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personal writing

Poems

Thoroughly study my abstract arrangements of diseased, broken, or dead intangible elements of the spirit. It is Winter, stratified and irregular. Even in its darkest shadows, an absence of black, the absence of him. I shiver, Looking for salt. in God, in this spiral of exposed rock where many killings occurred- Replicated an infinite number of times, loved and lost.

Another grim possibility- you hear the emergence of the mask that he’ll wear. Dogs sprint for nearshore waters, Hungry for anything, pushing air from lungs. To the brink of death if necessary

Always dreamed of your home, lilac hued. And to me it means something else. Heart pounding, an open fire in the shifting light. A Touch of smoke would unfurl the bitterness that strips bare, growing your own sunken eyes

Dampen your joy. Within seconds, fresh cream curdled. Yourself, your mind, getting caught in the blades. And what about you? You want. There’s just the sky, the world, a spoonful of honey. Warm fruit, with cherries a deeper red, like temples of salvage. How can you stop? Build a bigger fire, this is no time to be too small.

It is almost black, in twilight, its arching branches: the vanishing forest. He starts to sing, his voice is beautiful and rose pink in my mouth. Just a bit further is the descent to the underworld, falling into the center, into a litany of love. I saw the aberrations. Symphonies and nocturnes, bittersweet beauty, and running beasts. I ached. I tried playing God, finally! He whispered: this thing is alive, its wings jewel-like. It rises and contracts, unripened. Every day, Until it doesn’t

who is the dreamer? he had dreamt new growth, one of the oldest rituals. its is bound up with the Breadth of his touch, is gray-blue river stone. He still gasps for the birth of a more lucid, remarkable truth. First light, it is enriched by red, it is new-tonal-overexposed. He had sworn, had tried to Mother the dead, taking care of what was once alive. Since falling we were both nested among the many peaks and shadows. There was nothing, no prayers no disciples to the naked eye. The hands strain and slow time, keep the sun and the moon to bitter, to biting, consumption. True shephards tend their new fossil, pouring into it the blood and teeth of seasonal rebirth

"Tertium non datur." It's cold but It has been colder. I've been made sick all winter By the swaying of trees, by Their grotesque bone-rattle And their plunging roots.Against my will I am Innervated, given A chthonic quality. Pinned fiercely Against the ground, left to look Up at twisted forms And forced To spin and to spin And what did we learn: That some dogs flee from the hare. That all Divine things have vile bodies And that pines have teeth That eat up into the ignited sky

"Soteriology." I am a horse, I am sold. What is left to bind the bones of my body together, if not spite? Scars on my flank Are not supposed To hurt,They say.They say sorry With every part But their mouth. The blood I smellIt is mineI think. Everything that is, That happened, Was just a Little too late

EXCESS. Somehow without noticing It, my eyes moved To the sides of my head As if I've become prey. A sheep in man's clothing. Nobody meant for it but I have been abraded, pitted, etched and grooved. I haven't been myself for years You did this in my name, you say. And do I regret making you? Is that why the flood came? You were born to disappoint and I was born to die

imagine you taste drunken Like an overripe berry A sweet rot that numbs my tongue.I see you as a brainless thing, want to Make you utter every synonym Of "please" Of "stop." I wish you were laid outFor me, always Bare and sinless And shaking like the meadow does In a breeze

I am mad with my own certainty even as Lies bleed slowly from my mouth. I am only my desire to save you. I must be christlike: Flaunt gash, flaunt wound. Demand your awe, your pity. Your love binds you to me, it is A leash I hold in my hands

CRASSODON- These dogs share a mouth sometimes, My hunger and yours. Our pressed together lips Seeking to devour the ocean swell As it comes rushing Down our throats. Love should be feral, bared like Teeth which clamp around your neck And sink through your layers. Bone deep, then dirt and stone, To your foundation Carved with snaking, labyrinthine paths. I am already there. I run through the wind-whipped snowInto dark water, then, Drenched in your wet, I shake my fur on a pebbled shore. You are the slicked rocks, A salt crust.

Harbinger. My heart is quietly failing me- I know by the swift gallop in my ears andThe teeth grinding beside me in dreams. Before I was myself I was everyone So now these words can reincarnate The yolk of my pleasure/my grief. I am bright eyed with false humility but You are why I wear a broken watch and Why I cannot look at the sea. I lived then in an old house Where walls cracked like bones but My shadow held it's tongue. You came darker, longer, You left no unbloodied tools, And I think, this is the right way to be sad

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