going quiet

why did you swear to me

and let my numb feel odd

i understand the sympathy

of disparaging your own love

.

why did you swear to me

and let my numb feel good

if i don’t pass your humanity

i’ll let you be the first to intrude.

Fyrfaldig

A hush overcomes me,

And we’re too quiet in the standstill

In the loop that keeps on

Swallowing without remorse

Taking over our every honed recourse

As the roads were buried with snow and roadkill

Still, what else is there left to do

But love and suffer now

In the throes of you—maybe you—

And me, never me

I’m not there to be so simpleminded and so free

With you, always you

You plead ‘pray sing a song about me

Upon the day of my death’

Whilst I still find crass compliance in hoping

Hoping you find some sense in

Madness, all madness, all

But some may call it a sensible rebirth

The burn of twenty-six years

Under the bitter silence of our bored sanity

I wonder, left only to wonder

If you had finally found outer peace,

Then—sought out and sanitised

And sensationalised, they all made you

Into a teenage martyr playing their innocent fool

The gold and glitter tongues are ever so

Picky with what they choose to

Guillotine, but I promise I will never

Leave you in the rearview

Even as you do

Even as this silly heart promises another plastic scar

Even as my anguished mind scratches

At the walls and strips out the dirty seams

And slips on the iciest soul

As it screams and screams and screams for the

CRASH…but there’s only quiet now

Quiet like I said I love you

Screaming like I said I meant it.

(s)mother

I fled the scene

A reckless scream

Embroidered tongue

A hanging screen

Intrusive holes

A leaky ceiling

Hold it—or don’t—

A strangled feeling

.

You hid the crime

A deathless prime

Unraveled lips

A drain, some grime

Illicit goals

A stranger’s flooring

Hold on—please don’t—

A breathless pleading

when in rome

a light dusting of asbestos

and the gold lines of calacatta

following me past crumbling columns

.

knuckles softly bruised

olive oil dripping from the

salty crust of hardened bread

half-eaten, drizzled with

cough syrup and bad latin—

.

a prosody of unholy communion

history falling in five seconds

.

in this place, i am no one

i am as insignificant as

a flock of pigeons, and not quite

as entertaining—and not as

well-fed. though perhaps i am not my

destination; i am merely a splatter

.

of forged constellations

and the soil of a thousand other cities

encrusted on the soles of my worn shoes—

i am a parody of gilded wanderlust.

[the death of] peace of mind

too late to be disappointed

what’s there to chew but choke on teeth

take the blame—take me instead

faking stability for months within the

pursuit of something bullshit

did i look good when i tried my very best

or when you said i was built of

chasing inadequacies

did i stutter or sob when i sawed off

my limbic system, so you can’t

play my nerve anymore

to the tune of your most spiteful melodies

so wrench me open and tell me

it never ends

i’m prepared to be your perfect

permanent little burden

maybe one miracle ought to make me

a better man, then—or something

else brave and beautiful

to be your water supply poison

so tell me you’ll keep on pandering

and praying for me

like i’ll [be] give worth a shit if i feel alive

maybe i still love you but

it’s too early to try another failed suicide so

instead maybe i’ll just tell you

that you were right.