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a monster's romanticsI got a nervous habit and I drink too much.Can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last timethat we spoke? “We’re killing time just a little bit faster.”The words come with a new kind of sadness.If it looks like Armageddon’s coming down today,please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming; I can’t tellif he’s real or a made-up version of her again. Andthe hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.
augustyou tear apartevery aspect of me,and i lie on the ground.dissected;still not whole.
breakingtime ticks on and you changeto survive, but survival of the fittestalways seemed a bit skewedin the history booksof whoever won this war.you're a chance to show themthey were wrong;pull the trigger one last timeand let them knowwho you're going to be.if they smother you, shinebrighter than the fragmentsthey're made of -- don'tlet them make you a ghostin the machine that spins awayin forgotten dimensionsuntil it rusts. the craters of the moonwill always call for you,changing the tides endlesslyuntil your voice crackles throughthe radio and shouts back,"no one can break me!"
Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the heightof an Indian summer -- a cloudburst collidinginto a cyclone, raising the temperature of anywho wander through our sweaty inversion.I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,straight into a clap of thunder conceived bylightning fever. A roiling heatwave travelsacross our connection, evaporating the atmospheresurrounding the eye of our storm. Your humidbreath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
untitledThat guy thinks he's heartless;I watch him as he buys coffeeand gives it to everybody he passeson the street who looks sad, andhis lips curl into a smile becausehe made a joke that gave someone a laugh.He holds his mother's hand on topof hospital sheets, pressing the buttonto pump morphine into her systembefore he signals a nurse. Tears cascadedown his face when he watcheshis mother take her last breath.And his lips curl into a sneer as he walkspast a cloud of lung choking smoke,thinking of the fume filled airhis mother suffocated herself in.He thinks he's heartless, buthis heart is bigger than anyone's.
handfuls of memoriesyour eyes are the gray of the cloudswhen they cover the sun after a storm;your words washing up on the skylineof my towering city at night, a messagein a bottle only to be read by me.ignoring gravity, i've recklesslyspilled the secret lives of shadowsto a piece of paper just for youand buried them with the ocean.since that day i'm the hunted;for they want to make buttonsout of my traitor bones.i am standing on the edge of a mountain,watching as my carrousel dreams float away.they dissolve into smoke and are consumedby the eyes of night. my paperweightsoul tears as each piece disappears.misguided ghostsis what they are, trying to fool meinto an urban maze of skylines andturnstiles. bad blood is what theydoomed my soul, but i'll keep on running.i will not forsake you; not even whenmy skin is smothering me.but i am chasing after the sky in a futileattempt to be your knight in shining armor,a glint of blue ice running uphill unceasingly.a never-ending battle to u
when i was four i thought the sky was blue marble.my father feels guiltyfor spending my childhoodspending time with my brother and cars,not me.he feels even worse every time he yells at me;he yells at me a lot.my father buys me booksto try to buy my love (or maybe my forgiveness)but he doesn't realize that he's just paying meto love other people;some dead poet he doesn't know shit aboutand probably wouldn't understand.but thanks though.
these bitter kids have sharper hipsoh, i am aching to pry apart this skull &meet the ghosts thumping at its insides.i'm just pining for a rib cage like afuneral pyre or a staircase;i want to bloom from thesebitter bones & waste -(until i'm the corpsesleeping in the casket)
i miss autumn in your eyes, fire on your lipsyou wear a coat of wounds,gloves of razorblades& it’s almost likeyou just can’t stopaccidentally cutting throughyou heed words of hate,songs of death& it seems you can’tignore the feeling offluid iron holding your wristyou preach sermons of doubt,litanies of lies& i don’t know this huskof the beautiful, starwatchingperson i once called you
friendships aren't meant for abuseMy good friend Anahas long, skinny armsand thin blonde hair,that seems to flyaway in the wind.My good friend Anaeats only saladsand dreams of ballerinas,dancing all in a row.My good friend Anahas arms you could snap.Legs with a gap andhip bones with an ocean between.My good friend Anafears our'bigger is better' mentality.It threatens her. My good friend Anahas many mutual friends.She can be seen at every party,and talking with anyone insecure. My good friend Anais kind. She always looks outand helps you along. My good friend Anacan no longer see me.I'm told she's killing me.I'm told she's a serial killer. My friend Anasticks to the shadowsand is reflected in eyesof so many girls. My friend Anahas a sinister grin.She seems ghostly, like paper. She's forgotten about healthy meals.My friend Ana snuck in last night.She comforted me as I cried.Told me that I could stop being worthless.Ana has a black heartand a
Insomniac IndispositionInsomniac IndispositionI swear that I have iron in my veinsand that bed is a fucking magnet.I lie in places where nights are sleeplessand the only thing that keeps me companyare the white lights that play in the dark.My mind playing tenementfor phantoms that sing songs alongand around my fragmented neurosis. I’m a dying insomniacand the only thing I hold closeare my sweat-smothered covers,sheets and bedspreadskeep the dead heads from risinginto the light that first took them.My bedroom is the cagekeeping me from Summer and Spring.Holding only Winter in its walled palmsI never really ever seem to meet Fall.But in the same brisk wind,it is my haven.Shackled yet protectedto the worn springsthat hold me up,keeping me from fall-ingraining ingratiating ingrowthinto the inner circle I never had,but engrafted upon me.More than anything,I am like newborn birds I cannot see,the main difference is I never left the nestto actually spread my wing di
immortaland we are synapse flashingslipping sliding sneaking throughour crumpled-bone fingers andsandpaper lip kissesand desolation is scratching up anddown our throats clawing andtearing away our voices untilwe can no longer screamand so we whimper and watchas our demons fly from our gaping jawspouring forth in a s(c/t)ream ofalienating aching agony that now defines usand so we are now the darkness pulsingjust out of reach behind our dull eyesand we are poltergeists and bending bonesdisturbing and disturbed we are now your nightmaresand so we live onin you
half truths, half lies, half wishesi.it's like rain in the middle of an ice storm, you can't explain it and you don't know why but that doesn't stop it from happening and freezing your porch- but you don't find out about that part until the next morning when you hurry out because you're already five minutes late and there's going to be traffic and you suddenly go from walking briskly to black to waking and wanting to claw for the covers that aren't there because it's too cold for comfort and you're already two hours late and fuck traffic, what you really need is a warm cup of tea with a splash of something stronger because if your head is going to pound like that, you might as well give it a good reason to do so.ii.give me a ticket to anywhere and i'll be more than happy to take it and put it in a box beneath my bed so i can dream and wonder of what-ifs and maybes that i let slip between my fingertips. i'll never remember about that box, i tell you, and you may not believe me but that's probably because i'll lie if i
42you should neverlove a poet, do not trustthem with yourheart - love may betheir language, butthey are always best atbreaking.
you are, you will bethis is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine--my bodyis beautifulwaitnofucktry again with moreconviction this time.my body is beautiful;its curves ascend more than the ruggedAlps, theyfall like contradictions from a politicallyincorrect statement, my body is thepavement of my mind's highway but theseflyovers keepcollapsing, I'mtrapped under the debris ofesteem(not self-esteem, that requiresa mind-heart team effort)my lips have kissed all kinds ofroyalty; my hands have polished enoughcrowns and sworn fealty to the rightpeople. my loyal legs once opened widerfor you to go deeper but I don't likethinking about that, I don't liketalking aboutyou.start over and this time,mean it.my body is beautiful; have youseen how my hipbones curve likewishbones?(when you find me stuck between yourgravestone-teeth, will you promise to bebreak me homolytically?)have youseen how my thighs purge out ofsociety's
i was the infidelyou told me you wanted to live forever.i said there is no life without death:there is simply being.-you taught me about airplanes and liveliness andhow to jump out a window without twisting my ankles.sometimes you would tell me about persiaor how a hot air balloon stays aloft,but that was when you had fire to keep you floating.-you lent me a book last fall.i put it in my room andswore i'd read it later, butwhen i went back to look for it i realizedi had lost it, before i evencracked the cover.i told you and you weren't angry; you just smiledand said that all things lost are eventually found.-last week you kissed her, long and sweet, under the crucifix:tracing fish in the sand with your bare feet. fingers intertwined.it was then i knew that you were gone and you had lied:not all lost things can be found.-yesterday i found the book you gave me,collecting dust at the backof my bookshelf. i wanted to pick it upand put it in the drawer where i keep hidden things;
scapegallows and metacarpalsi was cracking collar bones,splitting through my spine &oh - i was divinity, a demigodto paint my knuckles red beforemy lips were blue.i'd wanted to be wayworn;i'd wanted to be catatonia& comorbidity buti knocked my molars looseon my right metacarpals,spat out yellowed teethlike headsmen lop the necksoff sanctities
we were born from ashesi set fire to our memoriesso i could forgive youbecause i don't evenremember who you are.
genomei took my tuberculosis pills,assembled my blue body todis- so ci ate &i, the manic-depressive,the melancholic;i cracked the metacarpals,spat in river styx just the wayhumani(ties) me to thefractured knee cap, theunderexposure, themercury thermometer
apostasybefore he led me like a lambto the altar,he got me drunk.take this and eat, he said,hands on my hipbones,soft thighs, soft sighfor this is my body - but he gave me no bread, onlybruises, and he gave menew thorns for my headand i bledtill sunday morning.tell me:who speaks of resurrection?are you there,mary magdalene?mary, whenwill easter come?
you were the infideli told you there is a difference between wanting to kill yourselfand wanting to die.you said you didn't care, i could do eitherand goodnight.-i taught you how to climb a pine treeand how to tie your shoelaces one-handed;i sang you the alphabet backwards until you knew it by heart(you knew me by heart).sometimes i would weave daisies through your hairand you would keep them thereuntil they wilted.-once i dared you to scale the neighbor's fence andbring me a tomato from her garden.i thought you knew i wasn't seriousbut you vaulted up and back over with a tomato in your hand.you told me you would do anything, anything for meand i just laughed.-if there's one thing i want most, it's to seedaisies in your hair one more time:that way maybe part of youwill look alive. i know you've already wilted.-i think the day you jumped that fence,your heart hit the ground running andnever stopped.you said you would do anything for me:i guess you meant anythingbut lo
.as if murdering a suicidalgirl would make you a killer,if anything - - -- - -you're my hero.
the dreamer type can only speak in smoke-spiralshe's got wasteland words drippingfrom the migraine-swell of his skull &down through the splinters of his spine.the kid's a connoisseur, but only ofdead hands & phantom depressions;he's more of a dilettante forthe spectacle called being.