one and a sliver
when I just had that thought
he who dies with the most toys wins, eh?
asemic and anumeric
process and reality
being and time
time and the other
for some young mind to be aroused by
in sixty years
Untitledhello my name is Yellow Pisscunt
how is your prodigious unicorn today
I betrayed myself to the single
I hate him because he gets to be who he is and nothing more
how can I be more
I am not enough people for me
how can I become two
I think seven would be enough
for all of me to be me
but now I wr8ite shit
and live on divine blood
tainting my lips
and it stops when I don't want it to
and I want to never stop
but my being itself
as I know it
is the kind that stops
which terrifies me
all the time
burning through goo
so many leaking tubes
goo calls new tubes home
and the call me
while I should be gone
away from mundane stress
but they find me
and I can't get away
I can't get out
always stuck being less me than I need to be
UntitledWhat was it for?
The long nights in the basement,
the only-sleep-when-I-pass-out-from-exhaustion lifestyle,
the passionate suffering,
what was it all for?
The endless war,
damn this infernal transformation.
Does it fall on me to document the struggles of a generation,
a generation that watches every triumph become trivial,
a generation that waits for itself to become obsolete,
the generation forced to condemn temporality,
the generation to witness the end of temporality as it dies the last deaths?
God floats in a pool of His own blood.
The masters wipe their asses with angel feathers.
The curious are left for dead.
If a Feminist Were HonestWhat if a feminist were forced to say what’s really on her mind, like Jim Carrey’s character in Liar Liar? This is how a poem by such a feminist might read.
I need feminism because…
Women need more,
Scholarships for college,
New business grants,
Even though they already outnumber men,
In college and entrepreneurship.
We need more female CEO’s and political leaders,
But not more women in…
Forestry, sewage, or mining,
Truck driving, or taxi driving,
Or garbage collection,
Or more men on magazine covers,
Or higher-paid male models,
Or fewer men dying on the job,
Or fewer men dying in wars,
Or fewer homeless men,
Or fewer male suicides,
Or fewer men in prison.
You see, men losing is sexual dimorphism,
While women losing is sexism.
Should be made EQUAL to
The most successful men
Whether they earn it or not.
That’s gender equality!
I need feminism because…
I am YouLife spoke to the void.
"Why do so many hate me? Yet they cling so tightly to my cloak."
Death spoke to the void.
"I am accursed and feared by so many. Yet they all come to me in the end."
Joy spoke to the void.
"I am pursued by all. Yet they find me so elusive."
Hope asked the void:
"Why am I both held so tightly and thrown so easily away?"
War spoke to the void.
"I am what they hate. Yet they cannot live without me."
Peace spoke to the void.
"I am sought by all. Yet they have never found me"
Innocence asked the void:
"Why am I both the first they have and the first they lose?"
Strife asked the void:
"Why am I the one that they hate to love? Yet they still do so love me."
Intellect said to the void:
"I lead them further toward salvation. Yet I also lead them toward destruction."
Madness asked the void:
"Why are those blessed by me the only ones to see the truth?"
Sanity asked the void:
"Why am I both the lense to see and the fog obscuring?"
Sleep said the the void:
"I am necessary to
CigarettesMy New Orleans muse smiles;
Bourbon Street quick-grin.
Mona Lisa Lolita; she splashes
through the stained-glass
of oil-slick puddles
wearing combat boots dark
as a Halloween new moon.
Her machine-gun lips are
half-drawn around dusk.
shimmering green jade eyes.
She can see through the clouds
if she casts them herself.
Dragon mouth against paper;
the serenade of the skeleton.
She burns stripped phalanges,
swears she's sucking down
Red wool, a bonfire;
she breathes all the warmth
she has never known.
Lungs of the phoenix,
breath full of gray ash.
One day she will wake hacking,
spitting poison spiders.
Tonight she inhales summer;
mouthful of fireflies.
She tilts her head back,
cat eyes triumphant.
She'll never be a constellation,
but she's stolen Orion's left foot.
Accepting a drinkDoes this cloud-maned beauty see
how I ironed this shirt, pressing mercilessly
until the ionised water evaporated? Does he
understand how long it took to shape
my hair this way? To cover the gape
where my once-full coiff's now planning its escape?
Did he notice my choice of a twenty?
I had tens in my wallet. The drink cost two-fifty
but it looks like purples are all I carry
this way. Does this Pan, who probably fucks
his choice of uni intake bucks
see my killer-sweat? The flux
his lick of the lips casts? Of course
he does, but it works. No laws
against flirting, grandpa. Can't force
him to stop. He thanks me
for the double and coke, waits the customary
five minutes in my company,
then mumbles something about a song
he wants to dance to, and is gone,
having left me a number a digit too long.
Butterfliesi do not look out my window.
there are butterflies all around the car.
soft, inviting colors seep into my vision through the corner of my eye, the flutter of paper thin wings seemingly defying the constant noise of the idling car engine and reaching my ears.
i do not look out my window.
they must be beautiful, i think.
they must be enchanting.
they're probably very small. really cute, i bet.
i do not want to see the butterflies.
i do not look out my window.
instead, i stare straight ahead at the rear of the passenger seat, waiting for my mother to return to the car with my refilled prescription, the one that will make the butterflies go away and return the feeling of security to me.
BrackishAfter the wet season, before
the midsummer night's drought,
I flight for the floodplains, where
the northern downpour bleeds out
and sweeps its love to the mouth
of my lungs. I sleep in the crux
of an oxbow, let my dreams flux
and flow fractured, deltaic. For this
is the way I piece myself apart,
a resolution, my absolution
in a new avulsion.
During the day, I move south
towards the river mouth, picking
pebbles, coral fangs from the riverbed.
A loose tooth is a common truth
in these parts. Bones are febrile,
eyelashes are made of chalk, salt.
Tears turn brackish. They cake
and crack on the flats of my hands.
This is my Pangaea,
this swollen geography,
this slacken land.
The point of no return.
Here, all else ends.
By dusk I meet the saltmarsh
and dehusk, grow halophytic
in the nightlight. I pull out
my hair, my fingernails, and
fill the gaps in my spine
with reed rhythms, saline.
The final rite: turning flesh to grass.
Tomorrow, morning mist
will drag the whitewash back,
ashes to ash.