and a kind
and battery acid—
all i’ll ever really
have with you.
and a kind
and battery acid—
all i’ll ever really
have with you.
you’re the worst kind
of mental disturbance
an overreactive type
of chemical imbalance
you’re the bad version
of a daydream in winter
a paroxysmal state of
transience in evermore.
Give my crash test body
Another shot of lidocane
My punctured lungs need
Its unusual shot of oxygen
As it s-s-stutters through
What used to be a clarity
B-b-breaking apart syllables
Like a feigned calamity
Wait for contagious chemicals
To course through liquid lies
Imitating another fake panacea
Muffling premonitions to die
A shutdown in my system
Scribbled clots all over my veins
Filtered in expendable organs
Until only basic parts will remain
The incentive for a flourished
Technique in my pericardium
Paranoia cyanotic, bare threads
Until there’s angels in the room
Arrhythmia ticking metronomes
In a pulse that still blindly beats
And a serpent in the colder lumen
Ravaging the amputated disease
So just give this crash test dummy
Another shot of every single medicine
And if I die before my body wakes
Ensure that I’ll have enough morphine.
Only you can make all this world seem right
Only you can make the darkness bright
Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do
And fill my heart with love for only you…
how can i say
that i envy the chase
from the tip of my pencil
to your graphite gaze?
spitting my heart
onto an endless canvas
of greys and blacks,
hoping the red would stain…
but it never does.
only your floral words are
indelible on my skin
and the reverse
is just a lie i tell myself
so i could sleep a little better
every forsaken night.
the truth is far from your moon;
beyond all your pretty stars
and iridescent eternities,
it is despairingly beyond my fathoms.
but i hope, and again i hurt
for butterfly smiles
and deluding taciturn undertows
and nightmarish illusions
leaving bruises of you
on the very tip of my lost tongue
and all over my wept eyes;
a lifeless empty void
against the autumn shower
of your warm hermetic glances.
and there is no one else
to keep this rusted clockwork
ticking rhythmically to the beats
of your mindless cradle…
and that is the ultimate folly
of this ascetic destructive shale
that i tactlessly call my soul.
for a fool’s machinery,
this chemical heart is.
So indiscernible to lose itself in
such vitreous self-infliction,
and sabotaging the very blood
that my tiring arteries
now regain, thus to sustain
the very memory of your breath
in tranquil consonance…
foolish—and yet; a fool, i am.
a fool for believing that this
lie was past the dark side of the moon
and beyond my wounded stars
and lacklustre infinities…
you are despondently beyond my fathoms.
but i hope, and again, i hurt.
ma cherie, just how can i ever say
that i envy the calm reflection
from the incipience of your melody
to your coda’s revelations?
Only you can make all this change in me
For it’s true, you are my destiny
When you hold my hand
I understand the magic that you do
You’re my dream come true
My one and only you…
One by one the days fall beside us like yellow leaves
We have no conscience, oh, what we’re becoming
Month by month the rings on our tree trunks
Like old wise eyes grow wider
And winter lends them a dead disguise…
all the times
that my pretence
falls away to reveal
a dissecting evil
crashing against the
of your crystal eyes
and whenever the bats
residing in my belfry
bite in rabid shreds
as i told you the reasons
why i don’t need the sun
to watch over my lies…
i didn’t know it hurt.
and even when your mouth
moved to speak of the
florid diamonds leaving your
bones with every suspended
breath i took, still i ignored
it, and culled the butterfly wings
you were only beginning to grow
crushing them for my own fool’s
grey stained glass interpretation.
i see my sorry mistake now
what an envious tongue i was
to impede and torture change
and wring them dry in deception
shivving the lunacy fringe deep
in my virulent, violent strain
perhaps the sense was never mine
to keep in mine caustic waste.
you merely wanted roses to
bloom in your pulsating thorax,
but my scissors never gave
you the chance to do so
and a different shade of scarlet
touched your skin that day.
but despite the endless famine
that haunts my soul, there’s
still thistles to be removed,
fertile soil to be revived, and
you handed me the trowel even
when i already lost sourly to you.
it’s another chance to repair all
the misfortune, to mitigate all the
repercussions, and to plant a
thornless blossom in this stygian
garden of choked weeds and demolition.
i won’t count my stars before
they paint the sky with yellow fire
but i can always count on the
misbegotten heart, sparing
another courtesy for the misguided.
no more plucking petals from
shivering deoxygenated lungs,
no matter how temptingly pretty
they may be to my twitchy fingers;
may the poisonous chemicals
no longer adhere to sprouting foliage
and murder them in cold blood,
may the flora in ingenue poetry not
be mendacious and remain untainted,
and pray let this withering, barren
desert of a garden be resplendently
efflorescent and verdant with life once more.
Now time, like an ocean, knows tide, like a notion
To toss about the house and lose inside the couch
Piles of our thoughts run miles in the dark
Just trying to get home, age by age
We rime with our seasons’ rehearsed routines
Still turning and returning…
Pretend like I don’t entice you
I’ve seen you circling the sky above my head
I will never be taken for granted again
Keep digging holes in the desert!
Say a prayer for you…
The gun that you ate like the last judgment cancer
You won’t wake up again, this taste lingers forever
Dreamless and searching for another god to pray over
Will there be salvation? Will there be a foolish answer?
The razor that you choked down like a monastery hate
Won’t return the tidal waves to you, so don’t even wait
If the fragile daybreak rises up just a little bit far too late
Satisfaction is the ultimate lie, rosary beads will separate
The rope that you pulled on like it’s the final act of a closing show
But the opera voice won’t stop singing and the audience won’t go
You won’t see without binoculars, the culminating genocide glow
Belting out every tragic demise, shot like holes in a glass thorough
The chemicals that you injected and ingested like a sinner’s last meal
Still without a clue in your veins and arteries what it’s like to ever feel
The camera’s shooting another hallucination, another high for the thrill
Between you and me, I’m curious to see who will be taking the first kill
The life that you took rather casually as if it was yours to actually control
They wouldn’t stop playing the film reels even when you said to end it all
Selfishness carving lined notches in the bedpost where you’ll take your fall
Slipping away from existence as you wondered if you were truly alive at all.
She’s mine! You stay away from her
It’s not her time, ‘cause, baby, I’m the one
Who haunts her dreams at night
Until she’s satisfied…
For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.
Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.
There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.
How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.
I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.
For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.
But these bruises don’t breathe
Unless you ameliorate them
With your own cold, lifeless hands
The daylight appears desolately bleak
Sucking out watercolour dawn and sunset
Waiting for you to speak about them
Jagged contusions that I tend to
Hiding constellations when you’re awake
Afraid that you’ll leave me for the light
Midnight is but a chemical rush
Your body is but an unfinished work of art
Morning is but an automatic languor
I’m useless anyway; so use my trophy eyes
And when you get tired of the view
You can blind me and throw away whatever’s left.
I got a year’s supply of capsules
I got a bottle full of friends
They’re always right around
To come show me the town
Delivered through a filtered lens…
My stomach all tied up in specular knots
As I hide behind abandoned parking lots
Bite down on the bittersweet medication
To unravel the noose and become human
Tribulations raring to return some control
Damaged sprockets needing factory recall
Offset chemicals slick as oil quietly leaking
Inside a system that requires dire repairing
A dose for breathing, one more for demons
Counterfeiting volition that I can’t summon
Blank and washed-out, it’s better not to feel
Losing doubts in a bottle, tasting acidic will
Cold cuts numbed and a pressed-down mind
Wonderland candy leaving me severely high
Living or existing in bouts of prognostication
A coronary slow motion, lost in convocations
A corrupting hold to sanity of a harmless little kill
Vices forgotten, bleeding tongue against chalk pill
Incriminate not the release of the sterile pharmacy
Rather, blame me for attempting to induce humanity.
Comfort I crave
Don’t come around no more
I’m already saved…