the Prometheus death fit for humankind, take it then take it and see how we are born, see how we’ll die.
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.
two mouths crawling the Medusa legs us pale girls virulence being told is our blood and bones.
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
pilling, with my favorite lady an eos tread
I see you I hoard your threaded- mulling-overs; playing me into junction, screaming, sighing screaming, sighing
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.
you wound me A lotus dress with lace of red.
I’m pissed at God, but tell me who has not been, and because I dream, my skull surfs in torrents
psyche-reaped and kissed into a lushed womb where coiling into my lap, she lay
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
her lune, how precise and anticlastic as if each horror you provoked could somehow make me want you