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(one)
regret.
remorse.
remorsefulness.
shame.
shamefacedness.
sorrow.
grief.
nausea.
contrition and attrition.
bitterness.
traces of salt.
spinelessness.
spineless apologies.
restlessness from wistfulness.
repine.
repent.
deny.
melt.
self-reproach.
self-accusation.
self-condemnation.
self-punishment.
self-hatred.
“soul searching”
gnashing of teeth!
used gauze everywhere,
throwing one’s self over.
an admirable mortification of reason,
poison fucking ivy.
six pieces of evidence that make for a maladjusted crush:
1. i primed up some marinade for her lingerie, but she kept it on.
2. depletion of vitamins while yearning for a callipygian, Junoesque exoskeleton.
3. mirrors that reflect only blemishes, in full detail.
4. vodka on tap, the textbook way to declare self irreclaimability.
5. continuously finding bookmarks that you left in the nooks where my faults flourish.
6. the mute which seperates us (and that which we both inherently harbor), is webbed.
i have these delusions of us speeding on back roads,
and me sprawled out naked on the black vinyl dashboard,
steaming like freshly cooked pasta.
and the gibbous moon was so fleshy,
while now your inner thigh becomes the gold of horizons,
you torched every map that leads to the wild discovery of ignition…
and thus, flight.
observations...
syringe meets suture;
the heart, extracted, is still bioluminescent:
bismuth kodachrome in hue
and tints of transparence,
the adored crown in a room of complete white.
i let the blank page write me, so that everything is your self portrait.
a grandfather clock filled with cement.
the calligrapher facing a cemetery of inkwells.
thick sludge that oozes from the cullions of incestuous beauty.
fields of anthers, ebbing in red..;
but you are the only flower that closes itself at the end of each night.
lips torched from love lorn,
punctured again by the knife-edge of your gaze
lay these confessions on a pinwheel and hurl darts
from the pedestal i placed you on,
with your name inscribed in fancy cursive.
it’s the same unwavering accident each time we meet,
i coat myself in braille and you forget your hands
and i forgive you,
because i understand that you are both the vulture and the owl.
hushaby darling,
and listen to me sleeptalk to the warm of your absence.
my last and once bright oracle
now contaminated in a sopping lather of shit and ruin,
pregnant with infinite hell.
what would a walking jigsaw puzzle like me know about conception?
place and snap each piece of me..;
each
imperfection.
to the click,
a smile of satisfaction.
miss foil wings is distastefully
vigorous for a certain sugar,
already dampened for reception,
tongue forked and decorated with glitter…
but you no longer tempt me.
i was weeping on sand in an hour glass,
a clot.
and caught you asleep in ineffectual splendor.
one apology for all things,
and your letters still pressed wet against my cheek..
obsession has never felt so natural.
like the pulling of teeth,
and wet bottoms of feet.
how can I be happy?
can happy how I be?
be I happy how can?
happy, how can I be?
i can be happy how?
you’ve got pills for the moment.
and i, the will of a dumbfounded snail trapped in the desert,
this continuous shove into margins:
agitated heart blips,
the sharp hiss of faucets,
branded cross-patterns in the pink of gums,
black thumbtacks stuck into each iris, gone swell over a lust binge,
negative space battling itself…
muted clatter,
collapsed kisses under a bridge where ceilings cracked.
adoration meets veiled filth.
a snake oil glint from a cowardly set of almond shit colored eyes.
how terribly forlorn, uncovering each other's uncovering.
where does this circle begin?
i whispered to her: "i think you left your warmer set of hands in your pockets."
triumphantly naked and unrequited i slither.
words
