The Grinch of Christmas PresentGone with the deadlineMagic turned to bitten nailsHopes for bigger shoes
AhemEloquent drivel-Slug trails shimmer in moonlight,But it's still just slime.
Stick in the EyeTrouble stickslike the tar pitsof your eyes.Dig me up when I touch the bottom.Till then,I'll be amassing mastodonsFor a later date.
She Talks to FaeriesShe talks to faeries, though earth boundShe's of the moon, my lovely loon.One wing out and one wing inof where the edges fray and thin,Leading off to otherwhere.Threads of aether in her hair,Lachrymose she tarries hereHalfway lost and halfway foundT'ween the toadstools, hunkered downWond'ring why they left her hereA grounded creature of the air.Silly loon,you are a door.That is what they left you for.Halfway ours and halfway theirsSeeing clearly through your tearsA peephole to a far off placeCalled by songs of Otherspace
1000 Feet DownIt's 1000 feet down you would sayAnd I would kick and sway.Beneath me lay such wild and terrible beasts,Each coveting my tender toesWhich trembled at their teeth.And so our game would go,Me clinging there unwilling to let go,Quite sure I'd soon be food for crocodiles,Growing weaker and more frantic all the while,While you stood, arm still sure and strong,Aware 1000 feet was not so longFor a father's love to reach.And though my childish fancies made me fear,Both your arms always would be thereTo catch me falling,To hold me tight and tell me I was brave,That you were there to save me all along,But first I had to show that I was strong.
IncorruptibleThese holes with ragged edges bare a letter of your name.I work hard to keep them open,To enshrine my deep devotion,To ensure the only token that you left me with - my pain.So here I keep you cloistered in the ruin that is me,A tomb to love, a flesh reliquary,Graven image to the past, heart held clasped, hands that grasp,Unwilling to relinquish your remains,Relishing the martyrs role for the one I'd canonize,These sacred scars, my ragged holes,The sweet stigmata of my soul,Weeping that you'd make me whole and open up your eyes,Roll back the rock, releasing me from Sisyphus's stead,But devotion doesn't matter to the dead.My eidolon, my anguish, I've come to realize,For me to live you must be exorcized.I think I will draw you from my veins.I think I will cast thee out.I think I will euthanizeThis worn acolyte once so devout.This is my body. This is my blood.It's time to bury you for good.
If you can't sleepIf you can't sleepit's harder than your nighmaresor better than your dream.
Michaelasometimes, you meet people who are stormsin bottles, who are ships cast away on rockycoastlines, contained in a mason jar. sometimesyou meet volcanoes in human skin, earthquakeswith a laugh that sounds like skipping rockson summer colored lakes. sometimes, you meetpeople who are whirlwinds wrapped up in muscle and bone,who are more miracle than mistake.i think about that a lot when i look at her.to be fair, she is nothing more than me and youbut she has a hurricane brewing in her eyesand dandelions growing through the cracksin her sidewalks and i think that’s wondrousenough.i know our lungs are the same—on mondaysand thursdays, we both find it hard to keepbreathing and sometimes if i listen hard enoughi think i can hear the storms battering her shoreline,but you could never tell with the way she smiles.don’t tell her, but she smiles like the sun.she smiles crooked, like baby teeth and moralsand the first time you try to hang up a sign.god, she sm
Roses and CoffeeMasarm takes his coffee blacklike the collar of his favourite shirtand the shadow of childhood;Sally tempers the tartness of tastewith salt and sugar-crustedpetals of roses in her cup.When he's angry, Masarmburns fiercely, a broodingthat bites only himself, and Sally,when she's angry, spitsacid and flings platesthat shatter over his head.Still, somehow it's always Masarmwho sends flowers; Masarmwho swallows down the bitterness.
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
WiccaWe are Wicca,We are not evil.We are hunted and burned by the church,Because we are different,Not in appearance,But in our beliefs.Our ways are different,Our minds are too,And because we dont follow one god blindly,We are burnt alive,Burnt for something we didnt do.They called us heretics,Witches and whores.Burnt at the stake for no faith in their lord.They call us evil when they burn us alive.They drown our children to see if they were right,If our children sink,Then they were good,But if they were to rise,To death is where they go.The church is our enemy,From no fault of our own.They hate our gods and goddesses,Because our gods are not their own.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
Insanity needs companyand now I’m stuck here,pondering,how the walls becamea veiny sight-(could the cause be me calling outyour namein the middle of the night?)and alone I stand here,wondering,how my feet gotnailed upon this floor-(do you hold my ankleslike an anchordoes the shore?)and I know it’s been thirteen yearssince you were here at all,according to the hash markscarved uponthe wooden wallbut I can’tlet goof our memories,that hauntme everydayso for now,I’ll let the doc declare: Insanity needs company.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one. When she cries herself to sleep six out of seven nights a week you must say nothing. You must simply take her in your arms and kiss her gaunt, pale cheeks and wait for her to slumber at the sound of your heart.two. On the days where she wishes she were part of the stars, tell her no. Tell her that there are too many lights in the sky and that just one would be forgotten the moment you looked away from it. Tell her that she is perfect the way she is: completely human.three. Don't let her think about the scars that no one but her can see. If she says "I think I'm broken" smile like you know a secret and say, "No, you're mending." But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
The Farmers SonWe sat sipping grappa as the storm clouds rolled in from the ridgeslike the smoke from some great unseen inferno,the wood walls and shingles of the house complained to usin low groans,of the wind coming up hard, through the valley,and there was flickering light from a candle,and she told me how light from a prism dissects into different colours that correspondin some way to our bodies and that all of life was a rhythmand I believed that part,and I believed there were stars beyond the sight of man on any grey dayand that they might hold some greater secret than prisms or rhythmsor any question a farmers son could ever mutter, and the wind slowed to a stillnessand the rain moved in and our voices gave wayto what my Father would call The Lords Music,the pitter-patter of wateron the dry and flaking earth.
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.