The Writer meets the StripperNarcissists will panderThe Writer meets the Stripper by glossolalias
to the one-way mirror,
sycophants fall in love.
The Flutter VelocityI didn't know the bridge would fallThe Flutter Velocity by glossolalias
or that the water beneath could consume
the last structures of an identity,
when held still I don't
The architects were ignorant.
I make gills and breathe,
submit to pressure,
the last car to fall is black.
I don't care anymore.
The shore persists.
To a NihilistYou are a collection of atomsTo a Nihilist by glossolalias
expressing sentimental miscellanea,
introverted processes designed by coincidence
to always prove the theory of chaos,
I am unstable,
but you are decomposing. I wonder,
sometimes, if you contemplate futility or peace
or constance or value or the fate of our mortality
in a universe that holds its dead stars
for millennia, a history of dust,
but then I remember
And that is what you never learned,
never sought to.
to the girl with hungry footstepsI'm sending all my words backto the girl with hungry footsteps by intricately-ordinary
to the people who need them--
people who wear scars like
war trophies, like jewelry, like
an identification for those suffering
from the same acceptance of
self-hate. this is to the people
who sleep with one eye open, who
cry when footsteps enter their room
at night; this is to the girls
who love by cutting their hearts
into snowflakes and watching
them melt. I left you behind and
I can't be sorry for that.
you are the type of beautiful
that kindly asks the world
to fuck off. the days we buried
have decomposed, headstones are
snapshots; sanitized breakdowns,
rusty tongues, sighs laced
with fear, I love you, I love
you. saturdays were the best
because we could sleep through
the nightmare. you painted me a
picture of the world with your words
and they made us wash it away
for being transparent.
we were afraid of nothing
but the monsters in our eyelids.
back then, we counted days
like shooting stars; it took 67
to wish myself away. this
is for you, skygazer;
~days eat days~ by 0hgravity
like I eat potato chips
on a couch whose
springs have thrown out
their backs no longer able
to hold even the remote up.
it sinks between the seats like
I do every lonely saturday night
or every evening I can’t quite
make it to bed, cupped with
similar back problems,
a similar sag.
I’ve begun to
take after my furniture.
"the only unattractive curve,"
a girl once said to me with a few
desirable curves herself,
"is the one a person develops
in their back.”
we dated for a month and
she called me her
hunchback of notre dome
(it’s dame, babe.)
and I called her beautiful.
and nothing else.
but somehow her leaving did nothing
to straighten my bent back but
only managed to deepen
my parenthetical stance on
those who love me
(they don’t exist).
1997 Chevy Monte CarloFor once,1997 Chevy Monte Carlo by muscularteeth
the lanes seem constant
and I place myself at a slush center,
the right-way drift which balances
an unsteady clasp,
my fingers shake to warm themselves.
Months have made the lights
a point, an aspiration,
the pictures of a clean before,
or maybe I am tired.
DOC was the last trip.
The flurry becomes a drizzle.
she waits in the kitchen,
a lovely disarray, shadows and lines
design her mouth. Her hair is bleached,
strands tied in memory knots,
a bracelet she gave me
with the same beads
when I was 9
a boy held me down
and french-kissed me,
he was 16 but I,
I talked to him,
I was a girl,
but also a mother, a provider,
and it hurt less. It hurt less
than the night Tasha
was in our bed,
he came in,
I said I had to pee.
Our mom's room, there was coke
on all the mirrors, but she,
she came in with a heel
and that drunk,
he went crying home and Tasha,
she said No so sweetly,
she slept then,
she shook all morning.
PaleYou are never more beautifulPale by pomohippie7
Than in this moment of your pain
And I try to wake you slowly, gently
But it never works.
I stay up past midnight, smoking
Running your name into the spilled ashes
All the while feeling Mary-heavy,
My virgin pale a smoldering resin
A black tar glut;
I wish I could be merciful
And relent the seething curtain
But you're just too beautiful when you sleep.