I was particularly inspired by Marilyn Monroe and admittedly, I wish I had learned more about her earlier on in life
I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not), All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish, Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set, As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down, Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call. That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture, That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day
Father, I love you, as the orange of the sunset fades to the ship’s berth, to the fields of a cherry birdsong so darken like a lute, your song purifies my broken soul father, you are everything, my world, myself, I love you.
Slice the seeds with your hands, laughter stole the born, laugh in his face too
this would always be the self-suicide, generous with tragedy
We talked the Holocaust and the Ukraine on blood-hooks; Putin’s laughing, reversing time yet again. Inside his body: amnesia and via ferrata
Of this night’s eye or insanity that was dissevered, A divine satire loomed of an Iliad one day, that was deemed as dithyrambic.
I let her keep the banns, told her I didn’t care what she did with it. She had eyes that hid a body, perhaps
I want to acknowledge that the topics mentioned may be triggering. This is a content warning as the following information relates to a convicted pedophile and CSA.
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been, and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
Have you ever written a poem that was just... WAY too personal for anyone else to read?
variegated in singes; touches of her neck and wrist, contused in no promises, only the sprawl of remembrance gets darker
My hero turned out to be a monster, it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves and empty words spill—spill
like abandoned memories, recalled by my mother like when my grandfather said “I’m going to kill you” while counting money
with no thread of flowers to plant your feet on, and into morning air at a hotel room remembering that’s what home felt like.
O I had bad dreams; I was wooded into the sand, lady, I am dead from you all
Do not tell me what I was to redraw that cold war face, to see a woman of what I bleed
sometimes, I wish I were like that. don’t you. how do you break off from yourself do you ever think about it?
Note: I think I wrote this around a year ago. It was a nice diversion from the tension of those early times, while still delving into it. This is a satirical piece, so just a forewarning since the pandemic impacts us all in different ways. I don't take it lightly either as I have had distant family pass from it; back on point, I know this can be a sensitive topic so proceed with caution.
Through the smokestacks there is the death of me as I pass the hills.