Daughter

That pool of piss I saw you leave

In your left behind glass.

That is how you stole my life.

I knew, I knew, I knew, I knew

Only that you would never return.

Grief, like a wave that drives men

into the depths of the tragic sea.

Grief that is my lover.

I cannot own the ocean,

I cannot capture water in my hands.

But the memory-

that-

that is my own to keep.

I guard it like a dog

with thick teeth.

No one can take this love from me by force.

And I know and I know and I know.

And I know that I should stop.

But danger has a special language.

And I have eyes for words.

Together, the past and I,

become one electric union.

And I drown in drink again for you.

And my universe, so vacant, floats at the bottom of attempted suicide pools.

Nails

Like nail varnish to the fingers

You bled out my skin,

The ache lingered.

Fine fire in those Bombay eyes,

And I, the greatest fan of gin,

Alcoholism could never truly recover therein.

Ten years too late, comes the truth

I never held your DNA to the light

To know beyond rhymes of my only verse

That you had doffed mine for hers.

Am I gay?

Have I broken my worth

Behind my mother’s back

And worse?

Have I denied truth from that manhandled first day?

I say, after denied drink, it’s therapeutic, hey?

It was not fair.

Not to rake coals with self-faults.

Not to shut off my soul with your torch.

Because I was just four limbs, a head and a beating chest.

Split wide in fear in the sanctum of your breath.

In another world, in another place, I only wonder

That I would have held the knife

that you pushed through my life.

In that other world, at that other time,

I would have killed your birth.

Until you died still,

Save the years of torment I could have ordered

Only to leave you the boredom of wanting the one who disappeared

That was my decade you cleared.

That was my time endured as you left my corpse wasting.

And I am dead.

And I did die.

I never spoke after that kiss.

I died in your mouth.

I died at the love.

I died with your heart in my hands

 that shake like those who were lost from the start.

The Dark Room

You will feel the dark leaving to be replaced in bright.

Freed of these empty shackles, these secrets I have kept so tightly wound

Would not tell of dusk rooms, not be sold of these stories out.

And you could not carry a dark room with you, if you wished it.

You could not hold all these walls in pockets, beds in shoes.

What I have for my visitors, are not for a passenger made.

I can give you who leave none but some black ink, black eyes, black hands—clubs, spades.

Mascara runs out of eyes out of darkness in trails that tell tales of where I have been
But neglect directions for the way to see.

Those who have felt at home in dark places have left,

Only renters, lodgers

To find day, a world filled in sun.

So, I bathe in my own dripping liquid dark pool that is warm.

Though, reflections from the moon, slipped in beside me, to swim—

Shone a memory I cannot recall—

Something opposite of vacant it seemed,

As if out of photo rooms had once been

One flint gold, he.

This is a dark room.

Connected with floors, walls, rooves—

Pieces of my own stacked deck I put to place with shaky hands,

Yes, where I live as in Stone Age games—

My house of cards—

Taped together to brace the weight of hands I give to hold it
Only ever crush it in.

Destruction paves itself on the common path, it seems.

Love at First Sight

Had in times unbelieving been

of the greatest play, a tragedy.
Shakespeare dreamed it up

to keep his heart warm for hope,

a dying Marriage, his own.
Is what I thought.
I, rationally bound, though woman kind am, did not understand.
Denied, then found.
Yet this thing so versed in Jacobethan rhyme

Could never end itself well.
Star crossed things to dead ends, and all.
No, a thing of realness incarnate could never in the real world live.

Disbelievers and their logical love in the real world have bandaged up, taped up, cut, broke and sealed up stuff.
You people live a manufactured love.
You read on walls of logic things of love lessons.
Go! Make all the calculations.
You mathematicians of reasoned affection will douse extracts of skin into beakers,
Testing of strength of character, mind fortune,
Tilt and review the changing process.
Her: thinness, fatness, hair shine: his salary projections.

Proof is the scientist’s mantle, you see.
He wears it, as a love doctor, around his neck: his tie of truth.
Real love laughs at you all.
Trying to create this the thing in a jar.

See, what you, you scienteering, lust engineering, perfection creation making, short-sighted, jealous afflicted, marketeering scam twitch eyes motherfuckers do not see is
you got the wrong drug.
You were all given the placebo in the double—blind pharmaceutical trial.

You are all eating pills of sugar, as you spin your contraceptive wheels
But hold onto your prayer beads from some mountaineering market;
Buy another love potion
I have found in times of great unbridled impassioned madness,
that you all, and your science, is wrong.
But where rare the real love of irrational make unbelieving is found,
sudden and without reason—there is only ever one.

Losing a person on a large planet that tilts is easy enough to do.
So when you lose one tiny human who was the thing, what does that mean?
Nothing will feel quite as certain to you again.
While it is real and rare, why any of you crazy love obsessives want it so much, I will never understand.

Did you all fall asleep at the end of his play?
Here’s the kicker: they all die.
Yes it’s a tragedy, you know.

Shakespeare did try to warn me about this kind of affliction
But I flunked school during Act V Scene 3,
Missed the punch line,
And that’s why I am here today

The Fairy Tale

Though the soggy bed has seen many different men

night doesn’t come.

Douse the self in scotch again.

Still haven’t held a man’s hand yet.

Me, I’m an old fashioned-

thoughts of waiting on true love for that.

Deny romantics from their tepid tries.

Fuckery is on for sure, but the heart-

thought to not give it out a lot.

Never thought to give that to anyone, in fact.

The one time I tried to speak, I never heard back.

Then I remembered that I’m an atheist-

what would I believe in?

A chipmunk stops the pen to dance on my page.

Thoughts of real, things that last, and happy endings

are for fairy tales and porn.

The right one will always leave

and I’ll get on the gear tonight.

Forever-

my eternity.

Wanting to Live

When the sun goes down-

slips in for the night-

horizons are lost.

Day now sits unkindly behind trousers of the planet

that rotate us through this ride.

I have felt doors left open these nights.

I am quite naked here

for people I cannot read

to bring their bodies near.

They say things in foreign languages

I do not understand!

Prod me with a word stick.

Snap objects from bulkheads in bars.

Where liquor comes quick to drip and drown.

I have felt an un-need to be held these days-

crossed belief tight-

where even own hands are vagaries connected to the self with arms.

Whose?

Again, I do not know.

In mind, I have questions of why.

I have laid quite still these days.

Or was it night?

I forgot–

Forget?

Which tense is it?

And it, and it, and it?

Wondering schizoaffective thoughts of speed of thoughts sped up.

Questions say, ‘what now?’

I hope night over my body sweeps.

I wave passing arms over

with chakra beads I find and prayer leaves.

Go, as clouds go.

I need–vicissitudes?

The definition, lost.

Something about change–whose?

I have no gold of mine to give.

Oh, when the sun goes down

I have felt at times afraid.

These wild plans I have made at times.

What floors, what grounds

I have thought to stick the landing through

Knowledges, some dictionaries, cannot tell me who I was supposed to be.

I, the delf, that only sways when moved in oceans’ apathy.

Somehow, at the last-

with no man beside me-

as I stand so stark,

as I move to play my final hand,

the pool full like wine,

I close my eyes.

Your gaze–so heavy in my direction–

like crimson piss, I cannot die.

Res Ipsa Loquitor

Trees shade the earth, you know.

True protector of the life beneath.

The tree grows to some height advantage,

Spreads boughs over grasses,

Encircles the others within.

A tree is not height hilted without reason.

Its spanning weight is not thus create for sheer beauty,

Lithe beauty,

Beauty aspires;

No.

The tree was gifted to man to shadow the grass

Upon which feet now walk

For man to crush it whole.

We trod new paths,

Splatter new blood from lives, lives unknown to human eyes alone.

The tree does not run,

But stands stark—

See, the beauty of the tree is not in its height,

Nor wielding weight of arms nor gait.

The beauty of the tree is in the sap that falls

To spill the soil below in tears

Where flowers from the earth become

Roses—coloured red.

Crowds will buy roses, fame roses,

Believe a rose to be some function of love.

The tree—this clamature of sacrifice that gives us human air—

Will go struck down, unnoticed.

Res Ipsa Loquitor–beauty does not speak.

The Word

I am the word that will punctuate you at the end,

as closure brings communications in.

I wait only for the syllables to crush your tongue to teeth.

And each time that the word, I, wet around your lips,

readied to fall out of mouth, know

I am the ending sentences that become what cannot be unsaid.

Where pride is carried on the back of the black crow

who soars above the crowd,

he calls out to fear create below.

Cowards, we, all men are at times,

so feeling of impending humiliation–started wars.

But death is nothing when seen facing shame.

Men have stayed held in cars on rail lines,

been splayed of blood on tracks of trains for shame.

The red faced fright

did not move out the vehicle stalled, only tried to rev that engine clean,

hid in hopes those men did–now dead.

I see the remembrance of rejection on the backs of arms that once wore heart wove sleeves

that take down bricks and slay and do all the many of manliest endeavours

and still—silence swims on.

And regret has been my brother on some days,

yes, it has been some days oft,

where you folk have plucked me off for unuse.

I, the word, you say you do not want me.

A beggar man, the word becomes,

begging for some crumb-

one blasted damn letter,

an abbreviation; alliteration.

One word was one too many for you all?

One word was too much for them to say.

And I have understood, from my cave of butchery, where I eat raw fish I find in bins–

that I, the word, without speakers, am poor.

I have understood that fear unspoken, have found where it lives.

Have watched men, them, claw at throats to find.

Them all looking for reverberation of skin,

for the throat canal to be opened

to quake up such a ragged storm of speech!

And still–I hear nix.

Fields of people who have voices do not speak.

I only watch your eyes.

I only watch your eyes

to read how loud the sound of silent words can be.

To see the final silent space

where felled the silent full stop falls.

And endless silent space pushes on.

Psychosis

I find the street loud with fight,

Struck bruised blue by the skin of one bare moon.

My hands have felt the night, touched the night,

Held the night.

But shadow shapes have a way of deception.

It is these caliginous beasts that hover and speak

Of smiling cats or possum kinds with sharper teeth.

Old soul now at one with the leaves,

Alight with the ants, the shaking wet sky screams.

Here stained love runs down my hands–unrequited

And the earth and the beating stars erupt

Alive.

But me, quite alone,

Open your mouth–

I am sound.

Aloud a soul fractures.

Not yours.

Only mine

Where tiny hands retrieve hope’s scraps from the ground.

Love, do not be afraid  of your crime.

I am schizophrenically medicated.

Hospitals I have noted,

With prayers unrealised as the atheism answered.

I am psycho.

Best to leave, the rest have forsaking,

Slinking away from my shame,

Their eyes still quaking.

This is how it ends-

No person is perfect.

Therefore, dear reader, tell me, do I deserve it?

The Blues

I see you in the mirror

With your hand on my mouth.

Your hand was always on my mouth

To stop my childlike sound.

And, I would drink your milk,

Touch your blistered blood,

Eat your bones into soup

Until my heart stopped to the close.

Until I close

My eyes and I cry.

I cry because

I am not fine.

Pity it is—

What?

I saw through your desperation for another thing

Still stayed, stock still, hoping to bring

A difference of kind you could keep for a bit.

Pity indeed, you never did.

Know I had a spirit beneath the makeup

Where inside my literature hid.

The Past

I fear what is happening to me.

I fear it fast.

I’m am losing reason-feeling first,

thinking last.

Burn the past.

Put it in a shoe.

He always stomped around the house.

Ever wondered why I ran

from this city?

The ocean?

The grass?

Don’t look at me again.

I cannot bear it.

I cannot stand you.

I hate you.

I want answers.

Fill my mouth with illusions

and watch my urine darken with my sadness.

You were never there.

Your bags of skin were always lifeless.

Sehnsucht

You were never mine.

False friends; foreign languages-

pensive,

profoundly,

scattered,

two.

Still, I need you with every sound I learn.

You have given me haunting words.

The Stars

I am leaving you all to live in the stars.

The sparkling hot mass that lights  over our heads each night.

The stars, with them a silenced heart becomes again loud. Lonely a poet is within human lives but brought out to blush in sparkling nights.

The poet breathed out with a word. A blank faced mule, the poet is; lives in the word. She finds a metaphor floating in her gin. The poet is an idealist of nature. The poet is a bastard. She lives her life cruelly inside her own body. Cannot express thoughts in the usual passage of time. Cramping her crap draft of the second stanza in her loosened skin. Bloated with paper strips to remind her. Why eat them? Masochism feels.

But when words become put into connections and rhyme, she is intoxicated. She fires.

Gone escaped. Fled. Found height. Now, I sit above, so high in trickled thin dorps of air. I drape myself on the ridges of a shining star. Celebrated. Soak in gold dust. Vast shimmered rings on ears. I now, not only rest on a star but too have doffed real life to become a star. I can speak so loud as a star. I shout across your universe. Hear? I speak these verses in the night. I hop from light to light in tastes of freedom. There is no human law, gravity, here. Wrapped in two arms of a star aside me, I look out to the distance and all that I control. The majesty of what I can see. Comet, rocket, piece of flint float by. Jupiter grows ferocious. As I slip down my perth to a sleeping pose, drifting away to my new home. No distance would light remove. And now, the poet, a star, loses her worth to Earth again.