Phyllis McGinley said in Ballade of Lost Objectsin 1954

Sticks and stones are hard on bones Aimed with angry art, Words can sting like anything But silence breaks the heart.

paper, on it was love poème written in french

I am a string of paper dolls clipped to a clothes line, blank as a newborn baby hanging in the sunshine. where am I going? what am I doing here? i am starting to think that the people hanging up here with me are too much like how I used to be. waiting to be snipped down and used for something. Always waiting. All waiting. we are all waiting.

for 3 years I have screamed at the heavens, for giving me paper-cuts. what are we supposed to do with these, i asked. i cursed myself for drenching my already fragile skin with alcohol, make-up and lighting on fire rolled blunt tips.

my paper throat burned with a New Year affair and a knife named lust. I was dead before the first slit, drunk off the first sip, and lecherous at the first thrust. delirious and masculine. he was masculine and I was delirious. but only for a couple months, a couple hours, just a seasonal fancy.

I woke up today and I was no longer hanging by myself. A broken flower came and snipped me down. placed me in her backpack and pedaled me around. 

Inanition

in·a·ni·tion/ˌinəˈniSHən/

Noun:	Lack of mental or spiritual vigor and enthusiasm. Exhaustion caused by lack of nourishment.
Synonyms:	vacancy - emptiness - inanity

lunar cords

I feel so small, especially
when the Moon shines down
too many lines
too many sharps and flats
on my night
The problem with trying to
tie a string to someone is
when they leave you,
there is always either too much cords
or not enough, and
the emptiness is not puddles
but oceanic and
unrelenting.
The strands are thin tonight.
rejection
stings like the shallow cuts
in the strands that connects back to
my heart.
I keep giving pieces of myself
away and foolishly still
think I can stay whole.

i bite my finger nails. Down pass where my finger ends
because of the sharp tinge of pain I feel when I press my tips
to something is curious.

just like the feeling of the warm ground in summer
under my feet, when it rains. I like the ground better when there isnt
shoes to prevent the connection.

And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy. - Edgar Allan

Proud to be part of the pothead hippies coalition that likes feeling themselves up because of the rain.

Ode to the daydream

And so the adaptation begins,
The shift in status where ever it may stems from
starts to take place. This times my hearts been broken

And so right now the fucking blaring
brightness outside my window, is giving
pains to my eyes. This time my body doesnt have the energy
to move from these four walls.

And so the adaptation begins,
The shift in status where ever it may stems from
starts to take place. Open my eyes, But all I see
is systematic routine, assimilation and lifelessness

And so right now, meaning weeks I am haunted
by the memory of us, so smooth and
translucent. And This time it brush against the inside of my
lids gifting me a nocturnal vision of us with our

Closed eye, Lips Ice Time Open Rain Instinctual Sensuality

But now all I see is brightness outside my widow
that burns my eyes.

Short-toed Snake Eagle

The concrete graveyard

at 1:48 Am. was quiet.
             We the children of Kin & Kith, Night & Moon walked without worry of
             aggressive street dwellers; through the cemented playground of human-kind.
After 10, torn & dirty jeans replaced pressed slacks; our shoes scuffed while theirs clapped.
"we are all the same difference" you said which I replied "not really"
             I will never be invited in and I refused to drink the tea.
             After 2:30 Am, when the last of the lushes and mate-seekers have driven away
from the blinking red and yellow street lights to their suburbian loneliness, all that remained is the memory of us suspended in a standstill.
             Motionless in that splendor sandy, current. Like we were swimming in an unbreakable hour glass made of stainless steel hooks from which we were suspended in the moment, we Kin and Kith, children of Night and Moon kissed in the midst of an intersecting sea of concrete.

Dreamdust

The dreamdust we create is unlike anything I've every had wrapped me in its haze and send me drifting off in the minds sea.

The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien–the words at the base of her neck are elvish for “dream” (from TattooLit)

L’hymne au printemps, Félix Leclerc

“Mes cabanes d’oiseaux sont vidées
Le vent pleure dans ma cheminée
Mais dans mon cœur je m’en vais composer
L’hymne au printemps pour celle qui m’a quitté”


" My huts of birds are emptied
The wind cries in my fireplace(chimney)
But in my heart I go away to compose
The hymn in spring for the one who left me "


- The hymn in spring, Félix Leclerc.

Love poem (Three word Wednesday)

Dear Sky,

Your suppleness clouds my novice thoughts

so much I become light in my own body

A heavy tar escapes from my grounded flesh.

As a way to give you a kiss of gratitude I must ignite, into ash 

billowing smoke signals. And when my gesture of affection 

rises softly and gently. I sear into my chest the words 

'With this distant eternal melancholic hearts 

I'll long for you.' Just as I kiss you on the cheek

Love,

Earth.

Rotation (Circle)

now is this jazz

sitting not on a

leather couch but the floor

with a slender black cat

poised on my lap.

Post-modernism,

Definitely with a sprinkle

of Harlem Renaissance   

We are all

sticky with ganja leaves.

As we pass, the beat

slides in between you and she 

than him and her

between or betwixt

no one is sure

But I tell you secret
no matter where the circle
is created
who is in it,

Left is always love
So make sure you are
my dear,
sitting next to me please

in the amnesia haze as we
fall into deep puddles
when our finger cross
and touch

I will pretend its
your hand in mine.
Because to take a
hold of another’s hand
is to break from living
individually Me.

It is to
momentarily entwine
your life with mines,
is to
promise, for a moment,
that you need
not face the
world alone

because once this circle
is broken.
no one is sure
between or betwixt

than him and her
slides in between
you and she
As we pass, the beat

We are all

sticky with ganja leaves.
Harlem Renaissance

Definitely with a sprinkle

of Post-modernism,

now is this jazz

sitting not on a

leather couch but the floor

with a slender black cat

poised on my lap.

Cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese):

The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone's hair.

Fallen angels and Noose-like halos

Hey wake up!

What the-!? Oh hey

what are you doing down here?

I fell.

You fell?

I fell and hurt myself pretty bad.

Lemme see.

I pull my halo down.
You watch as it slips around my shoulders.

A ring burns a mark into my flesh.

How long has it been like that?

For a while now, it hurts.

I bet. You bleed so pretty though.

I wish it would stop.

Even as I choke on your embers,
I still wanted to bring you back to me.
Except you hovered too high
Just out of my reach.

So you fell? 

Yes.

Who made you fall?

I did.

Who pushed you over the edge?

I swing my feet & advert my
eyes to the floor, bashfully

I did.

And now you are down here.

Is that a problem?

No, never a problem for me, m’dear.

I blush billowing smoke &

warmth from within.

But, why would you do such a thing
to yourself?

I didn’t want to feel any more
mouths that tasted too hollow to speak

half-truths & empty lies.

So I let my halo slip and let myself free-fall.

Okay. 

You extend yourself & sit up in your bed.  

Envelop & pull me in towards your silvery psyche.

You look tired, wanna lie down? 

Why are you being so nice?

Because I want to.

You turn your face into my nook to kiss
my burning flesh & cry on the blacken blisters. 

I don’t want to be a burden, I say.

Sweetheart, so far you’ve only been a burden to yourself.

Your words sting with burning honesty
I withdraw into myself.

Calm down and come lie down with me.

I don’t want burn you.

I wouldn’t mind if you did.

I step my bare-feet to the edge.

You pull your heathen ashen feathers
and presses it lightly into my skin.
I grip the marble sides of your bedpost

leaving behind scorch trails and soot as I

climb in.

I feel right in here.

You smile sadly with your eyes &
I sleepily blink mine.

I used to get really lonely, you know.

You did?

Yea.

And now you don’t?

You shake your head and more grey feathers fall.

Nope, not anymore I think.

What happened?

You finally decided to come down and

wake me up.

Joss Whedon

When I say, “I love you,” it’s not because I want you or because I can’t have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you are, what you do, how you try. I’ve seen your kindness and your strength. I’ve seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are. You’re a hell of a woman.”


-Joss Whedon

Hold my hand.

Holding hands may seem like an innocent gesture, but they show more than a simple interlocking of fingers. Your hands are one of the most essential parts of your body: you build with them, feed with them, hold with them, touch with them, fight with them; they are the tools of the human body.

To take a hold of another’s hand is to break from living individually. It is to link yourself to another being, to momentarily entwine your life with another’s, to promise, for a moment, that you need not face the world alone. More simple, more aesthetically naive than other forms of affection, i.e kissing, hugging, sexing.., the act of holding hands is often trivialized in its true implications.

To be feared or loved

Would I rather have people fear me, or love me? Answer is easy. Both. I want people to fear how much they love me.