in the garden of eden,
adam just is not right for eve.
adam is drinking bleach;
the forbidden fruit is premature suicide.
Category: writing
feast
her heart wasn’t steady
a ship in a storm
your constant tugging of doubt
porcelain in versace heels
shining and talking politely
medication and daddy issues
is this what could have been?
dress never wrinkled
reasonably educated
a muse for your artistic endeavours
manic
pixie
dream
girl
shes falling and
grasping on bodies and trying to get back up
tripping and slipping and
holding onto the warmth of blood to blood
spaced out
close to death
close to pain
raw throat
wishing she could go back to those times
slamming on the cement
in the bathroom you are trying to stop her
knuckles bruised
bleeding and blacking out and bleeding
not back there
she cannot go back there
you wont have it
matters are tough
and feelings are sharp
shallow pangs
you feel nothing
she is rotting
flies on the meat
swirling and feasting
winding
Inflatable dreams at needle point aching to be popped
The angry pro stitchers fingers are getting sweaty grasping at the tiny needle
Their milk crates are dented from constant pressure and continued sitting
Thick dreams at night with orgies and oozing glitter
The stiff buttons are hard to press
Yet so satisfying to touch
And take-out fries are never the same as crisp virgin ones
Mouths salivating at the thought
Anxiety builds and the glitter orgy ends
Run your hands on the picnic tables getting as many slivers as you possibly can
Slur your words from the pain of the wood chips embedded in your skin
Wooden floors drip with blood
An endless search for the first aid kit
Iced hands that feel as heavy as blocks of wood
Those cigarettes are eaten for 20 dollar bills and the party begins to pick up
Grayscale nights with a bossy little personality to match
Crisp floating memories weighing heavy on your chest
your head
and your back
shards
I sit in the ladies changeroom again and again
cursing the broken glass in my fingers
when I grab something the wrong way
pain shoots through my hand
but I can’t find the shard or the invisible pain
I want blood
not this tiny sharp intruder that hurts when I twist
I have this glass in my finger
hiding me deep in the changeroom
Cricket Dream Land
In the beginning I was shy and bashful,
Not knowing what I wanted or what you knew.
We were quiet and in love,
The symphonic sounds of crickets and frogs at night in the hayloft,
I had my first drink with you.
I kissed you and it felt amazing,
Your neck kisses made me so warm.
Now I hate sleeping alone and being alone,
and thinking alone.
Who will I tell when I cant breathe,
I cant breathe now.
I am repressing thoughts of you but they scatter the city.
We have spent years together,
I’m drinking again.
I really don’t know why I did it so fast.
I feel sick and I cannot eat,
I toss in my sleep only waking to think of a moment we shared and cry.
I wear the bracelet you gave me and I cannot take it off.
I feel your touch on my skin and I want to hold your hand,
I know the memories of your touch will fade and I will have nothing left.
I know your body better than you do,
Is this really best for any of us,
We were fine,
We got in some fights but we still loved,
We have different personalities but we still loved.
And yet we both long for the hypothetical love of another,
What, are we suppose to meet another and everything will change ?
We will have all this perspective and knowledge,
Perhaps that won’t happen,
But if it does I want you to know you own my heart,
As stubborn as we both are we have to admit that we learned a lot from each other.
I hate to write as if it is over,
I don’t want to type it,
It would make it real.
I want to live in the cricket fantasy land,
Live a thousand years in your loft.
Surrounded by movie posters, sleeping bags, and your body.
I want to live in a daze.
A fever dream,
But that can’t happen and we have to come to reality.
I love you,
I love you,
And thats why it hurts.
In the end I’m cold and vain,
Not knowing what I want,
Quiet and out of love.
Manic picsy gal
Feasting on the wind
Only to preserve a pile
Picturing what it would be like
to be preserved
We are choking
Intangible
picture that
thick spit cascading from my chin
trying to swallow
they won’t take that
I hate myself,
and you hate yourself.
mutually
marbled and cool to the touch
Demand
I burn a deep rich green
Peeling into 21
I wear black
I want to feel it all
I bloom pink and soft
Later flowers are the most driven and solid
Thick hearty petals and stacked plant flesh
Afraid to be sexual?
“I think I’ve faked more orgasms than I have had”
I burn a dark luxurious red
Let the flowers open
Ask Or demand
Burn the colours you need to be
Burrito Boy
he smells like he’s homeless but he lives in Beaches
he’s eating a sushi burrito.
he’s all about pretend panic attacks and shiny excuses.
daddy’s money, daddy’s boy.
living on the 56 floor and doesn’t know how too cook
city living metro man
If you get what you are given,
Do you ever really get what you are given?
If you take what is there,
you take it for granted.
Holy Bedroom
The hungry bed waits for you,
with its sheets twisting and its pillows stiff.
Just take a bite of the apple,
let the juice run down,
dripping and sticky.
Warm milk in a plastic cup,
Just like grandma gave me.
The perfect temperature,
no bubbles or steam.
The bed is restless,
it wants to be full.
I cut the poached eggs
you watched the yolk spill out,
beading in small yellow drops.
Dribbling onto a spongy bed of rye.
Sleep my little angel,
tell your mom you are in good hands.
The bed has you now,
twisting its cotton sheets around you,
like little tricky snakes.
My Neck, mY bacK
And without a word they touched their bare bellies together,
Making slurping sounds.
Anna, with a drink in her hand said,
“It just made sense”.
“It just did” she repeated.
A ritual? A greeting?
Who knows.
Starrfishing 