i’m sorry it upsets you when i make morbid jokes but i’m nervous, shaking so hard my bones crash together and split, splinter i’m going to waste my last few inhales on cigarettes, exhales on moans, (if you’ll elicit them) and yes, i’ll have brunch with you we’ll drink unsweetened coffee pick at pastries and i’ll tell you thank you for buying...
an ode i need a new everything because everything smells like you because my fingers still smell like you because apparently the smell of you isn’t as easy to get off as the rest of you is easy to get off the so-called “best of you” that i was getting i kept forgetting to let go walk away - no! run away take off these fucking 6-inch heels that you dressed me in to impress all of your friends...
i have never written your name in poetry before even moons ago when i thought maybe it had a worthy sound some syllables that gripped my taste buds and made everything sugary and sparkling like the pollen dust from gerber daisies or the lilac bushes by the window that close my throat each morning but still make my lips curl with their perfume and i can feel my eyes water now that...
echo4charlie: burningmuse: Greetings fellow writers: Project: Deconstructed had been given the thumbs up. Thank you to those who have stated interest in the project. Here are the details: Ask your readers to suggest one of your pieces—that they would like you to deconstruct for them. Provide this information—in either text or video format. Break your piece down—line by line—and explain...
he doesn't care much for my sarcasm
please let me borrow your sharp tongue so that i can slice my gums and pluck my teeth out one by one by one more… pluck! you’re safe now my words will no longer carry that bite
it's not a side effect
this isn’t withdrawal i just happen to be shaking and wet for the chance to live in the crevices of your laugh lines and spit silly little rhyming poems into your coffee when you’re looking the other way so that your skin curls up and i keep warm
my entire body my fingers and my cheeks, the lids of my eyes and my clit, thin wrists, the sensitive spot behind my knees where you can turn me on with a ghost of a touch are filled with blood vessels, made of blood vessels if you peeled my skin off they’re all you would see, like crossed wires and if you want to disarm me just cut the right one (or the wrong one) i was built to...
my belly caught the stubborn silent weight of you like a cannonball and i began to vomit gunpowder and thick charred chunks of lead the skin there bruised up half inky-purple like an eclipsed moon and swelled with deep craters like black holes and bloodshot eyes that grew fingers with nails like thin baby-blades the heat of it felt freezing cold winter eyelash icicles that melted into a pooling...
my therapist (who is sinking eternally into a couch whose cushions are stuffed with the pages of the stories from the books that have never been written, but rather spoken rather uncomfortably within a clinical hour) said to replace all of my habits so i traded alcohol for cigarettes your body for poetry pornography for prayer the brake for the accelerator and left the rest up to god
they say picking pennies from a wishing well in the center of the city is a sure sign that you’re on your way down. and i think they may be right, but only because the coy that swim there reflect the sunlight too brightly and it bounces from their scales and into my hang-over eyes. maybe i’ll lay with them and breath in the copper water. i’ve heard drowning is the most...
it’s the memories of anticipation the tease of the coming attractions that i think of today the scent of breakfast wafting through the hallways and foreplay christmas eve and the lick of the bottom lip before a kiss the build up before the let down the memories never quite stack up compared to the excitement of creating them so let’s fumble in the dark but leave our...
let’s bathe together in rare spices so brightly colored that the sun and the planets dancing around it watch on in pure jealous-ecstasy. let’s feel how they burn holes through our skin like bullets, and open our flesh up to the elements. you crawl into me, and me into you. let our dust be windblown in the red clay deserts and mix with the shades of the sand, so deep that they will...
i have to close my eyes when i see images of the earth or other planets, glowing, taken from a satellite somewhere way up in the stars they make me feel so small i feel my chest tighten as my lungs expand when i am being represented by a dusty speck of light on a map of things yet to be discovered they make me feel weak and like i could just be lifted into the atmosphere at any moment turned into...
A reading of Ribcage and some bloopers at the end. Warning, I swear when I get frustrated. The F-word is within.
some nights we write or i write feverishly, and the lines inked are so simple in nature so simple in sound that we feel we have not accomplished poetic justice and we dismiss those words let them turn to dust, fall like dead matter from the page, the eternal skies too ashamed to put our names to words like ‘i miss your brown eyes and i miss the way your hands felt’ but...
dark circles a spoken word piece by tiredfoxes ...
fever saints, fever saints
i was told that there are songs sung by sinners and there are songs sung by saints. one sings to the other. one sings to the other. one sings to the other. over and over. until the sinners are weeping. until the sinners are praying. until the saints are laughing. until the saints are sinning. and the songs will skip on cracked vinyl until nothing nothing nothing exists
sweet death, honeybee.
the dust from your shattered honeycomb bones has just begun to settle and the last image you painted is a crystallizing, sweet-sticky mirage of yellow pollen light say goodnight now we’ll all soon join you as fall falls all around our bodies…
wish i were there
often, my mind wanders off so far that the muscles in my body would snap and die and rot before i ever caught up so i let it go and like a loyal lover out of lustful habit, the habit of lust, it returns, always with stories, handfuls of lilies and postcards ‘wish you were here’ it looks beautiful, open desert fields, cattle, haunted ranches in the distance sepia and...
our lust is made up (all in my head, or legs) but i want to ruin your make up your body is a bad influence on my body