Still-life.The best of my paintings:the hum ofa sad piano,a morning cigarette,and a graveside angel;all I ever wanted.
Frigid.Without you I'm a winter heart:a cold sunset anda cloudy sunrise,a night on my shoulderlike a ten minute dreamamidst the silent snow --nothing lasts forevermore.Ice on fire,a melting dream,three ways tobreak apart;will you feel anything at allwhen the rain stops andwhen the heart freezes?
Flight lessons.These skies are breaking, butI can teach you to fly --here in this moment,an instant of us onthe far-flung horizon.
Whispers of another lifeYour dress is a ball gown,an upside-down rose petal;those inverted flowersmake half of my garden:I'll make you a bouquetof dark red, and lavender;a dress for warm evenings,our hot nights.Eyes like watered wine,refined, and intoxicating;decanted, measured,inviting and poisonous:You've corrupted me, dear,but slowly, carefully;hazel depths, inviting,deep amber alcohol.A thousand grains of sand,gritty and gravelly, imperfect;nothing feels farther fromyour skin touching mine:Velvet and silk and corduroy,these things of delicacy;every inch of you, satin smooth,elegant suede and swan feathers.Lazy days, shaded porches,iced tea and lemonade;respite that comes from your lips,conversations and intimations:Down below your surface,your flowers, toxins, and chiffon;whispers of another life,lived apart from me.
what we need mosti.blue skies overhead, andthe seagulls come infrom the bay, looking for somebetter nourishmentthan can be foundat sea.ii.i came in from the field,seeking shelter andsolacefrom the burning sun.you greeted me in the doorway,brown eyes and brown hair.iii.we're the same,those gulls and i,thermals lifting us up,hot wind,our concentric livesbringing us back towhat we need most.
I love you.I am not myself these days;I find myself, more and more, in the fog of window panes and the cold, misty morning air.I am not myself these days;I lose myself, more and more, in the way light catches off certain clouds of sunset: prisms.What is different? I love walks in the park,clichéd as that may be, and I enjoy the taste of the rain.What else is different? I am not willing, try as I might,to accept or acknowledge that the sins of my ancestors reflect in me.Of course, this is all since I met you. I wish, sometimes, to feel less like a piano,and more like a harpsichord thatonly you know how to tune. I dream, sometimes, of what lies beneath,and of why I can’t findthe reason for why I love you.
Time to change.Where did you sleep last night?With old trees and little lakes,because somedays,the best we can do is pretendit's a small world.Entering meditation,the verb: to dreamabout happinessand sleeping with butterflies.
Tanganyika1.Your naïve welcomeand medical maroon;temperature tolerance.2.Speckled religion,rituals of life and death;viscous blood taboo.3.A band of crimson,ancient June in the desert;the opulent ivory.4.Patient and scarlet,sacredly perpetual,masks of ladybugs.5.Flitting acceptance,powerful saffron and myrrh,a tribal countenance.
Rest, NowI.The mist of the mountainsLike the breath of a giantSoft, as if sleepingCool this time of yearSettles in around meDamp and greyThe air is murkyI begin to feel alone.II.Darkness comes quicklyThe sun is saying goodnightOver the tops of the peaksAnd leaving in a hurryHe is my friend, the sunStretching his arms out to warm meBut betraying me at lastLeaving me to the murky gloom.III.It is midnight when I hear itQuiet, at firstAlmost like a secretThen louder, forgetting stillnessBeautiful, like a hundred harpsAnd wretched, like a dying thingThe sweet melody shatters my soulAnd I know it is for me.IV.Walking outsideThe stars lighting my wayI see her thereBlack hair, blacker than the nightPale dress, paler than the moonBlood stains on her handsHer task, I see, is washingCleansing my garments of life.V.Her reflectionTranslucent, in the waterTransparentLike the ghost of an angelHer voice sings ofWords never spokenLove never sharedWays never partedVI.
TeeterWhen I wake,I amamong the stars, poised on the brink between dreams and reality.It’s so easyto see through the broken bonds between waking life... and the power of Imagination, that same other world so close... too close.Separate realitiesin a sea of dreams.
Prelude.I am not a sparrow(although I'd like to be)I am not small enough to fit in palmstired and tornfrom climbing the walls guarding hope;I do not carry spring on the tips of my tailfeathers,flowers blooming in my wakeand the smiles of a cold worldresting on my song;I cannot be caught, caged, wings clipped andkept, behind cold, cast-iron barsof sense and simplicity,my words meant to be given upon commandand loved only for repetition and wretchedness;I was not meant to sing of the clear blue skies,I was meant to rule the grey.I am an albatross.
00:37 - 00:56Streetlights, the candle flameof urban druids,twinkle like amberfireflies.Their light rises upto the mingling paintof lilac clouds,sun-bleached indigoand blackcurrant pitch.The flapping ofEarth's gownin the cannon fireof stormy wind,the air shells rustleblood-maroon silhouettesof trees.No alchopop-bluehuman glowpounds the airat this hour,only silence reigns.Rain, the bloodstainsOf clouds,patters my glass panelto a secret worldseldom seenby theday-drunk eye.Even the light pollutionpaints a vivid dancein the pre-dawnpalette,a spotlight of dust-orangehovering below the darkness,negotiating with theformidable opponentof the atmosphere.Scrunching the storm,the wind screamsand dances with thunderto wage war againsta still earth.Streetlights, the candle flameof urban druids,twinkle like amber firefliesin the night.
You Left Me Nine Weeks DueDear Heart,You linger on the Mediterraneanlike only the stars are watching,with three Hail Marys left,a waiting girl,and those he left behind.To be thankful is unforgiving.My mouth is a grave yardwith tips on avoiding word confusionbetween poetry and addiction.You (the messenger)linger on the Mediterranean:gone.
You Linger on the MediterraneanDesperate to leave this home,my August lover,it is not enough to writeour latest love letters.You’re killing yourself,my August lover,for seashine;and the queen is callingdown by the riverside.This poem is not about you,my August lover,(not anymore).Forget tsunamis and Pompeii --I don’t need to breatheor Atlantis as a lover;and the wind will blowme and my monstersby bridges to Babylon --city of ghosts.(And no, I won’t be sorry.)
and as we wake, we drown .:title poem:.maybe god was molested:a smart kidparting the seas...entering the dark,strange island.my anne shirley,i haven't found you yet.downtown--in the air, the scent of violence.we perish in the mistan
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of brokenon sadness, she wrote: blind fool in the umbra bury yourself in me on the other side of lonely and by god, i love you (maybe i will be a landfill) everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;out of the woods, on wet roadsunder wind, under rain -i'm so far awayno wonder it took him 1455 pageswaiting for her to come this waytramps like us- in lieu of emptiness in absence of a poem wander, wander (pour a little salt, we were never here)your heart was a broken sailorfishing for hearts with lace and not netting;into the deep end of our storyi saw god leaving the shore
symphonic miseryyou lied the night you kissed me,a vision of blood and deconstruction;feelings with no names.we were a february tale in a twisted corset.i can't breathe in your presencebecause our still-life fairytaleis your prisoner of war.the oracle card in my pocketgave me a revelation: "love makes us blind;" (or so it seems)now, our seasons of knowledgeare just temporary bad memories,but there is no more music in me.
There Were Only StarsWrapped in piano strings,The stars whisper:Forgetting is everything.The days remain the same:Boxes of dead poetryWait for youIn the space betweenApproaches and departures.You fold paper for a living,Ghost writing forAn empty audience:Nothing is enough.
That which we often fearIt’s no wonder I thought you were magic;there are monsters in your head the colour of death,apologetic blood and rattling bonesseeking the company of souls(do you taste like cyanide too?)
i'm falling away with youI am the wayward child.Tacking on wings months too late; our legs didn't break -Fate gave me a flower; snowflakes and graniteby any other name.Oh, gravity,I am home.Your eyes of forests, branching away.Defeathered, dust settling;if you don't see it, you can never walk away.Batt
Just a dreamOn these steps I will climbbright eyedgoing to hell.Fire in the skyIn my eyesYour heart hides a secret –withyour- footfalls in the dark.Healed in the faithI miss you…
ghost eyes and disparagementbear witness to the tragedies i cause:dancing on the fire escape,confessions, paranoia &eighty cents (metaphorically speaking).i am trying to be honest,scraping the horizonon morning's birth.it's not enough.
We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,the trembling of her lips matches yours.(Poet, breathe now.)I should write this down,the last piece I ever write about you.You’ve been gone findingconstellations, ambitions, and things in between,and this is me being brave,dancing on the fire escape.(I wore you like a bruise.)
don't throw glass bottles at brick wallsto the boy with ghost hands,red marks the spotin the bathroom sinkwhere the light is swallowed.some secrets you just keep.
hanging from the rafters in the skyclocks in a motel room;the years go by like one daywith these old photos in my hands.how do cities understand?that by skating on the edge of the worldwe carve north stars in Styrofoamon the edge of reality.we are all waiting to be foundwhen stars die. (i used to have a name)now i'm dreaming of the simple things,and i'm ready to fight my way.somebody told me: "i have loved the stars too fondly."between gray and goldthere are flaking photographs and shattered memories;the heartlines of drunken sinners chasing stars.cold hearted, you bound our spines. breathe. (and breathe out)it is not enough to know the colors of my soul,like a painting hung all wrong, orand unwanted diary.dreams catch in the lungs. let go, little bird. (but don't forget me)without you, my fickle muse,the city daydreams, desperate to connect withthe world near your feet.(lost wishes can be found in saltw
My Love is Like Some Read, Read Prose7am on a roof in Seoul:7 random things about me.Charlie the perspicaciouslistsmisunderstandings.A moving city;unreal windows.Wide-real-autumnbringing the colours.Occupied mind,grieve until you can breathe again:let your lungs fill up.Falling in your love -hidden, but still shining.Light is now advancing.Time to say goodbyehow summer says goodbye.Beauty deserves the right word.
At the WeddingThe photographer:His different point of viewA forgotten afterthought.
Sanctity.A pilgrim atthe half remembered ruins,sunset wiringstarspun andburning low --alive, somehow,at the night's watch.