I talk in circles
Everything going out
In a spiral of
Jokes to temper
Sentences I’m not
So sure of how
To put it till
The music hits
I’m jangling out
A tune of
One of sorrowful
Notes that flow
Not only inward
But all the way
Down to my
To not have an Alfred is quite hard.
She sleeps just outside in your living room
on the floor by the door like a dumb cat.
She smokes herself to sleep and buys
you groceries. What could be better?
A sweet thing with buttcheeks and tits
and she only listens to Radiohead
when alone. She’s quite alone.
That little girl who’s stupid and typing
half-drunk on her phone. One day you’ll
wake up and the pack-rat is long gone.
A ghost of romance let too much alone.
I feel like dusk settling on an angry street
Grey clouds, their depth is darkening
Ambivalence drawn out on a winter’s day
Hateful words dance in my head
“Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”
I’m sinking now, no longer rising
There’s something about a tortured spirit
So inviting and so familiar
You’re a boat on glassy, grey water
Split in ripples and smoothed out
I feel me disrupting you
You, as the lesions in my peace
My gaping wounds and you as Thomas
I’m looking in the mirror now and
Seeing distortions in the street
Ultimately I am unwanted,
A sweet wasting away of space
My skin always rejecting itself
tiny open wounds, blemishes,
holes to another world
I’m full of them
it’s chaos down there
organized, but not understandable
my mother always warned me
said I don’t want scars
and here I am pocked and
marred, the relic of
restless hands over an
itchy strangers skin
I sit, muting the sunsets with
My dirty thoughts–the mountains
In the distance aglaze as,
“Don’t think about cocaine,”
Runs through my brain.
I feel stained by my mere
Existence as I feel warmth,
Yet wish for a mistress
To ease the night
From my worried mind.
Goodnight, cruel world,
I am but a phantom on a
Lonely sea. I know
Nothing but the joy
Of rot and the growth of me.
If I woke up tomorrow
Without any sorrows,
I wouldn’t quite know how to be.
I will not drown,
I only wish to be lulled
To sleep by the wailing sea.
In the long and lonely pines
I found the thrum of a heartstring
beating on the branches that were
bending in the wind. I plucked it out
on thin and gossamer webs, strung
it out cross trees and paths, strewn with
gold and green confetti, the woodland’s
decorations for a dying year. I danced
and stalked and sang and walked
and found the earth damp and willing
under my feet. I found the water well
and chilling and lapping at our meet.
I found the Viking grim and grinning and
wishing to dance with the sweet and
fragrant moonlight that was spilling,
round and puddling at our feet.
I long to be in the land ripe with gold,
yet I cry for quiet forrest morning too.
To play god and goddess together in
the rod and the goodness and sparkling
dew. And the grey is swelling, pregnant
with the tears that will shower the dying
world and cloak it with deep, velvet
sleeping–the night in darkness and the
Shining Sickle gleaming and reaping.
I paint a lonely shape in the sky
My body is cut out of air and
Seems to only take up space
I don’t know if I matter, or
I guess how much of a matter I am
Out of all figures, I now like yours
The very most and see it behind
Closed eyes at night where
Once was dark but now is outlined
In soft, shimmering light