wild mountain man,
we went through the
Woodlands today. we
went through fields.
i kicked the white
dandelions, popping
their tops off.
timid tender thing
so rugged and soft
all at once and i
melted into you when
you said i was so
beautiful because i
believed you.
and you ravaged my
body again.
i
am
fucking
primal!
howling and prowling
knuckles dragging
fucking to fuck
fighting to fight
i feel a pull
from the moon
i want to bleed
and hunt and be
the animal i am
we're supposed to need this by ambulances, literature
Literature
we're supposed to need this
and i write
simply
for the cacophony
of six-syllable words
clacking against each other
for luscious alliteration
coating my mouth
like agave on a late-summer eve
and sharp consonants
and delicate suffixes
sounding smart
cloaked in fire,
burnt toast on the tongue
and i write at night
because then the murmurs of my subconscious
are unmuffled by the
should-haves, shouldn'ts-
and other standards
and at night
the razors attached to my truths fade
into vague discomfort
unhaunted by dirty words and clichés
and formatting and rhymes
and what else they say we need
we're-supposed-to-need
-this
but i like parentheses
be
you were a star in my mind;
something i created for myself
to be a stagnant reminder of how i will be alone
and yet, how i will always have you.
but then the skies turned everest and the pavement led me to ohio
and you were gonegonegone
and i was
all
by
myself
and what a shame it is that all of this is not a memory
but, simply, a dream:
that i will always love you with a candycoated heart
and you will love me back even though your heart stopped
on a cloudy day five years ago.
brilliant eyes
the blue of your home
the ocean where it lay
but they are not the
eyes of your sister or
your brother. they
are your very own and
i am still lost in them
i will find myself soon
lest i drown
(maybe cling to the island
birth mark between your hips)
i am not as i seem;
sea-witches linger
deep within the oceans
of my eyes,
the pink line of my mouth
smooth with siren song.
mermaid waves creep
like rose-tangle down
my spine,
thorns jutting from the curls;
broken bends of gold.
lie; i was born this,
angel-skin glowing
in the twilight,
hellsong rattling from
the marrow of my bones.
beauty is vague;
the rope of my lashes is
so, and yet the whisper of
my soul is sharp and hollow:
my skin is breathing,
a melody light as fairies,
falling over torn wings.