Madder Than Some

Skies are blue (mine black)

and Time is running out

I cannot convene what I lack

So remember when we were young:

We loved everything we had

Lover, sweet flower, my night,

stay — for only you have seen

what nobody else would:

my hate, my hate, my hate —

such tempestuous vogue

Did you not insinuate you were mine?

Wish I could film your first frenzy,

lock it up in me for all eternity

Oh — what would I be without my mania?

Searching for littleness, incensed,

irked by the red-headed duck

sitting so silently under his melancholy

Beside me is Tomorrow, so ready

in her proactive initiative —

burning morning with each lingering

Fine wine, like brine, saturated

in fragrance of freesia,

a bouquet of bougainvillea,

lemon and lime — all this scent I leak

but not enough for you to seek

Will I be similar the next day

as I begin to frown like a clown?

They took my sanity and instilled

some submissive substance into me

What have I done with today?

Crashing like wild waves,

drop by drop, was it you I saved?

Sunday, September 30, 2012, 11:03 – 11:48 PM

In Quietude

Too long I have gone

without friends, families, anyone —

but quietude is what I want.

Peace that runs deep as reflection,

this aloneness of private introspection —

I am playing solitaire.

Words blossom as summer cosmos,

so softly tampering with my brain,

much like a tumor, yet friendly all the same.

I can see what I wish to see:

musical notes skidding in between conversations,

the chattering of crickets while away from their home,

tenderness from mechanization, an industry of worry,

birds singing untimely. Can you find them, too?

And the Sun sets so low,

aglow, with the daring stars' intervention

of an erudite freak-show. Is it bad chemistry —

I wonder? Every time I find it — him, or her —

a break is about to erupt. Inescapable. Deliberate.

Done. Maybe it's me. I cannot contain another

occupying the same shortage of space.

The envy — competition for vanity.

Antagonism commands me.

Everyone is my enemy. By the end of the day,

it is myself I am in love with —

its aggression an irresistible appeal.

An arrangement of crime.

Sunday, September 30, 2012, 9:40 – 10:13 PM

Liars

Oh, Mel, no one wants you

(not as much as I do)

and so we stay together as one:

your alter ego and you —

interred in the Underground

Scarcity, like pained beauty, makes up 

most of my world — it glows with mime

Yes: It rhymes, it rhymes, it rhymes

You shall not kill it for it is near-dead

It is the turning of the clock — its weathervane

pointing south, north, sometimes nowhere

but this secret womb of imagination that

tells me supper is soon, or I may die at noon

Foibles and fibs, they make no slip,

off into the tongue of Hell fires —

they dance dance dance with a spruce of cant

while counting meager words like lean beans

I make them mean (there is nothing else to do,

this time not even to think of you, darling)

So I fly and I cry and perhaps tell a little lie —

cause I can, cause it feels better than none

In a race of rudimentary ramifications,

I prefer a game of gayest contradictions —

with crayoned phrases, painted sentences,

pencils that color my compound calligraphy

Similes of slander, no matter how grander,

demote my chance of unveiling truth

But it comes with natural urges, like

oxygen and orange, like hills and rain

My utterance dewy —

as strings of spidery, spidery web

that entangle you, little lost flies,

and never let go

Sunday, September 30, 2012, 4:39 – 5:17 PM

Sun Worshiper

By the end of September, I am

a cyclone of bruises — battered and bleeding.

                                  Madcap meandering.

Panacea to my pain may exist somewhere —

but truly I am a masochist, incurable to my kiss.

The seer with no psychic power, one that is

too old for forever, I leap without looking.

Jumpstart my heart — won't you, dear?

It's dead. It's been like that for years.

My body ripens like juicy hot apricots —

peaches and plums — drippingly explicit —

you want it, you want it, but —

I want it more.

Believe in moderation. Donate enough calculation.

I am a horse — galloping in five days of doom

and two to recuperate — on and on dancing

with tangible Time. There isn't a second to pause.

Wind then unwind, I am a cog in a grandfather clock

that links its tick to a temperamental cuckoo bird —

waiting to get out of its big brass boredom.

Too much trickery: my complaints all versified.

Tomorrow when October sings,

I have no will to waste — unfit for a chase,

caught in a lifetime maze.

Saturday, September 29, 2012, 10:15 PM –

Sunday, September 30, 2012, 11:04 AM

Antihero

American hero,

the butterflies banged the drums in my heart

whenever I talked to you. Why is that so?

Then came understanding.

There never was anything: not reciprocity, nor calumny.

You are made of id; I am intentional heartache.

We are an unsolvable Rubik's cube —

primitive in each of our state, the bad news of the doubt.

So much is there for you to comprehend (and overlook)

— so little for me to compensate, or radicate.

Solitary stars sliding in a highway to nowhere —

particularity would mean a chore.

Suddenly you are too tame for my touch.

As such, I drift apart.

Too much insensitivity, not enough edge.

I see fog, multitudes of fright, that disharmony

floating in a bland-blue symphony.

You are the new motion sickness.

Your infraction becomes everyone's: dead kryptonite.

Sick sick sick — and we

                                       stopped.

Your bezoar used to be cathartic.

Now you are forever a child — never a man.

The failing of my heart.

Saturday, September 29, 2012, 7:54 – 9:53 PM

Psychotic

Vandalism is fun (as I am the perpetrator).

Kill yourself, Mother — before I kill what's mine.

I am tired of being nobody's child.

You raise me with so little affection

and sufficient scorn that I grow into

flowery fury. My petals red, some blood

(oh, yes, they are bad). They are the flames

that will tear your house apart — the hate

I learnt from everyone. I am the toxin

in your family. Your average middle-child.

Your men taught me to fight.

Thank you, Father, for the glass that broke my skin.

Thank you, Brother, for the stunt that

shattered me to shreds. I am not yet dead —

but a desire waiting to electrocute. This loveless rage.

War seems too kind when abuse becomes my dorm.

There is no home.

Oh, you want to shout? I scream louder.

These hands are willing to slay. Death never bothers me.

Less than humans, we are mere demons:

Destruction is dear; we hold no fear.

Climbing the stairs to supremacy,

the eyes see with impersonality in an animal's capacity.

Within me is

volcanic violence: magic that needs no medication.

Saturday, September 29, 2012, 5:11 – 8:58 PM

Sour Mess

I am your adrenaline — just never yours.

That rush, that rush, that rush —

Love, I was trying to find you

through every dark corner, every sunspot.

You can only be found after tasting cyanide —

for there is no cure to loneliness —

but attempted suicide.

You are a feeling: left from a slice of dreams,

of imaginary imagery, Life's lottery —

things I should never hope to be.

Extemporary perfection you are —

immaterial to my senses. Yet, how?

How am I to compromise? Whenever

I suggest a hint, there comes the wind,

blowing you away. You are so aerial —

you must live undersea,

with those coral reefs that besot me.

Once, I captured you, inside. You belonged

with flickers of perpetuated starlight,

raining into me like a bad memory.

I was yours and yours only. And I purred

like a cat — ready

to attack with much contempt in my claws.

Oh, my blade, my pretty, pretty knife.

Its pang shuns every of you —

leaving me with rust so wretched it rhymes.

I'm blind.

The tinkering of blight — blue soda fizzing

through my lungs, shaming the throat.

I am thirst unquenched.

Hunger that longs, that longs —

Sniff me like glue: I still keep a part of you.

Saturday, September 29, 2012, 4:53 – 5:46 PM

Experience

Can you see it? Can you see it?

I am an artifact of your experience.

A thousand erasable letters.

First, I am made of stones —

of clemency that knows no second chances.

Forgiveness is for fools —

like swallowing thorns without smelling the rose.

I need something in return.

Then, the Devil infects my daydreams,

collecting his fine. I sell him my utopia.

I let him be my tour guide.

                  This way to Hell, my child.

Most scenic, most overcharged.

Last, in its very least, Love feels too lonely

and defines into Hate. I am myself again:

Anubis reincarnates — the deceased doer,

a walking cadaver. Help me find my morgue.

I stare at people right in their eyes,

piercing, trying to suck in their souls.

Is it so wrong to pretend to feel —

to seem human? To dry up? I am horrific.

There shall be no other way.

Exaggeration is immature. Thus,

we divide — turning hollowness into shards.

As we grow older, we realize

how nothing is ever right for us. Nothing.

Not even this overused I love you.

Thursday, September 27, 2012, 2:20 PM –

Saturday, September 29, 2012, 4:23 PM

Furtive Thoughts

Go and flick the Sun with the cells in your heart —

Go and rip yourself apart —

Mr Cat perches on his lofty throne at five

to monitor the Sun. He thinks he is God.

His robe made of the purest gold and

he licks it and licks it for some handsome pride

— his presence a rendition of trust.

Thirty minutes onward: Ms Teacher arrives,

dragging indolence within her bones.

She envies the Cat and his glorious state.

She is so purple; she wants to be yellow.

She has nowhere to hide.

Secretly they long for each other —

for they know they are one.

The town abuzz. Her shameful market rots

with the mystery of carbon dioxide.

If one is pulsing and writhing and contemplating,

then she is to play commitment —

slipping into the absurdity of her dreams.

I watch the tower burn —

ashes and glances — is this a sabotage?

Apocalyptic interference?

My mind an alarm shouting mechanical fear

— must rise earlier than the roosters,

the dawn's harassment.

Everything revolves without a purpose.

Monday, September 24, 2012, 7:57 AM –

Thursday, September 27, 2012, 11:01 AM

So This Is Life

I am similar to repetition, opposite to direction:

I am anyone.

There is no need to view twice.

I am work, commute, and sleep —

any face you meet.

Morning prompts automatic worry —

of lateness, irresponsibility —

of things we grownups should not be.

And there's the entrance to my stage.

There's the invisible START button,

launching out of nowhere, nowhere but here.

I may be a puppet — but
can a puppet object? Cause I can.

Can a puppet plan the way I plan to kill?

I am a puppet in the way I cannot feel.

Perhaps I am a rock, softened by gossip.

These tales, this fault-finding,

these correctional ramblings —

what are we to do without them?

Without others who are human enough to ridicule,

others whose misstep makes us immortal?

We endear ourselves to civilize.

A civilization of villainy that loathes more than it loves

— but we agree. We set ourselves free.

I am an opinion: I do not exist.

My behavior is someone else's memory.

My personality a mere fad.

It shapes the prettiest category —

inclusive of blackness and anomaly.

And the brain a copy of books —

remote in its artificial originality.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012, 3:20 – 3:48 PM

Stasis and Solace

Once, I was in love. Watery love

so ordinary, not the miracle-making kind,

with an inch of worm,

a pinch of lies so commonplace

I could smell their showerless deodorant.

I am nailing myself to the typing to wary you.

And everyone. I am far too kind.

It was what I dreamt it would,

tallying each notch almost to the top,

indulging the pickle jar.

I used to cry. Realism as tangible as sin.

Possible like paradise. Two sides of thrill:

one illusion, the other insignificance.

He was it; you are not. Like anger, he was passion.

The conclusion to forbiddance. We clashed.

And we combined. Compounded erratics

too fierce for eroticism — and so betrayal.

What magnetic pulse was there?

We are two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle:

One fits the other. Even with concurrence,

there is no meaning behind this screen.

The smoke is only smoke: all inaccuracies.

Things to shove to the farthest end of the mind.

We are not meant for forever.

Jilted, we are but Fate's propaganda:

for me to blink at Hope and

for you to forswear Temptation.

Sunday, September 2, 2012, 10:44 PM –

Wednesday, September 26, 2012, 3:02 PM

Much Later Perhaps

I may not grow old; I may only be.
Will you be all right without me? Will you find a remedy?

I am a loose clock: I have been biting Time
instead of telling it. I have overgrown synchronization
that it is now a metaphor stored in a warehouse
by the woods. Too cocky for Envy, too disinterested
for your smile, arcane roots govern my harmony.
You cannot bury me for I am most alive when dying.
Look at me crying —

What right have you to formulate what's good?
Which authority?

I am like the scientist too in love with electricity —
I shall die embracing lightning. Burnt by the sky,
yet mentally intact. Speech is momentary:
It causes much misinterpretation. So I decide
to lock it up in the basement,
with those bejeweled spiders that lurk
and the attic ghost that cannot use the stairs.

I loathe occasional friends. They are
the core of contamination — blue in their detriment.

Obsession is more constant, with gusts of sartorial wind.
Calming, then chaotic. Splashing my skin with anarchy.
Today I love myself. Tonight I am mending my inner peace
with a needle and glassy beads. It shall be lovely
as the last words of a hanged man — vengeful but sweet.
I must hide from the egocentric rain.

Long ago,
I was hoping you would remember, but —
there is no darkness within you —
only sacrifice. All I never crave.



Sunday, September 23, 2012, 6:50 – 9:52 PM

Isolation

How many verses must I argue

till the heat breaks down like a little child?

How many of you?

I have grown too sad

for the world's anonymous taste.

My sigh is the new tuberculosis:

It costs more aversion than avarice.

My age is the wrong kind of metamorphosis:

It entails a desolate butterfly, drunk in its felicity.

Its wild benison brings wondrous warmongering —

I only speak in total regret your eyes can never let.

I am half of you: to every face an infidel.

Your lecture stones me to death;

your lightness insists to forgive my sin.

And how many clauses are there

in your constitution?

How many commandments must I endure?

I have sunk so low in your solicitation —

now it is time to revert to the shore,

where dry sands soothe my lungs with meditation

and damp sun remembers my call.

I am theirs and theirs only. Loved in my lewdness.

So, let me ask you this:

Who died and made you God?

I am in love with perversity. In myself a totality.

You shall not bleach me.

Sunday, September 23, 2012, 5:30 – 6:04 PM

Invitation

Come, child, come inside tragedy.
Won't you gladly humor the dying one?

Fear not
these darkening semicircles under my hollow eyes —
they are but two crescent moons,
too shy to shine outside.
They used to be Earth's, long ago,
when animals spoke to your kind in like-minded capacity.
So they began to miss sleep, like I, and turned inward,
to something as gluey as the tides within my sight.
I am their suicide.
My mismatched irises eclipse their latency.

Midair oddity sickens me. It is repellent for a truant.
At times I recreate how it would feel
to long for someone, by any name, but then
as one bears wicked health and distorted mentality,
she may only shriek and shrug it off.
Transformations deduce a confirmation:
To depend on another is a life of less. A thing of trifles.
Each is born to counteract. We are too good for societies.

By eleven tonight
you shall observe my midlife crisis —
twenty years untimely.
Evil has always been premature.
But surely you fancy me in my torture?



Friday, September 21, 2012, 2:34 PM –
Saturday, September 22, 2012, 11:23 PM

Moon Hours

My heart is a liar —

not I.

The moon was a powdery boat: lucent and smallish.

Night crept to ten in the midst of my unending journey.

I wished I had been home. But where could that be?

Somewhere not here. Vehicles turmoiled

at every side like restless Chinese dragons —

while pain licked my breasts,

confusing stress from satisfaction.

Disability may be kinder than diligence.

And then I went to sleep,

dreaming of Swedish cheese and beef sausages

I read from a children's novel

when I was unaware of cultural differences

or humor's hidden intention.

I did not know these streets, though they were named,

though they glittered in neon signs.

I would rather be lost than not knowing

next from neverthelessness, despite the rumor.

Oh — I am freeing myself

from her affluent influence. I am!

Charred in chagrin, charmed by cheapness,

I felt almost happy, simplified bliss, like this —

like the lone drake that flapped nobility

as he slept standing and I wept.

My heart wears a lock, Romeo —

you are not the key.

Saturday, September 22, 2012, 8:59 – 9:52 PM

Finality

We said everything we should,
tried everything we could
There is not a word left between us
Not even a phrase can bridge us
for we are meant to disappear after all
these asymmetric years that end who we are

Remembering means neither
joy nor jeopardy —
you are now an indifference to me,
too brute in its sick fragility
In your third reprisal,
I have been searching for my last grievance,
but everywhere is empty, like you and me

And so we leave by leaving no one
Dreams cannot fish me: There is no voice
I am far too gone, content in finding finality



Saturday, September 22, 2012, 7:43 – 8:11 PM

Advice

Dumb world, have you not seen enough?

We are immortal. Death never fails us.

Why fidget? Why make a fuss?

This is our call. The tuning of our blood.

Dying is ecstasy, like swallowing physical abuse,

slash after slash: It captures love.

You cannot, will not stop us.

It is stronger — than you,

than the whole positive currents combined

into one mass. Sad, but true.

Consecrated, it fills us. It always will.

Discovery that changed

the concentration of our brains.

Every way we turn is another detour:

an extended version of suicide.

Young and old, we are to decide.

Our life is not yours,

not the purified beauty you so idealize,

not the absoluteness you decree.

What about ours?

We wear eyes that contradict your fervor

— we are born in them.

Experiences too unimaginable for your concern:

Pain proceeds.

                                  So does fate.

Your opposition vilifies our liberation.

Impossible to agree that

nothing is wrong with negativity.

Will you look at us — and see?

Sorrow makes us happy.

We are true agnostics:

those who cannot and will not care.

As autumn, we are wilting, falling

                                        into the moon.

Friday, September 21, 2012, 2:28 PM –

Saturday, September 22, 2012, 7:14 PM

November 14, 2012

Look, Crow,
I am blacker than you. Stop parading.
There is no need to flaunt.
You know damn well I cannot
recharge my heart after dark. Its battery outdated.
Touch not my skin: Its sin brings contagion.
Fornication its diplomacy.
He would be there around the corner —
right when Heaven spilt a sky of ink — would he not?
I can feel it. A dream foretold.

Too many days forbade my tears.
For too long I have been acting —
an actor upon this stage called adulthood —
where crying is a sign of failure,
too much weakness for the audience.
Every word means persuasion.
Connotations could never be overliteral.
My feet, feverish, illustrate shy speed. I am brutalized.
Willingness leads to gradations of
ambition-suffering-indolence-contempt.

I am 100% porcelain — made in China.
My smile is overdue: It eternizes pain.
But on November 14, I shall be good again —
                                           good as dead.
Hit me, Fate. Hit me harder.
Even the angel of death keeps an agenda.



Tuesday, September 18, 2012, 9:50 PM –
Friday, September 21, 2012, 2:13 PM

Red, Paisley Red

Jailed

Oh frozen Hell, desensitize me:

I am yours.

A bulk of disaffection, a jar of waste,

and numbness my brain.

With such, I call every right to sneer

while the mask is a smiling grace —

the face of a stranded pioneer.

Is World not a jester?

To you, me, to this leprous deviation

that bridges no levity.

You have trained me so well —

your directional beauty the only rouses my radar.

When the spectacle gone,

I empty the quest for a valentine.

Imponderable days so suddenly

graph my map — better, somehow.

Indeed, I must hide. Down,

down to where the happy cannot censor me,

to the carpet of mistransliterations.

Baffling how a function can be this cruel —

I am a disbeliever, the substitute for anyone.

Expert in empathy but will never empathize.

Let it rout, let it rout. Life is not my game.

Monday, September 17, 2012, 3:15 PM –

Tuesday, September 18, 2012, 2:39 PM

Burial

There is a space outside of me:
three-dimensional.
They vacated its trinkets.
Its silken cheapness and heaviness.
It is now emptied of norms.

Societies adulterate insanity as an appetizer.
Somehow, they assimilate tensions
with inferiority. I wonder how
nonconformists end up these days —
boxed into a beautified stereotype. But how?

The lot takes up the size of one and a half
caskets. Oh, the plurality. It sickens me.
I have to be lone and only me.
For when I am older, I shall order
my brittle nails in their chipped manicure
to dig and dig and dig.

But who? Is there anyone to consign my plea?
As I stretch inside the concavity,
with pacifist rocks to comfort me,
earth shall suffocate with its greatest effort.
I am again dead.

A mind so patient
it echoes the surrounding waters.
Gulping indignity, inhaling asininity.
Lissome light beguiles
one-third of my honeydew walls —
reflective of an overture.



Sunday, September 16, 2012, 9:10 – 10:35 PM

Estimated Price

I am priceless after death. You'll see.

To the birds of prey,
to the carnivorous crawlers,
the bony fishes that witness my dying day:
I am their stock of flavored meat,
of mawkish marrow. Oh, my fruit?
The best of its kind. You'll see.

There is a reason to my suicidal scheme.
But let's not tell you. Let's save it for the hungry.
They shan't mind waiting for suspense.
Let's.

And my closure? It shall be pretty.
More poetic than poetry. For I love you most,
dearest, my angel, my only. You and everyone.

These words a means of prostitution:
They bait the weakest, the strong,
those that are too uneducated to learn.
But I love you. I do.

Like sniffing cyanide, a syringe in my left side,
I have come a long way.
Here is where I marvel at my fortitude.
Please — you must applaud.

Your promise of a friend — where is it?
How will it stand? When I die,
all I contain is your consent. Not a sign of sorry.
Not your designated pity. Never!

Alive, fattened with greed,
I am but a processor of breath, fouling
your emollient purity. Breathless, I shall be free,
an arch of concentrated rainbows —
suspended amongst the stars.



Sunday, September 16, 2012, 6:35 – 7:10 PM

Moon, Stars, Some Screeching in the Sky

Little town,

Your seductive sky walks with me
at twenty minutes after five.
I cannot determine its surreal nuance:
some pink that chases purple,
or blue arguing with gray?
Streaks of nighttime smog like frozen comet tails.
Bashful stars, their twinkling blaze too dim
in comparison with the crescent moon's crown.

Were I a seraph, with wings eager enough
to climb up and swim with antemeridian sparrows,
homeless bats, and those desolate aircrafts.
Had I not cut off my goddess descent. Had I
not swallowed all the pixie dust I stored in my vault!

I would goad an ox to the nearest market
and trade him with three magic beans
that grew and grew and greet the friendless giantess
up in her heavenly hut. She would show me
how to be useful. How to be human again.
I need not her golden-egg goose.

Instead, I worry.
My two feet rush to earn dirty money.
Sweats and sedition. Loyalty lies in queer questions.
I am nobody's. A runaway. Flesh and organs.
My stare a macadamia tree,
rooted to its singular discrepancy.



Sunday, September 16, 2012, 4:20 – 5:05 PM

Shelves for Secrecy

At the other end of my childlike bed,
plywood shelves rebel.
They are about to chop my ankle
with their lofty weight, their mighty stacks
of academic knowledge. I recite yours.
The one that would break your neck should it fall.
The one that knew you once loved me
in all your indecency.

From your letter, I listed shelf as the synonym of love.
A misdefined idiosyncrasy. Supposed I
loved you too — or at least, I thought I did.

So I changed. I began to slide my head
underneath, for one tardy wish.
On the weekends when I have the liberty
to lie deep in sleep, reframing half of my days
in a train of disremembered flashes,
the curse shall one day lift its mark. Oh, but
I am not one to complain on the subject of loneliness
— it seasons my breakfast, lunch, and supper.

How do I drink without loneliness?
Water tastes like a sore throat. My eyes shine
in blue margarita. This is a staring contest:
between wood and sentiment. Which will scar me first?



Sunday, September 16, 2012, 2:10 – 2:45 PM

Strange Whiteness

Absence, I wish to die.

You will read this from your discreet device,
or going to Argentine — as if I could not tell!
Do I not deserve to sense your hint
as it used to be? Do you not care?
Your words are too busy for me as
I am not love-worthy. I shall not hear
from you for I never need to.
Like everyone, you file me as an obligation:
twisting truth to legalize discrimination,
wanting to see your worth. I am
testing your waters. What is there left
to do when everything I kept —
everything — died long ago? But Death,
my second friend, ever faithful
to my succulent trends.

This began as something else,
like you and I. Something of sleepless sanity.
Entrapped in prime lights,
while everything white, you were the one
I prayed for — the salt to my tears.
A fish thrown out of her sea, I could not call,
could not feel. Time penned maybe
too slowly for my year. Wild winds for my morn
and midnight for my shore. Is life not an end?
To things with riotous grim. We are planned:
microbes under God's microscope.
Sadness lost — and it was the self I sought.
Moving, leaving, finding nothing
but this strange whiteness of my aloneness.



Monday, July 23, 2012, 6:05 AM –
Saturday, September 15, 2012, 10:07 PM

The Betrayer Who Loves You Most

Not until first light that I cried —

ignoring slumber,

heeding these sorrow's sparrows

It used to be your beginning,

your feral call, your sunrise

Now this strange whiteness

where everything can never be

mine as you once were

I see pine trees from my window,

not your rowdy, fruitless mango leaves

This black somnolence into grayish indigo

and the dawn of another Monday

Highway motorcycles racing with everyone

Is wealth not kindest?

A drop of my tears trickling down

onto my dirty doormat —

your trace that I adore most

Were I vulgar, I would install

the rest of my life inhaling your dust

— sniffing our childhood — rewinding

each day of our past till I lose my mind

I miss you, house —

think of me the way I think of you

I haven't slept since yesterday's mourn

— not one damned minute

Each awoken hour sending you

my unfaithful fidelity

and irrational devotion in

contrasts and convergence

where we weave our star-crossed dream

I have left you, my only heart

with all the trust I shall never give anyone

                                — our death is near

Monday, July 23, 2012, 5:39 AM –
Saturday, September 15, 2012, 7:02 PM

To Mars

I am on my way to Mars

enshrouded in the haze

of thirty minutes beyond midnight —

leaving you for another, my treachery,

selling the familiarities I rounded all my life:

motherly roads to my childhood,

ghastly chartreuse neon —

campaigning a temporal business,

lime, magenta, orange seashells —

their lunar relics some ogling aliens,

gasoline bottles bubbling like a witch's potions,

green grocers unloading a truck of bananas

What are these people doing at this hour?

These were everything I ever was

You keep five cats, seven kittens,

a canister of their food,

and my nineteen-year-old mattress

I do not cry — see?

Your baby is now an adult — straying

from her surrogate mother —

selling her to Death — for another,

some dead stranger's belongings

Will I never sleep anymore without you?

My ears plugged in a feminist pop song

with five broken nails, the victim of weight,

of grudges taped onto cigarette boxes

Gigantic towers bathe in red warning —

marooning cycles of yellow street lights —

dense trees flashing above my head, naming

my middle school, high school, college

The city grew with me — and now without

I could smell new money hushing around

our neighbors' houses — and that placated

rainbow arch waving FAREWELL

Goodbye, house —

Monday, July 23, 2012, 12:37 AM –
Saturday, September 15, 2012, 6:39 PM

Reactivating the Masochist

Honey money,

my nemesis, my Lord,

I have come to you in surrender.

I am your willing slave, begging for

more pain, never forgiveness.

Devour my bones; entomb my comely death.

It was sickness I sought, and illness I preach.

This epitome of greed:

                        my pride and personification.

On the third day I began to see my destiny:

a span so empty it feels like flowing

through a galaxy of dead babies. I am alone, alone,

reaching from a gas-filled void that is my home.

Surrounding me is moondust, stardust,

the glimmering of sun's soliloquy.

I have come to a space of sour stoicism —

where Sunday means eternal resurrection.

Saturday speaks like an owl.

Its wisdom plugs my spleenful tears.

What better way to kill a child than prodding her

to question her price?

Circumlocution may someday clarify

my unwitting location. I wake in so much grime

that I breathe the slime of resistance.

Whatever happened to repentance

that used to bless my coffin? I am of no value.

This graveyard I trudge — they name it Earth.

Swarmed with servants; polluted with honks.

Conformity means haven. It salves.

Tomorrow is another round,

gambling life in a game of silence.

Saturday, September 8, 2012, 8:55 PM –

Tuesday, September 11, 2012, 8:45 AM

My Pretty, Pretty You

Miss Rabbit,

You smell like a whore.
Your carrots juiced into half-lit catastrophe.

Remember rage — that is your sole savior.
You have no one. Not even the one
you see in those dreams. Rage
like the machine that you are. You are
made to wind without a second chance.
Inhuman in your awakening,
how unsavory shall you be without me?
Two hands that work like a clock, tick-tock
till they embezzle enough emblems,
some papery treasure perhaps.

Oh, you are ugly as an ogre —
be uglier as you grow older.
Only replenished riddles your contender,
you are better without —
so, season your bobtail with salt,
your pinkish ears with dissolution,
and sprinkle some leery innocence
lest the humans preserve your foot
as a lucky keychain. You are a talisman.

You blonde little thing, my evil twin,
you cannot show me
how light travels into your eyes,
splitting my morbid mind in two.
My pretty, merry you.



Saturday, September 8, 2012, 10:29 PM –
Sunday, September 9, 2012, 9:23 PM

Track Me Down, Misery

What have I done with my days?
Things I cannot tell my nights.
They — they try to give me hope,
those grasshoppers, green like a metaphor.
They are ice-cube fresh, young as grass.
They know not a thing of what I am capable of:
I can paint sunshine as it drops into the sea;
I can be who I want to be. Just not me.

What was it that we saw the other day?
Immaturity garbled in cotton,
defying my scorn, wrapping
her eager arms around his waist.
Who does she think she is? As if
she owned the God-damned place!

Everyone's left into the blue.
Leaving me as I left them.
I knew what I knew since I was a child.
Feelings are not made to last —
they are contemporary. They are the fruits of envy.
Am I still alive when I rise earlier than the sun?
Am I still alive when I walk home with
sullen stillness — bats hovering above?
My eyes never see any light.
              I am adjusted to the dark.



Saturday, September 8, 2012, 10:40 PM –
Sunday, September 9, 2012, 7:38 PM

Falling from Grace

A bat so sable kissed me
on my returning from work —
must be the scent of my titillating tears.
I am the dirtiest dirt. You shall love
how easy I sound: I am shellish.
Do you know whom I found?

I could not find the path nor the gate.
Everything black. Dark streets billowing;
willows wildly wobbling in such grace
that it colloquialized anti-gravity.
But every way works when it works.
I have no crumbs. I smell like ten thousand.
Is this the Hell they call home?

True, true — I had to love you.
With lips redder than raspberries,
I mirrored a princess calculating her vanity
— her teenage misdeed.
Scorpio, you greedy constellation
that runs my ruin, I am yours for the night,
this night, where a flock of falcons
mesmerizes a lake till it breaks into a scream.
Yesterday they spun stars.

I am pain evacuated from scrutiny
after twice multiplied by travesty.
The lies I told become gold.
I am a saint missing my citizens.
Today I saw a man perked in prettiness
that I fell in love with his bare skin
more than all the love I had promised you.

Oh, must I make no sense when it counts?

Tuesday, September 4, 2012, 8:46 – 9:20 PM

Revelations

How many times must you be hurt
till you agree he is not listening?
How many nights must your dreams conjoin
from tear to tear?
How much pain must your body contain
till it decides to find its friend?
It is wilting for so many years —
you are made of ashes; you walk on air.

There are men outside your window:
busy men, rude men, young and weathered.
Their noise a contradiction to your begrudging stare.
Their office your broken heart.
You wish they would not stand.
Can you not see life?
Can you not feel the movement of money?
It makes the world go 'round. Not love, not love.
Not the kind you visualize. Not even the feisty Sun.

When sounds subside, you talk to voiceless ends —
as if they would adopt you
and all your self-deprecating discovery,
as if they would mutter and grow a pair of wings!
And so you marry resentment
for there exists no one to call you home.
With four, you shall be safe.
Safe from tomorrow's uncertainty,
from the buses' ruddy nonconformity.
You are a voyager: Focus on the screen.

Sunday, September 2, 2012, 8:21 – 8:48 PM

Apple and Cyanide

Alan my dead Muse,

Infatuated with myself,

I cannot love another.

You had a cause. I query if mine is

as vital as yours, as fatalistic, or if

it evolves from untamable adaptation

I seem to reprise in a higher and higher dose.

Loneliness brands me an addict.

I know I am dying when I stop caring.

I know I am dying when rapture comes

from a kitten who enshrines my lair.

I am dying for thirteen years.

It was a secret for books. My psychic recipe.

I kept it intact until Sylvia lured her Ariel.

Once shameful now a schedule: I have to die.

History is made for glory — you see?

We shall be tossed aside, ditched

in the dump, with rotting banana peels,

right there in the center of filth.

Desire is a drug — it drives us to kill.

That's what I know. All I can remember
is looseness. How crumbly life is when we

have found laziness. We wait and wait

for a miracle, and when it never shines,

we know it is time to hurry peace.

There is nothing left for us to marvel.

No glitzy prisms or bluebells to typify

our nest: Everything is coal.

Saturday, September 1, 2012, 11:13 PM –

Sunday, September 2, 2012, 7:41 AM