Tag Archives: drop

Oubliette

the thorny thought

it grows and grows

through dahlias grey

and crimson throes

.

it pierces past

the hardest stones

the softest veils

and diamond bones

.

the thorny thought

thus rages harsh

climbs castles high

to reach the stars

.

it pierces past

the coldest blood

and empties veins

to the last drop.

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Filed under Poetry

The Blondes Are (Not) Alright

Blew motivation I had
To make my still beating-something
Not hurt that bad
Haven’t been home in some months
I haven’t loved myself
Just watching friends online
Look like they need some help…

~*~

I brought a knife to a shootout

But I’m not looking for a fistfight

I don’t mean to get too bloody

I just wanted to feel a little alright

.

But it’s difficult to make amends

When you’re holding the trigger

And kiss the muzzle to my mouth

Before I plead for it to get better

.

Bang bang bang, do you feel it yet?

Don’t drop that dime to take a bet

If I die now on the pavement curb

I’ll try not to bleed out on your shirt

.

I brought awkward to the limelight

I hear it’s the latest fashion show

I don’t mean to flaunt my mistakes

I just wanted everyone to know

.

That it’s hard to feel sorry

When you’re feeling sorry for yourself

They said I’m being crazy

Like condescencion’s good for my health

.

Clap clap clap, do you feel regret?

Hold on to plastic, it’s not over yet

I’ve got about three more acts to go

And the script makes to take it slow

.

I brought a friend to a death match

Just to see who’ll take the first move

I don’t mean to make it too chaotic

Just seeing if you would if you could

.

I never ask about the when, what, or why

I’ve been standing here thinking all was fine

But then the situation changed to see you

Spitting comments on the shoes I just shined

.

Blah blah blah, will you ready get set?

You’re the best nothing I’ve ever met

Too cool for the beatdown that ensues

Tie my hands to the bomb, I had no clue

.

I brought sobriety to the late pub nights

And they all told me to get the hell out

You brought the glass to my lips again

And drowned me in self-sustaining doubt

.

We can laugh about all the memories we hate

Including how this one has an expiration date

Looks like you want some help, damn, just ask

Don’t keep it in and blame other lies in the past

.

No no no, I didn’t mean to be thinking this loud

I gave you privacy when you told me to fuck off

I guess I’m done with fun, and I’m done, it’s true

But don’t worry honey, at least it’s all about you.

~*~

I never wanted to be thinking this loud
I never asked about the when, why or how
I wanted privacy, routine and everything between
While they’re just finding me out
I never wanted to be thinking this loud…

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Filed under Poetry

fill in the blanks.

“And it’s four in the morning
I’m just trying to fix myself
What the hell did I do?”

~*~

blankness.

a constant void

washed-out

into a bleached white

still dirty, yet everything

has been scrubbed out

fastidiously, like

the writings on a blackboard

and the chalk dust

lingers in your fingertips,

the kind that you can’t blow away

and you’re stuck with

that unpleasant texture on your

hands for the rest of the day.

you’re zeroed-out;

multiplied, divided, and subtracted

until even the calculator

doesn’t know how to answer

except for a shameful

syntax error…

you don’t know where you

went wrong in your calculations.

now you’re staring dully

at the beige ceiling

listening to the rhythms

of a nameless music attempt vainly to

make your heart bleed, but it’s

all fucking static to you,

just another distraction to

keep you grounded

as gravity drags

you down in your grave

without even so much as a

respectful funeral or a dated tombstone.

your thoughts are as

senseless as every nerve in

your once-hurting flesh

your body got used to the pain,

one might dare guess

but the truth is you can’t feel it anymore

because it’s no longer your own—

to control, to use, to move around in to

your free will and accord

and you’re just pretending to perform,

waiting for the fateful day that the

puppeteer snaps your marionette strings, and

you drop lifelessly on the

shabbily-decorated stage of your existence.

you don’t even know where these

nonsensical thoughts are originating from;

all you know is the constant empty

sensation, a flatlined perception,

draining every bone in your borrowed body

physically, emotionally, and mentally

until you’re nothing more than

an amorphous bag of viscera

dripping numbly on that plastic chair

still gawping insensibly at the

rorschach beige ceiling, all the way to pure

b l a n k n e s s———

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Filed under Poetry

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

testing hot water

oh, he’s so edgy

as a blunt blade

and with a sneer

have you unmade

oh, she’s so sharp

as chiseled stones

and with her drop

shatter your bones

oh, they’re so angry

and preciously proud

i should be scared but

who’s laughing now?

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Filed under Poetry