It is blue outside my window

the same blue of your eyes

cavernous, mawing oceans

waiting to consume me

It is blue outside my window

the same blue of your song

driven dark by hidden purpose

an unknown in the form of voice

It is blue outside my window

the same blue of your bruised lips

passionate, demanding, possessive

stealing my heat my heart my soul

It is blue outside my window

the same blue of your blood

spilled dark on the edges of the bathtub

cut on unsaid glass in your words

It is black outside my window

the same black that fills your absence

unrepenting, gaping

I will never know what made you so blue


Why is it different?

The way we once were
Gone now to dulcet fleeting shadow
and heel-ground dust
The skin of our smiles
laid bare
thrown on the fire to warm our changed bodies
Frail husks grown used to the cold
In the way that eyes grow used to farewells.

Why is it different?


She had blue hair
No eyebrows
Piercings everywhere
And I mean everywhere
She had lines down her arms
But she didn’t hide them
She announced them proudly, her own little banners
She waved them in the faces of the sneering crowds
Who dared to think they could judge her
She was immune to their poison, she’d already bled it out
And learned to love those who hated her
Because they had made her
An immobile rock
An immovable mountain
A crystal, grown beautiful in the darkness of her own mind.


The Walking Dead

I want to believe in ghosts
Because if the dead walk,
That means you can come back to me;
Crawling on maggot-eaten stumps
That used to hold me close
And hiss through decaying lips
The words you used to whisper sweetly in my ear.
Your bony fingers will rise through my hair like the pinnacles around your tomb,
And drag me down finally to rest with you.

The Walking Dead

You chose your owl because you thought it was wise.

I chose mine because it was a predator.


Lost Poetry Part 5

My time is running out,
far into the rabbit hole I to
to find a cured for the Itch.
The feeling I get from you is
fidgety and obtuse
like the little marks
of a really bad sunburn.
Please send the locusts away
for there will be no feast tonight.
Everyone is either dead or dying
and there is not enough space in the ground
or in the sky.
The stars splutter and fizzle and make up words of their own creation
to ease the parting of their deaths.

Lost Poetry Part 5

Lost Poetry Part 4

I like your nonsense
written in a nondescript hand on blank paper
where flowers bloom on dinner plates and dogs eat couch cushions.
I wish there was more of you, Stranger,
so that the world may not be so weak with illogic.
There are enough fires in this world to destroy the axis
and turn everything to dust and glittering stars.
And botched-out letters don’t seem so sad
when coupled with bad pickup lines.

Lost Poetry Part 4