can catch cancer

easily transmitted
and when the idol wakes
your hands will grow cold
the bones in them will shake

gray since caught me
off a storm sent Tuesday
our mark; the eagle eye

cast him out; hold her down

remarkably the weather
aggravates your anxiousness
collar tore; he wretched lay
across a sea spread and wearing

a love; of pestilence
his love wouldn’t answer
the sweat; the wait
and how he caught cancer
“oh my god” she said
fuck her for retribution
never love her

incurable disease
spread like your sister
one that bleeds and grows old
on your skin and scales
it gets bigger and better
the pristine carnivore
sailing on your cells

can’t hack the o.r table
can’t hack the flesh
from your lungs, from your back
this scalpel’s too dull
and your skin refuses
to let go
of a sweet escape

no one to hold your hand
to sign your certificates
to mourn your corpse
to give you tears to breach

and when you die in white sheets
to contrast your purity
you will feel like the last filthy thing
good riddance
disease lacking consciousness
all you are is what you’ve condemned

it’s alright
never alive
never dead

your kid’s good
with me
I’ll show him stars
and be their
for most of his firsts

shh
he’s past out cold
from the fangs of famine
let him sleep for now
he dreams and he has hope

i will wake him
when we wake you

*Full hostility, disgusted with the race I’ve been born to walk against, this was my anthem for a while. I’d spit black at the sight of any kind of transgression, I hated what I was, what I was becoming and everything I could see. Life itself mirrored the gutter and nothing was worth my time. This is hell, and this is teaching the newborns what it’s like to feel the fire, once burning, just going out.

cold

fire exit staircase; a cold black sullen breath.
fresh paint on metal mouldings
a new age type of death and a little life
cold stings skin, a chain from skin to heart
the steel can be warmed but never begins hot.
cannot take the cold; only supply the warmth
cold isn’t cold but the absence of heat.
The stairs, they work downward in sets
in rigid ninety degree angles
without the slow hug of a spiral
each flight is alone in the gray.
in the mixture of the cold dagger stab
unused catches of stairs
I drink some cognition from a cigarette
and it drinks of me
of my youth, my lungs, my innocence.
The stagnant air of burnt rolled papers and tobacco
I can’t help feeling… helpless.
The thick dark bags of aging skin under my eyes
have bottomed out.
Like the contents of some grocery bag
bursting and spilling on the walk home
on the sidewalk
of this great city
filled with the masses
made like a machine
so that everyone
can be all alone in a staircase.

*This is about meditation and isolation. Two big parts of my life. I think everyone just needs to realize the world is as big or as small as we want it. That there is vast loneliness while in swarms of people and there is moments when you’re overwhelmed even when you’re alone. Unfortunately both smoking and drinking are forms of meditation for me.

concrete

Ironic.
That an angel
keeps me grounded.

*This was a short piece from some time ago. I forgot to post here yesterday so it’s because of that I thought I’d use such a short writing. This was from just feeling happy, feeling fulfilled, I had almost barely nothing to say.

sweet potato tempura

and you
are the prettiest littlest thing
that I couldn’t even catch.

your smile
is incomparable to anything
my eyes could see or have seen
my brain could not manifest better
dripping lips of love
and when you don’t smile
it’s selfish
but you’re mostly selfless

i asked you a few times
to laugh when you’re upset
but you thought the task impossible
when it’s intent is clear
just to break out that smile
from gray clouds and sailor’s dreaded skies.

you think that mirror exaggerates
every ugly thing
that is fiction in my book.
if you knew
how I know
that the sun moves only for you
or how
the cricket’s song is but a ballad
for the way your hair
collects snow.

I could sit here for days
sleeping
arguing over something small
like fossil fuels or
who’s gonna play who’s
superheroes
but I’d much rather
tell the world
my world
just how pretty
a queen
who thinks she’s a pawn
can be -
potently
beautiful.

*An old one but I mean it’s reflection on the chessboard and how a pawn can become a queen is so fucking beautiful. I don’t know what to say about this other than that. It was entitled “You” when I wrote it way back and I think this title just makes it right. The taste of some good tempura. God I used to worship females. It’s funny how jaded one can become.

afterthoughts in brisk shallow bays

Isolated from tropical delusions of escapism
these mechanical pencil lead postmortem tendencies
tend to find themselves between pale blue lines
and margins that somehow direct cursive authority.
Mentally exhausted yet so physically fit
my mind yawns and stretches itself
like a cat across somewhat of a cerebral sofa.
Uneasy however calm my mind and soul seem to be
poetic notions of beautiful girls, many a rendezvous
allow my brain to once again have fallouts with focus
an event that seems to be ever more reoccurring
while losing it’s once alarming nature.
Memory both short and long term weave strange dynamics
which undone would bleed some clarity into my life
but sewn so tight;
and with so much strength;
as to create the realization, never knowing identity.
The description of this memory lapse can perhaps
be better transcribed by you than me.
For my imagination throughout hour to day, day to week
losing the sturdy granite marble mixture ground
from which my memory’s jagged claws had been etched.
Oh a love, a hindering love, from an earthbound angel
who’s wings like pearls had been perfectly executed
although removed to spread and market the beauty.
Handling my heart so carelessly
so carelessly as to never mirror my love for her
the eyes from which no word need be spoken or sung.
Those glass replica emblem eyes of the moon and stars
Oh to be returned thy love
I would echo across the dimmest caverns, darkest caves
as to rid the earth of it’s dim depictions
to place love in a heart that could use the company.

*This was motivation from the depression, I think? I recall writing hunched over the back library desks in my final year. It troubles me to think that times moves as slowly as a spell, almost as if we control it to some sort of degree. That we can stretch it to fit us and make the good moment, last an eternity while in it. I wrote this as a motivation of individualism in darkness. That if blind there is solace is knowing a booming voice can breathe life over the darkness, the vast sea of uncertainty and seeking truth.

gloom by numbers

compound fractions and cross multiplication
the oral repetition of numbers that matter
made from no matter but of theory
a strange concept of life through thought without touch

fund-raised state of the art curtains
blocking gloomy days and mediocre errands
of passerby who view this room as a whole
not thirty individuals but a school

parental expectation glue that fuses me
to a seat, a red uncomfortable plastic chair
that if I do not learn the art of pi
I will surely become the lesser in this life.

focusing on future engagements with my alcohol fixation
that know all weekend evenings and traits of bravery.
that deteriorate the matter of my mind, my memories
yet break me away from all too familiar routines.

an alarming bell rings to manipulate masses, the siren speaks
students like the walking dead with magnets to the lunchroom
with the occasional brief torn away hallway “hey”
that won’t hold any breaking ground in tomorrow’s topics

I feel like a tiny stranger
capsized on a foreign island
all my bare essentials covered
however with no return, purpose or understanding.
as if I were lost in a sea of faces
who either follow blindly or may have found themselves
I envy them both, their ambitions & calculations
while I drift into a slumber that makes me forget.

numbers of you fade in and out of idle dreams
more like nightmares when you dim out slowly.
the integers of your name, the strands of hair
so uncountable yet I am so curious.
your 2 impeccable eyes, feet, hands, cheeks, legs, arms, lips and ears
it’s the stuff in 1 that is so unique
that make me bleed whilst I sleep.
your smile, your hug, your kiss,
the countless things I can’t describe.
maybe the future will bring better days.
but as for now, in this little fluorescent illumination
arithmetic never made me choke like this.

*This for me was the pretty much the summary of high school life. It explained my fervor and pine for the opposite sex but at the same time, outlined and condensed how alone I felt. Depression was a big thing for me then, and this stands as the iconic moment of that for me. The realization really came with this, the first window to a series of realizations that lead to me getting some help. I spent all my summers sleeping and not wanting to be conscious. As cliche as it is, I’d practice cutting and inflicting pain just to feel. Girls were my only savior when it came to high school, when it came to anything. I’m still trying to even out bad habits just to get by.

ambidextrous

She’s a little ambidextrous
and the night is distant.
We’ve walked on the concrete
it weathers under our sneakers.
Pacing the rim of the pavement
we kiss and talk of affliction.
She said my crush was encumbering;
a poison when consumed.
I would point to constellations
and tell her of their origin,
she would smile almost instantly
like the eyes of a tame fawn
I had words like headlights
and we would collide.
She was my intrinsic motivation
I had no control when it came to her.
Envision black pools; glossed ebony
encased by a brown; an undescript humbling brown
then again surrounded by the ivory; pure ivory
crystallized marshmallow in her eyes.
We walked without goal
without purpose or coherency.
We etched experience into our diaries
and collected pebble treasures of our expedition.
I remember the beating of a softened snare
in the memory, although, I may have put that in.
I could taste the texture of the air
it was sweet like her; smooth like her skin.
Hours past and drifted like us
we had no need to count them; time, it would wait.
Eventually my boyhood got the best of me
our lips first met at the intersection
of main st. and castlehaven
of her neck and of her collarbone.
We held hands
like lovers often do
she said she didn’t care which way
because she was ambidextrous.

*I sort of in a way. miss the boy I used to be. This is a representation of the starry-eyes I once had for the fairer sex. I thought the image was very cute as well, and thought it to contrast my piece perfectly. I hope you enjoyed the look into my past thus far, and please keep coming back. From now on regarding anything I’ve written before, I’ll include a note about like this encasing some nostalgia.

my heart gets headshots

Bloodletting the backyard war
we’re we sat
sipping on lemonade and skin cancer
we keep losing out
to the prettiest things
too hot to touch.

I’m coasting on cannabis
cocaine and cranberries
these drinks really kill me
these drinks-
have left me in the corners
of the black rooms at parties.

Cute, I’ve heard it
written it on chemistry notes
my heart longs for you
and everything you’ve been through
baby, babe, honey
names that keep evaporating off their meaning.

Setting up pins
just to knock them back down.
What’s the point
when the point’s
just too dull to carve out
the pretty girl’s hearts.

I haven’t moved since may
cobwebs and I’m susceptible
to everything except feeling
god i give up
because you gave up on me
and left me in yesterday
fully;
completely.

grave

She inspired me
with her television screen
and the blue satin
bedsheets
that she alway wanted.

where do we go?
I asked
as she bit my index finger.
who do you love?
she said
a question for a question
she said.
I’d trade an answer
for that question

her

I said
and she bit down harder
her
I said
felt her heart beat through her tongue.

how many times are we going to end up nowhere?
I said
I loved her, I honestly did
and i didn’t need to say it

and so
I kissed her but could have easily bit her.

It’s often in what you choose to do
the subtlety of blowing in her ear
the whisper of love
the word selection
falling over and taking the time

to pick the best
three words
to tell her
how beautiful
her beautiful
makes your heart swell.

I love her
I honestly do

I bite my fingers sometimes
when she is not here
to remember
that she’ll be back.

porcelain

combing your hair
until you pull it out
every strand is lined with gold
i can count on you
to let me down

eclipsed out
this old smoke
hangs off your lip
seesaws
when you speak

bring me back
to when you were
known to be
the only thing
worth conquering

your hair grows faster
in december
and when it’s wet
icicles come full bloom
form silhouettes

think you’re so smart
hiding your blemishes
in black and whites
but you also conceal
eyes that do you good

blueberries
stained more black than blue
come and kiss me.
there’s nicotine on my tongue
and it’s worth it.