POETRY
POETRY
Nights never consider
How mornings feel.
They twist and turn,
The mirror blurs,
And clears,
Becomes almost too clear,
Showing
Hole-punched paper
The kitchen sink filled with plates of scraped cottage cheese
Itchy braille – one dot for A.
In the distance,
Somewhere behind the mirror, or in front of it,
There is a sound,
A clear echo.
The echo screams to get away
To run for the lush green hills
Or city streets,
Where lights or wildflowers will drown
It’s hallucinations of reality
In dreams of futuristic, primitive desire.
Heaven’s on fire.
Paper holes ripped clean through,
Blood seeping in the wounds,
Disintegrating the white tree to flakes of ruby ash.
Cheese remnants licked clean and spat on the mirror.
Braille read by the perceptive, with English just above.
A false mirage.
A dangerous image.
A wondrous night of horror and deception.
Pain seeping through
The mirror into me.
Me the night calls.
Me the day dreads.
For he must deal with the reflective shards of night.
Perhaps I should sleep it all away,
Draw the curtains closed and blow out the light.
Licence picture of suicide
Induced another fit of cries.
I feared the tears streaking my work
The hours of contemplation
The wasted time blending it through
Within myself. Within my skin.
The face is natural distortion.
A Picasso straight from the womb.
Surrounded by bird nests it is,
Striped with sad salt remnants it is.
Upper lip disintegrated
In the acid mouth, the melancholy.
The eyes are there, yet they’re vacant.
A Modigliani save sculpt.
It is foreign, out of my grasp,
Beauty, that is. Unrelenting.
It is unrelenting, on my
Soul. The constant yearning, the whines.
Silent, they are, though decadent.
Absolute and complete is pain.
I’ve perfected the craft of it.
Experience is too distant
And I’m chided for my lacking,
My observing, my whispering.
I’m chided time and time again,
I’m seldom consoled. I’m mystic.
I’m the sole benefactor to
The aid of my pain’s creation,
My imperfections, presumptions.
It is all me. I am to blame.
Solely me. Only me. All me.
Solitude and decrepitude
Of the self. To the self. For self’s
Sake. The picture stays behind tech.
Hidden from me, from them, from all.
Poisonous, dangerous, is that
Picture of me. It’s the only one.
Why would I reproduce my face?
It’s not essential. The rose falls
Into my lips, mouth, stem and all.
Thorns prick my throat, I cannot speak.
I haven’t the will, the need, the
Ability. Save me from this
Purgatory. Deliver me
From this hell. Send me down, down, down.
I need to go down, to escape
Myself and their prying pupils.
They aren’t really staring, I’m just
So far from being saved. Pointless.
I am chemical
Putrid puss
Archaic blood splattered pages.
There’s a hill between my nose and right eye.
There’s a bug inside that’s clawing to escape.
My tongue is rotten meat
It tastes like an abandoned fridge left outside on a hot summer’s night.
Rotten and rotting
Moulded and decaying
Green fur spots instead of taste buds
Infested by maggots
That replace my teeth
And penetrate my eyes and nostrils
The bug finally breaks free
Red everywhere
Dead skin in the sink
Fresh skin on the mirror
It devours the maggots
Growing larger by the minute
Then devours me
The rank green rotten being that I am.
Bugs tend to like that.
You do not see.
You think you see,
But how could you
When I’m under a cloud,
Dark and brooding,
Being stabbed by knives
Of rain?
You do not see.
How could you see?
I’m a vessel
For your words
And vomit.
A hole for the grave
Of my heart.
You dug the hole,
You must have –
For it wasn’t me.
Maybe it was he
That left me vacant
At the ripe old age of three.
Abandoned, flee,
Bouncing on a ghost’s knee.
Grow little flower, be merry.
Glee, glee, glee –
You thought of me.
Big monkey ears
That he pulled out of me,
Licked out of me.
Breath hot and black,
Choking on charcoal,
Barbeque meat black.
You never did cook,
You never did much
Of anything,
But you did leave.
I did not miss you,
No, not once.
Not until I thought I had to.
I was born twenty-two,
I thought I should remind you.
Your Mrs hates you – the
Unaware, narcissistic bastard
That you are,
That you’ve always been.
I’ve seen
The way your parents treat you.
I’ve heard
Of how they used to,
And I’m sorry.
But you never had the voice
To say it yourself
To anyone else.
I don’t think you have a voice or brain –
It is vacant in your mind.
Maybe that's why you didn’t care
When you left me behind.
Perhaps that is why I’m now
Vacant too.
I’m yours, it’s true.
She doesn’t like that I’m like you,
She’s afraid I’ll become you.
I am afraid too –
Of being useless and a brute.
In the way, in your way,
Like an old black shoe
That you kick aside
And forget about,
Like when you would kick the doors in
And leave gaping holes in them
That she plastered, not you.
Why is it that you leave holes
Everywhere you go?
A moth, a termite, a maggot,
Eating away at anything
You could gnaw your cigarette teeth into.
Your spirit saliva,
Your calloused hands twitching
From days of sitting and spitting
And laughing at everything in front of you.
A demon from the underground
Tormenting me from above, across, around.
I hate that I think of you
When you don’t think of me at all.
Your mother has to remind you to call me for my birthday –
Twenty-two, remember?
But I don’t answer,
No, not ever.
You don’t want me to.
Maybe I should,
Then what would you do?
Maybe I should come there,
Then what would you do?
Maybe I should say I love you,
What would you do –
Stick your stained tongue in my ear?
Mark my arms red?
Cough on my cheek,
Repeat repeat repeat
Your wasted intelligible words
Till I choke on my own breath
And die from the impact
Of jumping from
The balcony
Down onto the patio –
Bushes, a glass pyramid
That I will stick in to.
Impaled, dead.
Dead with you forever.
My other half,
So you can suffer just as me.
She still doesn’t see,
I’ve got a new agenda
I’ll latch onto you – leech you –
You’ll never get rid of me.
I don’t feel anything
Anything
Nothing at all
Not ever,
No, nothing
Ever
Forever
Falling
Down
down
down
Numb to impact
To all
To you
To me
To him
To those who don’t
Think to think.
I don’t need love
I don’t feel anything
Your own doing
Relentless crying
Pointless prying
Useless creature
User, loser
Of my bones
And flesh.
Pee cup
Pill pack
What for?
You won’t take them back
Won’t check up
Won’t ask
Don’t want the task,
The burden of caring.
A facade of love,
I don’t need your love
Never asked
I don’t feel your love,
Or mine or anyone else’s.
All I love is gone
Dead, down, buried, ground.
From before I was born
Surround
Circled by spirits
I wish were there
To comfort me
And caress my cuts
And suck my blood
And tell me it's alright
On the other side.
Spirits to latch on to.
I have the idea of them
Their potential pulls at me
I yearn for their existence
I cry for their lives lived too short
I die every night for them alone.
I need them,
But if they do not show,
If they never show –
That’s alright.
I feed off the idea of them
Of who they were
And that’s enough
I don’t have anything else
Anything to compare it to
Perhaps I do feel
But only for things that are dead or unreal.
Perfect girls –
Skin clear even under the harsh lamp of the sun.
Grass scratch smoothes over skin.
Poor little head
Of mine – not gleaming golden
Within or without their seeping tears.
I awake and tears
Fall instantly, recalling girls,
Complexion golden,
Minds full of the warm, hopeful sun.
Children of the stars, bright head,
No marks on their skin.
I rip my skin.
Dark thundering tears
Dampening my little head.
Desirable nymphet girls
Laying in the sun,
I will never be golden.
My blade is not golden.
It is blue-silver, dragging over skin,
Digging, searching for the second sun –
The centre of my wave of tears.
Lolita girls,
Humbert’s disturbed ugly head.
No head
Is as disturbed as mine – putrid and golden.
Covens of girls
Stabbing each other with knives of husband skin.
Pools of tears
Create portals to the sun,
The second sun
Of the devil within their head.
Starless calm, no tears.
Moon children golden,
Still deeper in the skin.
There are no perfect girls.
Flooding tears haze over the sun,
Little girls swamp my big head,
I will never have the golden lust of skin.
I am a disgusting, despicable human being.
Nothing works right.
Everything annoys and irritates as I annoy and irritate.
I have given up, not by choice, or a specific chain of thoughts and decisions.
I gave up because I can’t. I just can’t.
And I’m afraid. Petrified.
Horrified at who I am and what I have done and who I will be and what I will do.
I do not like that I exist.
I do not like that other people know me, can form opinions of me,
Can see me.
I do not like people, and I do not like myself.
And I am tired. Tired
Of pretending pretending pretending,
All day every day.
I do not want this. I do not want any of this.
And I can’t have what I want.
They do not understand, but how can they when even I do not understand?
I am so tired and so hopeless,
And I feel like a torture device from hell itself.
I want to be snuffed.
As much as I want to kill
As much as I want to fuck and be fucked
As much as I hate
As much as I love
As much as I desire
I am heaven on fire
And I want to be snuffed.
I want and want and want,
But I cannot have
Any of it.
And it is not a matter of trying and working towards something.
It is a matter of being pretty or not,
Of being skinny or not,
Of being clean and pure and clear,
Of being desirable,
And I am none of those things.
It is not something you can learn, it is not something you can buy, it is not something you can work towards.
What I want is so far above my head that I get eye sores looking for it.
I cannot change who I am, as much as I’d like to.
I can’t stop the picking, and the eating and the hair that grows all over me.
I can get plastic surgery, or laser hair removal, and fade my scars,
But the hair will eventually come back, and I will make new scars, and I will find something else to despise.
I, as an individual, am not desirable.
It is in my construction, my DNA.
And I have tried to stop picking and eating, but
It didn’t work and
It didn’t last and
It only got worse.
And I am a dying god, but I do not want my human flesh –
My suit of skin stained yellow and scarred and threaded with black hair –
I do not want it.
I never asked for it.
I’m not sure exactly what I did to deserve it.
But I want it gone.
And I want my skinless void back — a cryptic entity of holiness
With potential and beauty and desire
In the unknown and intangible.
I want to be a lover to all
And I want everything and everyone
But I cannot have it as I am,
Or on this plain of existence.
I must transcend, upwards or downwards.
Perhaps sideways, diagonal, or within.
And find my lost god-skin of decaying silk
And restore it so
I can finally have what I want.
All I want is to be served death on a silver platter
But I don’t matter
Enough for death to notice me.
I splatter
The toilet bowl.
I scatter
The liquor bottles.
There’s constant clatter
In my mind.
I just want a silver platter
With dark death as the main meal.
I want to make a deal
With whomever is responsible for my imminent mortality.
I want to go from the blue
Into the black
And never come back
Again
I want so many things
But everyone else rings
Their bells
And asks for something before I get my chance.
My desires are simple, yet complicated
I understand the delay, but just give me one wish and I’ll be elated.
Death is the ultimate sublime.
Life is a facade
Masking itself as almost Nirvana
‘Just one more day,’
They say,
‘Just one more tragedy,’
They comment lazily.
Almost Nirvana,
Never quite there,
Reaching upwards
With their hands in the air
Unknowingly begging for bombs
To drop
And drip blood.