despise your smiles, both of them:
The self-satisfied smirk when you know you’ve been clever
And the wide silly grin that dimples your cheeks
when your happiness was an accident.
I detest your vast and abstract intellect,
I could kill you for the compliments you paid,
And most of all I loathe the way
You broke the rusted-over locks
and stepped with confidence into the front room
of my old and empty heart.
Recently it has become common for you
to follow my head as I throw it back
in laughter, like you were calculating
the momentum of a catapult.
I’ve seen the smile sprawl across your lips
while I speak.
Your laugh is more genuine than mine.
I only slightly notice when your eyes flick downward,
never quite reaching the floor,
You watch my hands carefully when I gesture
and my legs when I cross them
and my back as I turn away.
You said that while it wasn’t perfect
you felt confident in your understanding of me.
I laughed at you after you left.
I’m not a butterfly
to soak in formaldehyde
and pin to a card,
nor am I a novel
whose margins and lines must be annotated
marked up and underlined
for theme and comprehension.
Therefore I find your persistent study
as while endearing confusing,
and I have no intention of testing your knowledge.
The yellow balloon had been tied to my car,
among many friends in a similar palette,
wishing me a happy transition
from adolescence into adulthood.
Likewise the golden sunflowers
had been placed in the dirty vase on my desk
with a similar sentiment.
My mother and father invested in
a dress the color of pale daffodils,
material as light as air
and half as translucent;
one that bore however slight a resemblance
to the one worn by the cartoon princess
who tamed the cartoon beast.
Mr. Frost was right when he said that
nothing gold can stay,
and who am I to disagree,
but I do like to believe it lingers
"She acts like summer and walks like rain." —"Drops of Jupiter" by Train
You walk, my darling, in such a way
that you are unavoidable,
so much that when I shut my door to you
I can still hear your small
and manic steps.
Dear love, your actions are sweltering,
over-romanticized and laconic
with no perceived consequence
but the burn of your company.
You conduct yourself like a hurricane,
Encompassing the world around you
with an awful swallow.
A wake of destruction follows you
wherever you go.
Yet how I love
to sit at my window
and watch you.
Some say the world will end in extremity.
You know the type.
There will be a power shortage
or an outbreak of disease
or another world war
In which everyone loses.
Some predict fire, some predict ice,
and a few believe
that the world will be over
in the blink of an eye,
ending as quietly
as falling asleep.
And then there are some people who think
that the world will collapse when their beloved stops breathing.
They firmly believe that with their last heartbeat
comes the detonation of an entire planet.
These people are sentimentalists
And should be avoided in the event of an apocalypse.