Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Knives

Too much history has been sewn into these
skins

fucking human leather

lovers, abortions, murders, suicides,
vomit, death, laughter, guns

I thought of being raped last night
wanted it with a morbid fascination
that made me think something is not
right with me

I haven't understood rape
Just like that lucky bystander at the back
who imagines life in parallel universes.

Hell

I think i'm a bored
girl
with deep deep tunnels of ennui in her
body

because the relief brought a soft disappointment with it
the disappointment of being alive
so easily

what kind of world do i live in that
makes me want to wash my hands
and touch things
compulsively
and want to remember the smile
of my ex-lover
on his bed

I
feel like
I
will
explode
one
day
unless i just melt away into some
gutter puddle across the road
and die
enormously
under some truck at the crossing
one truck
two truck
three truck
love struck
that is what it felt
i think
to love

to be raped and
then left to die
in the shame and guilt
of some one else's crime
like melodrama

hahahahaha
A fate tune
this
Melodrama
though God knows i deny it
and try to be cool
even though
im too suspended
for those kind of beliefs

i deny it.
why i do,

Let me tell you how-
a) with the full thrusts of my lips
b) with the smell of saliva on my wrists
c) with the way i rub my self all over the house
so the walls have a human odour
d) all of the above

***
i like being alone
with possibilities of someone watching
so that i can piss them off while i put on a show for them
even titillate maybe
show a little flesh here
and there
lick the mirror
crouch and dig my nose
maybe piss
and splash the room.
the sink
tiles
so that i feel alive

Meek Fantasies R US

Fuck I ask
Why don't I feel alive?
I must not remain
just this human girl
without her analities.
The artist needs a flux
i am no artist
but i am the flux
so some artist
come tell me
that you need me

extract this
bottle rim
out of me
the one that bargains with a cork
for space

Also,
Some afternoons
when swimming in nonchalance
I feel like
our words
have been
washed with the acid
of encoded love
so that butter and knives drip
fromthemallthetime
coming out like empty boxes
when you
walk past the door
to work
and
quick conversation tumbles out
from your dear nuances of horror

WORDS:
the ones that don't touch you anywhere
but your brain
turning into spools
of repetition
in a meat packing factory

Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.
Baby I love you.

See?
Perfect symmetry
The kind tombstones have
in mass graves.

Maybe I
what I
I what?
I really want to do
is to live no walk
(living is what I do)
in a world
where no one will ever tell me this
but just quietly suffer it
like me.

Suffering
is beautiful.

***

Im brain
brain
brain
brain
brain
brain
and
life
dead

See?
Perfect cemetery
The kind where people live
in mass numbers

Please tell this
to
those who come to
see me through
the glass
that
my eyes have juggled
too much hunger
in their dreams
and that I am
not the animal
I once was.


***

I knew this girl once
he said later.
"She wanted to be raped
and kissed.
often"

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Punches to Self.

No I cannot reveal tonight
my stings.

You will not know of my sigh, the pinch in my cheek.
Or the man in my latent dreams.

Shit.
Stars were carved out of my throat.
Pulled out, spinning mercury in the kitchen.

No you will not reveal
your hands to me.
Because their misery makes me sad.

My eyes cannot burn for you,
Toska.
t
t
t
t
t
osk
a
who was sold at the meat market.

Boy you loved another girl
Boy she loved you too.
Boy, why aren't you happy?

I've always put the finger on my lips.
Have I not?
I can become moist for you even
all hot breath and cotton panties
7 year-old innocence in my palms
and Toska written on my navel.
I had barley in my hair
when the ground grew dreams
We rode together, remember?
On afternoons that reminded us too
much of fate.

Boy,
Oi,
She says she'd jump for you into hot milk.

I on the other hand, speak to wolves.
and we
we and
and we
we and
we silently scan the miles.

I've cried with proper punctuations even,
in the bathrooms of my life.

No
You cannot know me,
I was born much later than language itself,
mute and deaf to planet roars.

Boy
Oi,
I have one regret.
though.

I never told you
that your chest
reminded of safe places.

She can't jump into safe places,
can she.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Familiar Blades

i give you four days
and i gave myself blades

gifts
hard thin gifts
that are newer
strangers
than
my own body.

slowly, like a thought
climbing through the pores
up the spine

i saw things
i saw blood
and the calm knowability of death
or what is before it.

i made soft slices

on my legs
gifts for my mother
she needs
to cry at night
and know that her daughter is still
that she cannot move

om my arms,
where the skin
is tender
hands
for the street to finally beg some life
into my life
into my death
because of an errant bus

on my waist
the womb, kept precious
for my molesters
for those creatures who seek
solace
in a woman's body
only so that
they may destroy it.


on my breasts
coloured peaks
a mother's flesh
to the butcher
so that the meat
is mixed with all other genders
and animals
that are otherwise owned
by the world
i am owned
my breasts were pawned
in childhood
to wolves
with human teeth


on my neck
that ordinary
curve
for my lover
to know
that he can rest
his sighs
and restless hands
and pure tongue
to soothe the
poisons that
his fairies fed him
my goodbye
is in the vein
that once was like stubborn lightning
aroused,
when he came close.

on my eyes
on my nose
on my ears
on my lips
slashes
appear like
the poet's despair.
Like Walt Curtis'
hopeless love.
They appear
like lyrical erasers
delicately lacing
the shapes
that were once living
once alive
in these
places


My mirror
never could tell me
about the girl
with unknowable skin.

Ah,
freedom,
my name never was
what it used to be.

Instead

My words
were always
familiar blades.