Thin magic. Thin layers
of it Broken, breaking
Distracting me from my
speaking duties alright
Distraught me, he forgot
what it’s like to break me
Awash in pain it touches
this I wash my face.
He will desert me. Fame
brings us close but voices
strip away our thin magic
undo layers ’til we’re dusk.
Brief unzipped He’s
gone again. Still so young.
Fornication and Intoxication
Basically the same thing to me
Eating to debilitation
Am I not reaching you
When I call this shit chronic?
Overzealot, Magic Train
Hopping from stone to place
To burning stone again
within King River’s empty beds.
I am not to shame. Don’t
kiss me
until I’m
chronic
again.
Thought’s a trouble word
As I thought could not think
of what to say then.
Oh, well. You loved me
with your eyes forever holding
I, within them turned away
and made love to
a cigarette. See, you can remember
what it’s like to carry on a dream
of endless words carnal candy
a murmur, sigh. And would you carry
me away if this was wintertime?
See if you can see me when you
leave this is goodbye
As I struggle to forget, It lets
me go one more time.
And I go one more time.
Before; believed in magic.
Time to tell the truth
but beforehand
I was your dust and
your God shall let me in
again. I think:
Dust in ragged shades of light
portray each morning
when I wake, always wake
I always wake one more time, see.
Night a whisper an embrace
As you I we turn
I mean me turning to fall
over and though we’re older
You still know
my name
Sweet drinking you. You taste
like eggs on a runny morning
This has got to stop.
My non-regrets still safe
from her touch
Yet mine still exiting wishing
Yours. Bastard
Keep burning, keep burning
‘til I’m poison and glass
shards ripped over your bonnet, boy.
Drunk - falling
yet ‘til next time I’m safe.
It’s safe here, now.
I’m safe.
Life is easy when you live in a hole,
but every day the walls get taller
and your universe shrinks smaller, smaller
until you’ve filled in your own grave
from kicking the walls
and you’re buried.
Darling -
My heart screams to beat beneath your soft skin; ever so loudly thumping within my breast as yours is pressed against me. Taste the soft tendrils of my desire as they wind their way up through my body and dance out of my mouth, bouncing off my tongue; leaping into your mouth and neck and hair.
I want to hurl my passion down your throat and then choke as you force it back into me. I want to drink you in until you fill me completely, and then I’ll need to close my eyes and focus on the pushing until it is over and I can decay back into the dirt from which I sprouted, a flower, to meet the sun. (The sun, so bright to keep me dry, then dimmer until I was lost in shade - and then, the moon! That majestic God had risen before me in the sultry, star-studded sky! It had come, at last, but there was much to be planted before it melted away again. Please listen, I remind you now that there is not much time left.)
It is impossible for me write how much I want you for no matter how much I pour myself out onto paper - reams of the stuff - there is always some yet undeveloped element to this passion, and upon writing it down I discover I have come across still more needs that have to be spoken. And, my darling, writing simply does not do justice my desire. I can attempt to describe it: I am alive with fire and crackling energy; this energy keeps me going and going. I consume everything in my path - paper, canvas, those flammable ingredients- as I search for my final stop; you, my ultimate consumption. I am in a fit of passion, I long to create and express myself through every last outlet imaginable, I want to make everything; Essays, Poetry, Novels, Music, Paintings, Love. But just this description is not capturing the madness, the intensity with which I spell out these words!
Come see me soon.
Written about Adrienne.
You walked a cold hard road
Alone for fifteen years.
You never figured out
What really made your tears.
Your road led to a cliff
Where you slipped off and died.
No surprises there, sis.
But I wish you were alive.
You always shut the blinds
And never told us why.
You never figured out
What really made you cry.
I’m getting off this road
So I don’t wind up dead.
I’m going to grow old.
Wish you were too, but instead:
You never found a way
To walk down a new path.
So I hope that the grave
Has brought you peace at last.
It’s 9:30 at night, I am feeling kind of dead. Not kind of - no, I don’t know. I’m not dead, I just wish I was dead. I’m lying in my little bed.
I wish I was dead, wish I was dead, wish I was dead… Depression, a lonely muse, sings in my ear.
I fold myself up like one of the notes people never pass me, and pull the comforter over my body. I try to pretend that I am somewhere far, far away.
BLEEP BLEEP IT IS SIX O’CLOCK BLEEP WAKE UP
Oh, it’s 6:00? Already? Well, I don’t have to be ready until 7:50. I’ll skip the homework I planned to do this morning and get ready in a bit. I need a bit more rest…
6:25. Still dark outside. Please get up.
Worthless, worthless, worthless, hopeless
”Phil, it’s 7:00! You have to leave in 50 minutes! Get up, honey!” My mother cheeps at me from the doorway of my room.
It’s 7:00. Already. I should have known.
Get up right now, you screwed-up, lazy, unkept -
Fine, yes, alright.
I fly through my daily duties of dressing, brushing and breakfast (should I skip? Yes? No? Oh, never mind, it’s not like you would be able to stop yourself anyways. Fattie.) and by then I am so stressed/terrified/depressed that I have involuntarily descended into an almost mute state. I am emotionally numb; listless. This sort-of-defense-mechanism grates on the nasty little perfectionist who lives in my head. She fires up at once, disgusted with the exceptionally worthless qualities I am exhibiting. I am commanded by her to get my act together and put a smile on that face. However, I lack even the energy to do her bidding, and simply continue to stare - frozen - into nothingness.
Well, since you can’t do anything about your state, don’t look anyone in the eye. They’ll know there’s something wrong you.
I begin to ponder my own death. Oh, suicide, how would I carry out thee? Let me count the ways: Pills and Booze, Razor, Rope, in the bathroom, in my room, outside in the forest… These thoughts are immediately met with snarling opposition from other thoughts. Thinking of suicide is “wrong” - therefore, I am even more worthless. To escape the bloody, conflicting words in my head, I crawl further into my imagination.
I am in a room. It is a long, rectangular room with high ceilings. Every surface is covered with smooth white tiles that blend together almost seamlessly at the edges. A single window, high up on the wall I stand in front of, fills the room with bright light. Everything is peaceful. Everything is quiet. I can be alone here.
Suddenly, someone appears in front of the wall opposite me. Hostility practically bursts out of their bodies to come pin me to the wall: their face shows horrible anger, their fists are balled up and they are shaking with the effort it is taking them to keep from attacking me at once. Another person, equally furious, steps out from behind the first person and takes a place beside them. Then another person steps out from behind, and another from behind them, and soon the whole opposite end of the room is filled with angry beings. They shout at me, and raise their fists at me, and snarl and spit and speak of murder. I look towards the window above me, hoping to escape, but it is higher than even the tips of my fingers and there are metal bars over the glass. The crowd of people grows angrier at my apparent consideration of escape, and a tall boy in the front steps forward and cups his hands around his mouth to scream:
”Kill yourself!”
More of the crowd begins to take steps towards me, all of them shouting and screeching.
”You are an ugly human being!”
”You are selfish and insane!”
”You are never going to solve your problems!”
”Phil, are you ready? It’s time to go,” says my mother. I blink. She doesn’t know what just happened inside my head. I guess that’s okay. What happened wasn’t real.
I rush out of my house and to my driveway, where my dad is waiting in the car. As we drive to school, he tries to have a conversation, but I can’t participate. I want to tell him that I am no more useful than a boiled cabbage. No rational humans should speak to boiled cabbages, should they?
Soon I am stepping out of the car again and walking into my school and then my first class. As it turns out, I am late.
Oh, yes, walk into class late. Look at everybody staring at you, Phil! This is pretty pathetic.
Sleepy Sloth Stares Silently into Space. Salliteration.
Teacher reminds Sloth of test tomorrow. Will Sloth be ready? By the way, Sloth missed the pop quiz at the beginning of class today, so Sloth will need to remember to make it up during a study hall later.
”Okay,” I say, through what feels like 100 yards of murky river water.
Class goes by. People talk; blah, blah, blah. Next class = more talking + more space in which to disappear.
”Are you alright?” asks Teacher #2. Sleepy Sloth Stares into Space and the teacher leaves. It is only then that Sloth whispers:
”No.”
