Woetry

I’m afraid to post my poetry here anymore because my poetry is beginning to frighten me. I don’t want to shut this down… but I can’t keep it up either.

Suburbia

The engine revs like the chattering of teeth,

Sputtering to life in the merciless bleak,

Careening about the concrete sheaths,

On the shores of shaved and naked lawns,

The pop music with the muffler music, car horn cacophony,

In the suburban parade that chases waywardly after me,

Shouting “3.83 for a gallon of gas”, and “4 lives to put our flag at half-mast”,

And some neon signs are better left naked,

“Welcome to Suburb High School” written in bold,

To the conveyer belt that is too thick to fold,

To the grades that are too pricey to be sold,

To the building where our children get old,

And suburbia lies in wait for clothes.

The Basement

The red-brown carpet offers up its welcoming caress,

To soda cans and pizza boxes trailed along its breadth,

The reclining throne, its body to loan, to a pair of well-loved jeans,

On a modest king with his lanky legs crammed into cushion seams,

The floods of sounds, the dissonance of laughter with the strum,

Of guitar strings, and other things in this slow and rhythmic hum,

Which would rock me there, my feet left bare, as the record player swings,

With the kisses sweet behind the sheet, draped from the ceiling by moonseed rings,

And I’ve lived my days in a happy haze behind that impermanent door,

Til I breathe that rhythm, growing up from that unmagnificent floor.

My fingers bend in peculiar ways,

Like bands of light turned scattered rays,

Or the swollen scalp with life-spent grays,

And the mind below notes sun-spent strays,

In the eyes of women facing better days,

These hands can block the sun.

I am that impulse,

Moving closer to the thoughts,

Graceless in nature.

The gush of blood, red wine dealt for rare occassions,

The must that’s trapped beneath my skin, like rain water churning the vineyard,

Breast plate violent, the rhythmic fall, and further fall,

Whistling,

Autumnal, somber, sick am I,

Like bread broken and fed to the crows descending,

With this fall unending,

Fed to lovebirds til wine runs dry…

My own thoughts are eating away at me, slowly destroying me, motivating me, and loathing my motivations. Regrets are the only thoughts not worth having, and today they are all I have. All I can muster.

I giggled today, 
It felt out of place,

A quickness of breath,

In the inhale of space,

The space between my mouth,

And the machines in your ear,

Churning, digesting, 

A new sounds premier,

I giggled today,

And it bore me no pain,

But bore into the blanket,

That you let me stain,

Like the frost on the window,

From the breathes that we drained,

I giggled today, but there was no joy in the thought,

Derision for lungs, and and the good sense they wrought

dimasmoonbeams:

everything you ever said
might be a lie
but i don’t care
it sounded sweet
like eloquence
it could stop time
once more, perhaps
or speed us up
like hurried death
either way
we hold our breath
putting our faith in
nothing else
but closing eyes
and dead romance -

uhg too perfect… 

He made it quick,

He made me quake,

I pray the lord my soul to take,

Keep me safely cross the wick,

And wake me with,

I make me sick. 

Based on that prayer, i dont know if anyone else recited it as a child;

“Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the lord my soul to keep,

Keep me safely through the night,

And wake me with the morning light.

And all of the sudden time felt so collapsible…. like I could put it into my pocket and wonder where it went. Wonder “where did the time go?”…. 

I sucked on the lit end of the cigarette,

Breathed in the naivete, the wrong,

Chewed on the ash and swirled it against my tongue,

Put the mixture in my hand and slicked back my first white hair,

And swallowed my virginity with arthritic fingers,

Feeling the burn at the back of my throat,

Crying the tears of an old soul,

With the eyes of a soulless 17,

And wrinkled lips closed

is it ok to say these things? i feel like no one likes the kid that uses tumblr as a diary… 

I bit my nails this morning, absentmindedly swimming somewhere in the blood buzz, the recollection. My hands quarrelled with the dampness, saliva floating with spindles of your flesh still beneath my nails. And there at the surface was that smell, to sensuous to be familiar, but nonetheless distinct in my memory. A flash to an exposed thigh, a surpressed sound, a surpressed fear, a bead of sweat. I was biting my nails this morning, and had the strange desire to press fingers against my tonsils. To purge myself of the night before.

There’s an odd romance in this blister,

In the tongue thats lapping the wound,

An asinine consequence, the spit of karma, the spite,

Pulp to this blood, not mine to taste,

But that of the earth embedded in my flesh,

That of the world beneath my skin.

This bouyancy is a demon, charged still to frolick,

In the wells of my chest, in those goddamned hydraulics,

Not cradled in love letters, nor fizzed in confection,

But born to this fear, to this violent convection,

Stop raping my lungs, stop stealing, “stop feeling”,

Stop realing and jearing and damned near to squealing,

And focus again on this godforsaken living,

Float on the back of those hellish misgivings,

The whispers that gush from this warm flooded throat,

Condemned to the salt, the pleeding, the hush in my throat,

float.

                float.

                                     float.

just had a conversation that made me absolutely sick to my stomach with nerves and self doubt. there’s a poem in the making but my cells are to busy quaking, starting mini fires in my belly, to put pen to paper. stay posted. and if the next thing i post is shit blame the friction thats eating at me from the inside out.

alectaunton:

All I see is naked;
skinny, white and nameless
with halos over faces
and devils in the basement.

I miss that desperate cling, 

Like linen to flesh, air to breast, 

Lunar milk to the swollen crest,

Heavy words slip on break neck tongues,

Like ripe hung fruit on wilted wrungs,

The inexorable empty of my lungs,

I miss the smoke spilt on the page,

The love of you that smelt like sage,

Cinnamon, menthol, lilting with lust,

“Forgiveness” from fingers that trail long the dust,

The wandering ghost in the whistling gust,

The inexorable empty of  love left to rust

artmuses:

The blue bird sings from her perch
She beseeches thee to still
Bask in the late morning light
Rest upon the gnarled roots
Among the twisted branches
Sit and wait
In gloried silence

Tonight I dance the limbo,

With thoughts of my own death,

Cracking pills with tantrums I’ve kindled,

A crack of mortality down my back, dreaming of feet dangling,

Drawing blood and finger painting red on my hollowed cheek,

The nape of my neck swelling with rivers left untoured,

In cities with signs that read purgatory, signs that beckon,

“How low can you go”

How low can I go

A ray of sun spilled into your china,

Cup broken, emaciated, bones exposed,

And seered the flesh of you, my pariah,

Your tongue left burnt, your ego unclothed,

Stir as you might with your silver spoon,

The shame spawned spiral that spun the sun,

And plunged, declaring a martyer to the afternoon,

Where then I spoke in whispers hushed,

Hush blown breeze to cool the cup,

“Might I taste the you I never saw”

Frightened I might burn my tongue

I sucked you through a straw,

“I can taste you now” in whispers hushed

“And I wish you’d been left raw”

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

 For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

     So how should I presume?

Just fair warning, I may be writing a bunch of shit that hardly makes sense for a few days. Lately nothing I say feels right, nothing i feel sounds right, so I’m gunna pen a few streams of consciousness and pray I get myself sorted out somewhere on the page. Bare with me.

The laughing track you hear on repeat,

Is the citizenry of the vacant streets,

Titled “sexless”, and “sinless”, “vain”, “opaque”,

Avenue, boulevard, center route to escape,

And they laugh with that limp lipless ajar,

And they laugh with the hapless, hopeless, “har”,

Of a recluse i tied to the “B side” side of a tape,

Whom is quoting his lover whom floats like a drape,

Out the window, left a widow, who records all her calls,

Laughing 

Lungs heaving

with Laughter

She falls

Breath that drips like the nectar in the palm of your hand,

With an indelible taste, dispensed over the flesh pocketed in lips,

Fermented and intoxicating, it falls from the spicket god tied to your waste,

Naked at Alabama’s borders, a wholesome geography,

With a whole in it’s spine

the-peony:

i found Jesus in Arkansas
he appeared to me in the 
form of a coloured man
he fucked me good until
i felt whole —
until i felt my soul
coming, dripping down
my thighs

his scent became mine

he whispered verses of
promises he would keep
me and the ones he knew
i would break — as soon
as i flipped over on my side

i saw my panties crumpled
up next to the floor
i swore i saw his soul
down there too

on his wall i saw scribbled
“Jesus loves to fuck you
and will be with you
wherever you go”

working on writing a poem without venom… and I’m finding it strangely challenging.

It’s that sort of tired that sticks its finger into the marrow of your bones,

Drawing out the cloudy residue on the panes of your eyes and licking it heartily,

Pacing the floor like a ticker toy without a child to celebrate it, but maybe mock it,

Until if falls into a stale pot of coffee and chokes on limp-life caffeine,

Short circuiting,

Spasming beneath the spindles of exhaustion 

 A Sleepless.

Weepless.

Ticking 

sort of tired…

moderateclimates:

(Writing, constellations, blinds drawn against the world, Paris, Berlin, London, New York, everywhere and nowhere, crawl beneath the covers and today you will mean nothing and today you will write the same poem over and over and over and over and writing, constellations, blinds drawn against the world…)

You heart is a fractal,

Mathematic and clinical,

And from all angles the same,

Despite the ice into which I plunged,

The deeper I dove the more dizzied I became,

By the monotony of your topology,

Again

      And Again

             And Again

Binding and winding right about where,

My neck juxtaposed to the stroke of your tongue,

Was tape in the shape of the winding stair,

Where my vagabond neck was due to be wrung,

And there’s tape on the bed you made so neatly,

So there’s tape on the nape of my limp hung neck,

And there’s tape of the words you spoke so sweetly,

Like tape on the leak of a ship just wrecked,

And the puppet strings are taped to the floor,

And I see the glow-plastic I taped to my door,

The dozen’s of stars just spelling out whore,

Like scribbles taped to the refrigerator,

There’s a knob on that door, and a hinge screeching “fuck”

Tape so transparent, so binding,

                      I’m stuck

you tried so hard to make people remember you for something you were not
and if they so remember you then something else will certainly get forgotten

i’ve heard tell that it is while we are young
in the morning sun
that you take every year as it comes
but when your life is over
all those years fold up like an accordion 
they collapse just like a broken lung

now i’ve only got one organ left and this old bag of bones it is failing me
i try to tell people that i’m dying only they don’t believe me
they say we’re all dying, that we’re all dying
but if you are dying, why aren’t you scared?
why aren’t you scared 
like i’m scared?

i read somewhere that when you face eternity 
you face it alone
no matter what you thought
or what you had
or you had not
unless you put yourself in god
but tell me god o where did you go?

-Typhoon, A Sickness Unto Death

If we were to lay where wind tussels hair,

Of bodies strewn mingled, ministering, bare,

Before this religion, the zealots, the zippers,

The cosmos in Camels, our bishops the trippers,

I’d pray for you lips, for your hands on my hips, 

Taking sips of bad humor, fu-fumbling quips,

Drunk on your smile, teeth ground to dust,

Fermented by age, by ethanol, lust.

And well walk down the isle, this unholy union,

Pick me from the vine and have your communion.

I am typical.

Thin lipped, cellulite thighs,

Brown hair, baggy eyes,

Bit nails, fallen curls,

“A nasty habit for little girls”

Languor books on etiquette,

I’m languid with the ghosts I’ve met,

Ingenue, muse to Mr.Warhol,

Just another plunge in a bathroom stall,

So capture the red of this coke can,

Or the red of the typical Chain-Smoke-Ann,

With her nails digging in to her wrists or thighs,

And try to cast away your eyes,

How typical.

Today is my 17th birthday.

I woke up to candle-wax-flavored cheesecake, and off key singing. My favorite song was playing on the radio when I first came into my car. I came home and read “A Perfect Day for Bananafish” by Salinger, and nearly cried. 

I’m only sharing because, with a very impassive definition, today is poetry.

Ever think that each drop of rain,

Is a small piece of space,

With suicide among its intentions?

Like some ounce of space was plunging to its death,

And we had the audacity to think,

It was sustenance to our existance,

Momentum to the blood in our veins,

Scenery to the lovers in the garden’s,

When truly, Those lover’s soaking clothes

Are just a grave to something

Celestial