Category: Poetry

Words, the blood of poets. Slick, wet, hot, pouring over the page in a curtain of sultry satin red.

unfinished

unfinish yourself
    unsmooth the edges
       allow things to become
                   
            untidy

be unsteady

      and
          un
             balanced

but do not think
    you will leave  
        
          untouched

what tears taste like

swallowing
   fractured, mirror-shaped
         teardrops

 
 
  i saw you,
    in black and red,
       thought to call out
       through the tide of crimson
              and choked on your name
                               instead
 
 
      now,
        when I taste blood,     
        I always think of you.

now

Who says you can't condense wisdom into a few pithy words? Here are my Rumi-inspired snippets of poetry. Let them amuse. Let them enlighten. Let them make you laugh.

— 

 

savor this moment
and each following
to know joy
 
 
 
watch leaves turn
to learn
you are changing
every second
of every day.
 
 
 
nurture your desires
and they will
blossom
in unexpected
ways
 
 
 
 

rain-drenched and disheveled

For Magdelana.

— 

rain-drenched and disheveled
i will be guided by your grace
place my feet in the mist-kissed pattern of your own

and dance

swifter than disillusionment,
no time for shame
or self-rot,
or self-not,
i devolved into the sound
of rain
and i sang to you
of rivers and oceans
salt-touched mornings    
and dark blue nights    

until I lay against your breasts
wet beads of perspiration,        
the scars of your dance,
one and the same. 

faith of the masses

Looking back at this poem, now, I see it as more cynical than I really I am.  

—

Christ paid twice for daily pain,
      delving deeper in thorns than questions might imply.
my hands were brown with martyr’s blood.
      soon wrapped in the leather-skin of long-dead animals

I watched faith’s bloody kisses sweep the masses
      like butterflies landing on their cheeks,
eating their teeth from the hollow spaces inside their heads.

Not faint their callous touch,
      it lurched through the humbled spaces
and perched on withered limbs.

A select few were gathered and allotted time in their master’s arms.

between her thighs

tickle
words 

drink dreams from between her thighs
let her moisture press patterns in the symptoms
of your illness finding cure
somewhere between her lips and tongue.
until you can ride her laughter without remorse

corners turn evolutions around curves, paying homage to the
painted shadow plays layered like tattoos draped across her skin
and left in memory of dreamt landscapes that melted under
the heat of her lemon-dropped shop of salt beaches
I crawled into yesterday and found too delicious to leave.

crinkles pretend smoothness underneath
which is why I prefer hard liquor to gold
lacquered skin passed in dreamt serenity
finding once more the eloquence of skin made alive with a whisper
or wept in rivers down eager slopes.

and you thought I was sweet.

translation

My best writing, I believe, is born in desperation. It is a unique feeling, an intersection of desire and fear, and it compels me. A geas most often born of lust, it is not always sourced in such a manner.

Sometimes it is found in something altogether more humbling. 

For NE. 

—

I, too, put my hand to glass
thinking the process
simple
poured molten sand
(with flecks
of
gold)
into a mold made
by my clasped
hands

born
I mistook their scars
for faultlines
felt compelled
to test their fragility
with my own
to ensure their strength
under
my scrutiny
until
all
(save one)
were shattered

she was the smallest
but her wings were large
enough
to hide
her eyes
(where all
of the gold
had found
a home)

Pilgrimage


touch like slivered
         words
mine are the scars
         to trace
                                    winding their own merry way

and here is the end where even my god
              fears to set his foot.

so?
        are
              you
                    ready
                             to
                                 be
                                     taken
                                             by
                                                  my
                                                      little
                                                            hunger?
   
Forever tastes like this.

silver buttons on quiet shores
lies like shimmering lucidity upon which is balanced some small winged angel

wings to beat against the fury, like tossing pennies
    into a wishing well made of liquid god.
wings to shelter human skin prone to cracking under the strain of holding us in.
wings to hide behind
wings to sob against

we have no wings.

we are left then with craving, crying, crawling.

—

                     Let them come
                     Let them come
                     And ask

                                   why we must
                                          always have this

      driving anger
             fucking about
                   till every inch of the hard-biting cry
                                                                      Ends.

             for I know them too well.

    I am
                 too animal to be human
                         too human to be more