Misaligned

On this very night
twisted roots combine.
On this very night
the black roots climb.
Convulsing
their tarnished boots rubbing
carcass creased at the edges
connoting a structure that
stays in one place
without movement or stillness.
Eyelets sinking in
like vagrant lost souls
waiting for a train
that will never come.
On this very night
there’s a disruption of the sort
of confusion wrapped in cobwebs
waiting to dismember when a voice calls out
and a shadow of curly auburn hair
snakes into the crevices

Of the mind you are trying to save
Of the heart you are trying to rehabilitate
Of the worry you are trying to suppress

On this very night

The only sound is aching
The only taste is bitterness
The only touch is empty air

cold night air to swallow you up
into the depths of
disillusionment and disappointment
festering like an ancient city
crumbling from the might of the harrows.

Dr. Martens 3-Eyed Oxford Red

I see those red burgundy
edges of leather laced and
hold my breath
for some things at will
can only escape
when seen they
can only admire the scenery
drink from thirst and
rebuttal the claims left by
the scuff of their nose
sockets a scratch at the nip
where toes sit and watch
silently squashed perfectly
in those haunting thoughts of
inconsistent refurbishments
laid gently at the corners
of my mind hole waiting
just waiting to see those
Dr. Martens 3-Eyed Oxford Red
shoes at my doorstep.

Got to Go

Got to go
yes, I’ve got to go.
there’s places to be
and grippings to show.
Coming off of caffeine
is a silly little trick
when the goings get tough
I drip, drip, drip.
“Try gripping the sternum”
my doctor said to me
he wasn’t too bright
and I broke my natural flee.
It ripped quite in half
and the labels fell off.
Slipped past the brink
of a shoe-seller’s watch.
Got to go
yes, said I
before I fall down dead.
My doctor told me “no”
with orange flames for eyes.
He told me not to worry,
I believed his switched disguise.
Got to go
yes, now I’m late
One minute past the clock
and let me past the gate.
My doctor turned to me
in a clean white linen coat
from a lab he stole it from
in pressure always dote.
“Then go!” he yelled quite loud
and promptly disappeared
the grey clouds swiftly parted
as I ran away, uncleared.

She Is

She is everything
and nothing
at once.
a balance to my sunbeam.
the shadow of a tree
so tall, it bends through
space and time.

-She is always present
in the back
of my mind-

what will be
will be
and everything else
will follow in its path.
There is no struggle
without wrath.
There is no feeling
without laugh.

Some may pass
but she is present,
individualistic;
a being of her own
illusions,
an actor on the stage
called life.

She struggles, yet
believes in love.
She battles with her strife.
she is miles wide,
embracing all in her path.
she is a curl unfurled;
she is built to last

a sash uncurling

slowly

to reveal
something new
that time can heal,
and start to grow.
She is miles long
with thick kind eyes.
She is light and airy,
she tells no lies.

She is gentle with myself,
and I
can’t help falling
in love with her
for the very first time.

What calls is change
and greater still.
she is hope
unbreached;
a painter’s skill.
She is pure emotion,
raw energy,
so lovely.
She belongs here now
in this grown-up land of
symmetry.

She pains me still,
a youth to find.
grows stronger
each day;
finds time to unwind
and falls over sometimes.

Tries to send her longing.

Tries to fit by belonging.

She is everything else
and nothing still;
a home; a wish;
a winning tell;
a place to rest
for the restless heart.
She yearns for love,
she wants a fresh start.

And ever still
And ever now

each precious minute
she craves for more.
Starved by this growing
need to be free.
She is everything
and nothing
all at once.

A rapture for my searching.
A being come undone.

My Big Bloody

There is an ancient form
of hollowness that emits
from humongous placements of foot-to-brow
and swishes in the evening light.
That pulsing, slimy thing you call a cunt or heart.
Well, it slips through every channel of the vein,
slippery, still pulsing in vain
to the rhythm of cracks in the vanity mirror
or estranged looking glass ahead.
Slips of danger pulled annulled
bright through the rupture of
beat sockets and frothy blood.
Drippings of the kill swoops longer still,
stagnant, collecting
in deep velvet pools of red or scarlet.
The blood has crystallized to frozen purple thighs.
It has enveloped the body
to thaw it and eat it for breakfast
like waffles or pancakes crusted with blood.
Not animal, wolf-eaten, dog-flea bitten, blood;
but crass, raw, sinewy, unfiltered menstrual blood
that comes only from a woman.
There is this ancient force
that tugs secretly
at the wall of my uterus,
to the fat red cysts clustered over ovaries,
never to budge.
So when it comes,
there are no walls or sheaths
to stop its arrival.

What a Pain in the Eye!

It hurts, this strain
Of a necktie too tight
of a finger, mislead.
Where all the brain portals
go to rest in the hole called:
stretched.
It devours everything at its wake
like a bubbling earthquake trembling under
all that weight.
It throbs, like an eye socket twice its size,
gassy glassy eyeball jutting out
quaint in its arrival
for the whole world to see.
But they can’t see me.
As I throw on an invisibility cloak
And steal pork buns until
my stomach collapses from the meaty greed.