bedroom poetry
desire must be met with fire
My machine is having trouble navigating its hunger I am a chrome statue lying awake on a bed or hot coals In the sweltering stillness under a waning moon, my insides have turned to stone I offer my mind some parting words as I drift in and out or time.
I fixate on my un-name in the anonymous dark. Curtains parted haltway tease me with soft blue in the far distance. This machine is all coarse hair and human friction. Its limbs are up to no good. It prods my heart like fresh meat from the butcher shop. But this calcified muscle 1s bone dry and touan to chew. A wispy layer of midnight settles on my skin. I stare out my window at red eyed cellphone towers that twinkle like ruby lockets swinging by some invisible force.
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miracle
of
mine
My miracle is a tin angel doing heroin in 1977. He is a boy with the body of a bird and swollen, deep set eyes that glint when he remembers his mother in a snowstorm.
This miracle has a mouthful of stories that he unleashes onto the carpet and watches them tousle on the floor, knocking over Coca Cola bottles.
His yellow teeth are the point of focus for a descendant of Queen Nefertiti. She eyes him from behind a stale sofa littered with Winston’s. The scene make my intestines coil around my spine. My feet itch to walk into a dead end/ trailing my leaking shadow behind me.
I stare at his absent, brooding face.
I imagine a hole at the base of his skull
a spot I associate with my strawberry shaped birthmark - forged open by termites.
They scuttle up the dark walls of his inner cave and balance on the tightropes
of his nervous system.
This is probably why he never blinks.
My little bird is getting higher and higher and higher and higher and higher until he flies away.
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Mad mad child
Blowing bubbles
Into the atomic bomb
Waving to a sick green
Empty sky/ separating
The mist from the wilderness.
The first goodbye
was at the mouth of a moon crater. You fell down
And forgot how to cry.
You knew her loneliness
As if It were a wire
Twirled around your wind-up-heart.
You watched her rusting face
And her ancient, trembling
Throat hum dark chants
To soften the neural networks of your frozen, winter hypnosis.
You loved her
for dragging her faulty circuitry
To that dead-end underpass
to sit hunched
Beside some collapsing
Stranger with chewed up fingers
And a shiny new
Prison industrial complex
Erected inside his hollow chest cavity.
The final goodbye Was the prettiest. Baby bones Glowinq like two titanium suns, A fragment of a cobalt sky It took all of 16 minutes For the corroded tendrils To find her sleeping Inside her web of wishes. Her chromium body - a broken glass monument
floats face down in a creek A heavy, raging head Made obsolete She is finally evergreen. The factory bells stiffen and the hours hold still after her giant flowers are cut, her angles evened out. Sweet autumn will think of her in mourninq and sweep all sunthetic eues onto the riverbank. Now nothing outside the hologram of trees can see the hidden dream of her unfurl.
The factory bells stiffen and the hours hold still after her giant flowers are cut, her angles evened out. Sweet autumn will think of her in mourninq and sweep all sunthetic eues onto the riverbank. Now nothing outside the hologram of trees can see the hidden dream of her unfurl.
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Let me come undone/ softening as I suffer.
The thrill of dark horses lead me home before dawn, i spent my Friday night in a hole under the stairwell. The sound of my red awakening is a muffled cry into an infant's blanket. The night garden is an open wound and all my men turn into bleeding trees. The black hole winter of my youth glistens behind stained glass beaches at the tail end of a siren's brooding plea.
Other bodies bloated and bursting
Live inside this fractured cathedral, balancing crooked on a brick wall
Within meaning lies the corrosive, whistling heart of
Me and my dual mirror image.
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I ask the branches to describe his hands/ the birds to mimic his voice. To enter his magnetic field is to melt into his night body and moonlit mind.
Every nerve ending and dilated pupil ablaze / the sloping dunes of his neck stand tall like pillars in the desert ; a cavalry of bones! Pulsing to the silent beat of his crimson aura /
My soil is rich, all rivulets lead me home to the realm of his weather-beaten heart where the blood cascades down the sharp cliff of his ribs and overflows into my poisoned sea.
God! The machine that drives his astral monuments that he dreamt up to block out the sun that hardens into a black stone.
Every evening, the ocean widens in his absence until he crawls home, carrying love letters
from the North Star and rest his love between the dead leaves and my sugar brain.
Red and restless to keep my cells in tune with the diamond dune formations at the hollows and crevices of his joints / the mountains of his shoulders and his lion heart in the valley / a curtain of dense hair in my fist. Stripping down to the core of this magnet / Our magnificent biology intertwined with jute string.
A feeling so deified that it grows ten heads!
Hanging low over the painted sky and drooling in the monsoon gloom.
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