Tag Archives: chemical

chemical

pointless,

repetitious,

elaborate

daydreams

and a kind

of euphoria

that feels

like tasting

angel dust

and battery acid—

maybe that’s

all i’ll ever really

have with you.

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Habromania

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.

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Filed under Poetry

Crash Test, Crash Cart

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.

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the one

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…

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The Horticulturist

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

enamouring dopamine

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…

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Filed under Poetry

Crime Is For Vigilantes, God Is For Nonbelievers, Art Is For Objective, Life Is For The Deceased

Pretend like I don’t entice you
I’ve seen you circling the sky above my head
You traitor!
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…

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Chase Atlantic

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.

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Filed under Prose

Sharp Edges

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.

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Filed under Poetry

Dear Medication

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.

~*~

Chemical angel
Comfort I crave
Don’t come around no more
I’m already saved…

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Filed under Poetry