iron ore

split skulls and screaming kids
blacklungs and broken ribs
a pickaxe, thermos and a lunch
a wife to fuck, as dumb as rocks

caught a bird, with yellow wings
got a bird, who when caged sings
in smoke and ash, the hardened folks
and down the shaft, the canary chokes

all dressed up to go to church
know no god, no soul, just earth
live a life by frozen steel
romanced a girl to cook my meals

caught a bird, who soars above
trapped her young, with false love
shutdown my heart round ‘22
her still beats, an idle tune

when deep deep down below
she has a place not flown solo
a best friend’s nest she takes each day
I’ve earned a life that’s made with clay

it shifts and warps, and all melts down
when going deep within the ground
a bird as beautiful as she is
deserves a heart to accompany it.

*I don’t know if you’ll get it. I said to a girl last week: “Precious things are precious things, and to be as precious as they are, they need to be free.” .. Souls don’t glue together, no matter how much you try. It’s like molecules, they barely ever touch. You can just feel the charge of another, their presence. Live your life like a molecule, view life like an atom, and maybe you won’t be so lonely.

tarmouth

loving girls with sawder-shut mouths
and blinking eyes but no really sound
they walk in droves
& cut your hearts out
brilliantly lit on pitch background
stars laying on their backs watching us
her heart beats so heavy hard
her breath alone, it shakes the ground
and with it all, in this dying sound;
one spoke up and she spoke loud.

*Yeah, you got it. Mhmm.

sea glass kaleidoscope

I’m just a runaway fantasy
a hundred breaths of seafoam
spoke like wisps of match smoke
behind your ear

I escape to you
when my hands idly play
and rub each other warm
thinking of your touch

When the dawn melts to day
the chain left to the anchor snaps
and lost it with my thoughts
of the day before
barely echo

Each day
I’ve to conquer
to reach the realization
that I’ve only loved you
an illusion chosen.

You are a poem unread, not yet wrote
a song unsung, declared not
each day another line, a verse
your beauty speaks another word
someday I hope to peer into the eyes
of the best soul ever written on earth.

Sadly, I’ve forgotten your face
but I remember your lips; their taste
the first snowfall of autumn
the snap chill on my skin
I will never forget your taste

your moves
like the way wind floods pollen
and if you really look
you witness a mess of molecules
become a sea on air
you’re a sea on earth
in every breath and smile
a sea
and I choke
on keeping it to myself.

I would give everything I have left
to swim in your neck
and on your waves; your lips; your tongue.
To drown in your breath
and sink
sink
until my lips turn blue
lungs full of beauty; cold blood hue.

*I’m baaack. About a girl, obviousily.

grand theft depressed

Diaries and broken-open book bags
pages burning, torn and blowing in the wind
sprawled like paint on a canvas; thrown
hoping for the splash to make poetry
heard the wheels and smelt the searing
of flesh and hair, and smoking rubber
the tears on their cheeks were fast to dry
the brave young souls would stomp their backs
to douse the flesh
the shoes were late to shed the flame
the screams had gone
but weren’t yet echoes.

*My chest feels good today. Biscotti, Kafka and a mint chocolate shake partly funded by a friend. Work is going to drag on but at least I’ve got some good things on the mind. I need more sleep. Enjoy.

practicing cursive

to blankets
as confined
as you’d want to be
you’re free

head on a chest
just to hear blood resound
through a heart
now awake; more profound

bitten sleeve
her teeth
bit back to release
his wrist; exposed
his weakness

struck a pose
just to hold for until
car horns and cellphones
cut short
moments
like the light
on my wet street

asleep
a twitch
from stifling heat
he waits
for a smile
proceeded by a laugh
before his mouth
echoes hers

and her kiss
it echoes his.

*Nothing more than a doorway kiss. This poem is about kissing before a ride comes.

dawn, day, night

there you were
looking up
head in my lap
an accident
a lot of blood.

holding on
my face and body
masked in it
I tried to find
that head of mine.

and with you laid
I bit my lip
opened up
with fright and fear
no blood at all
nothing there.

I rose to drudge
to trudge; “unlive”
your brain all gone
none left
to give.

sorry dear
about the mess
on the bedroom floor
was just your flesh
I hungered for.

*I’m still sick and tired from the other day. My muscles are beginning to ache again. I bet you can guess what this poem was about, written in the last year. I woke to find my eyes seized shut this morning as well as congestion, muscle ache, and some trouble breathing. I don’t feel particularly well but I really like publishing this material here, so hopefully it will continue over the next few days. I think I might get these tattoos myself.

dorian gray

Have you ever bled your soul to your bedroom walls
only to have them not reply, the lack of a humbling nod.
A thirst that I have bore for what feels like an eternity
is a dry rasping feeling on the back of my throat.
I’ve met the girls who move like silhouettes
along the back alleys of London’s streets.
They make me smile and warp my mind into thoughts;
thoughts like anchors that weigh me to the deepest depths.
I loved a girl and wrote for her my undying passion.
I loved a girl and concealed her from the public eye.
The ill-effect of effortless text on a background I’ve chosen
absent and lacking the true emotion that dulls my heart.
I can feel it sometimes rise to my throat
as if to pour out, stripping me of a self-inflicting burden.
With each time, my breathing gets a little coarser
my skin fades to a paler white and I’m left in dimmer light.
I can’t cough up the proper words to emphasize the organ
that gives me life and that hinders me with love.
I sometimes, find myself sitting and thinking
wading through a swamp, a thicket of troubles.
Troubles that I have manifested and cultivated
to lock me in the deepest jungles of exile.
I fall asleep to the warmth of my electric heater
somewhere between 20 and 30 degrees Celsius;
a poor substitute to arms of pure comfort.
The sun still thaws me sometimes whilst I walk
and see the beautiful faces of artistic perfection
strapped to a book bag, strapped to a boyfriend.
My fingers have lost their touch to a numbness
placing them on a window peering in to how I would want it.
I miss the anxiety, I miss the worrying
I have missed the stars straight out of the sky.
It’s time I caught up with my love
and it’s time to come in from the cold.

sifts

Where she sleeps
the smoke billows.
Under her bed
it froths like
cappuccino.
Her delicate skin
and a down pillow;
she’s coddled tight.
She is new lungs
and new life.
Short spoken
just nice-
but just right.

*I was really sick yesterday. Sorry for being sick and not publishing anything. Here’s another piece from a few months ago. Have fun. I’m listening to Wintersleep today with the flu and it’s so good.

thirst

heavy with the burden of ghosts
it drips, the false comfort of warm blankets
when dreamed that might as well be arms
and wake up to stinging eyes shoved shut
from the driving will of my heart.
to the sink where i pour myself out
when tears could as well be black
because you swear to recall it
like it came out with shadows.
i stress and press hard my conceptual self
on every girl who ever spoke out
and kept making grains of my heart finer and finer
so now when the wind is strong enough
you’ll see my scouring streets or knelt over
picking up little pieces for days, even weeks.

i heard of a boy who had his heart ground so small
that a time he sneezed without a “bless you” from her
a very atom of his heart’s split, and set himself ablaze.
but then again I hear of a boy who met a girl
where two “I love you”s brought forth a happily ever after.
It is obvious why passion is heat and heat is passion
that from the breaking up of a glass heart will eventually generate sand
and with it, with passion as is heat can be melded
into maybe a more beautiful creation than it did start.

so we wait, when we’re together in pairs or alone
and we keep waiting for things to happen
changes that we’d like to see and we wait for things to never change.
and alone we wait and a minute very quickly
can become an hour to which a year is just around the corner
there is something in waiting with someone
even if you’re waiting for them
you could very well be waiting with them while waiting for them
that i find unbelievably pretty.
holding their hand in the doctor’s office
or counting out how many good things are coming their way
before they come their way, or sit and speak of every constellation and star
match it with each ambition and love them.
why do i ache when i sleep with every fear sitting on my chest.
i used to wake or never sleep just to share the same hours.
and now if i could choose, i would not wake
in hopes to have a dream as lovely as you’ve always been.

*I had a smoke this morning. It tasted so good. I drink more and more everyday, to weigh away it all. I wrote this for positivity. I wrote it for shattered hearts and battle scars. I thirst for beers, for a soul at rest, for permanent romantic and chemical intoxication.

please, please, please

she spoke first
then I
we talked of nebulae
and barely nothing
to glaciate our hearts
for an unrivaled thaw.
we press on
to hold and revere
the gorgeous ardent cores
of stars
in our hands.
when it’s done
we compare burns
and quake.
so that some day
our callous palms
might support
a soul that could cauterize
a heart in winter’s sleep.

*I don’t know what to say about this particular piece. It’s new. I don’t know. I drink a lot of alcohol and this is about the scars we get and show each other. How the wounded birds we become, are so beautiful and experienced, they merit us the greatest powers in conversation and captivation. I don’t feel the best today and I’d rather not speak on it.