Self Study I: Suffer

Seeds Sewing Sentiments

This quiet desperation
These camera lens eyes have developed fractured tears
That rush like a furious rainfall running down the stairs
After curling the edges of filmstrips piled high in the attic; Yellowed memoirs
Often left unfinished, though not for a lack of trying
Unseasoned years littered with coffee and cigarettes, bent and tangled dreams, and the chill of injured shadows…
I have built myself into a mishmash of corridors that lead into limbo –
Paper mache covered cliches keep me safe from myself
I need to find my eyes again
Dig them out from beneath these mounds of frozen ground
Where earth and carcass of bird are tethered solid until spring
Feathers spread like delicate pointy daggers, or barricades, or compasses
Innocence and bittering rippling in the wind…
This deadness is quieter than falling snow –
Tastes musty on my tongue, and my fingers are blue
Not because it is minus ten degrees, but from holding onto the coffin
It’s backwards, exactly –
Others push the coffin away, while in dreams I wander among lush sprays, of which to adorn mine
But I guess that it is with the unknowns that I feel the most alive
My arms full with the familiar plumpness of unpleasantness, and a disappointment bouquet
Dead petals dripping soft darkness…
It is my corrosive tendency to take the route of punishment –
I take my traumatism and my wounds seriously
Plaster and stitching needle, antiseptic, apologies, and lilies by my bedside
To cobble the disrepair that’s maliciously beautiful…
I can’t bear the feeling of failing you
I can’t suffer you leaving
I pinch and pierce, dig and claw, shove you back against the thorns
Keep you far from me
Devour seed, sever roots, irrigate weeds
Reopen scar tissue with pendulating fingers, and an orphidian tongue…
Dance with tomorrows funeral; Lime liquor on my lips, as they feed the air with sloppy syllables
While my incoherent fingers knock over the pawn –
And it rolls across the checkered floor, bouncing off of rooks and horses, like a flailing top in a hedge maze…
I want to stuff my bones with sugared stars
Fill my veins with cherried passion
Leave the rotting of these seasons to the stones and lambswool –
Wrap it snug and deep, weigh it down, to quiet my temptations, so I can sleep…
The bones are gone
There are no bones to hold me
The tongues hold on
The stories that they told me –
A thousand burrs in a field, among the crumbling stalks
Beneath the threadbare sky
Dot my grueling mind
Estranged lips spitting dandelion parachutes, that float and land, to seed
Malignant crust, that sprouts cholera mind
And
Cemetery eyes




Graves in Rows

In the sickroom; This dread abode…
Hateful season, how you mock me
Sooty angels pry into my dreams with caustic, razor fingers
Of which they use to riven the last tatters of hope
Place their decayed eyes in my direction, as gauzy lips of melancholia, stone cold
Are pressed against my forehead
While they trim their hemlock wings, leathery feathers piling up like the brittle stars
That you’ve left inside a thousand green bottles on top of the brick wall in the back yard –
Graves in rows
Taking up too much space in my heart –
Rows so long that they blur into shapes of useless mouths, sinful lips; Like yours
Spitting words of which you’ve casually dissected all meaning –
Sliced away its resplendent, precious luster
Little by little as the toilsome years bit deep
When a mothers wounds were handed down as bitter candy
Love embalmed with cyanide fractures; Eggshell fault lines from preexisting umbilical instability
Goading life to swipe away at your spirit during such thankless decades of drought
A heritage of malnutrition and insanity
Until you found your god in a bottle
Disassembled and parched; You drank him in
Razed the roof until you rattled the dead –
Annoyed; They screeched against the cinnamon sun that rose through your pores, from your booze-soaked veins
Oozed from your clammy skin…
Bloated pupils drift aimlessly; Jellyfish sans tentacles –
Ricochet in slow motion off of violent irises
Like blobs in lava lamps camped out on top of a seventies television set
As you slump back on the couch, stare at its blank screen
Like it’s a wormhole to Persephones sanctum
A haven where the bones sing you lullabies that empty your head of its torturous pain –
Your affliction, boring through blood and bone in frenetic mastication…
Drop by drop, liquid sex sliding down your throat, until moony delirium
Did you find a gods perspective from your hazy alcove?
This wasting away…
Until you have no care, no concern for precious things
Stepping over the cusp, raging demon; You have left your eyes behind
You have cut your face into my greatest fear
Torn your lips into a snarling ferocity that spits our memories into ashes of tears
My heart, my spirit disintegrates into suicide wounds
The air swirls as Mercy descends, leathered wings curling round her…
There is no place for me in her sooty embrace
I’m not even a shadow in our photographs
I hear you humming in the other room, as if you’re at peace with our final goodbye
I hear you set the bottle down
I used to think that your indifference to my feelings was your wounded child lashing out

Feed me gasoline
Then set me on fire
My pain, my flames, our demise –
The only light in your dead eyes

Glass of water at your lips



Precious Things

Swirling Silhouettes

Were it not for your departure –
Your subtle, sweet scent which lingers on the voile curtains
Wraps around me like a silky husk…
Like a last, sorry goodbye from the arms of a lover that knows he must abandon all hope –
Crushing loves’ timepiece beneath the heel of his well-worn boot, scattering its ghosts in all directions
Were it not for these precious things –
Hours of dreams, and dreaming
Countless flutters of the heart, murmurs of desires, joyful transcendences
Stitched together on butterfly wings, to take flight with the swiftest ascent
Melded into the armored breastplates of dragonflies, to withstand the frost, and darkness
And the barren temperament that life offers in the palms of its withered, calloused hands…
Then, I would inhale the last of your scent into my wilting lungs
Hold it there until it spun itself into lacy threads that built sticky, scattered webs –
Tethering you to me
And oh how I would give up the ghost without so much as one tender tear
Never to breathe another casual, happy breath again
If it meant that I could follow you into the unknown infinities of beyond
If only one last time, my weary fingers could soothe the burdens from your brow
Plumb the braided knots from your ravaged spine
Touch that mouth, of which I pressed my lips against to share my secrets and fragrant yearnings…
Would that I had the providence in this gypsy heart, to alert me to the depths of sprawling pain that this love would incur
But no… I would not have taken to the sky, wings carrying me to the moons hidden crevices
So that I could deny love, cage it within rusted, lonely bars…
Must I steal from love all of its rapt glory, due to scars, and tears, and throttled rose bushes? –
Petals in forensic freefall, until thudding against the cold, hard ground…
We were chaos in a sugar bowl
And you, with your goblet eyes full of ruin –
A cimmerian, bleak valentine that spoke to me with words of dark longing
You were simmering shadow obscuring sunlight
Misery seeping, fluid and pulsing, like these inky words running off of the page, smearing my fingertips
And I; I was lovingly lost in your decadent dreariness
Tearing at my hair, clawing; Scraping winter wounds –
Decorating my eyes with dead prayers, betrayed ghosts
And brittle feathers, from the carcasses of crows in the corner boneyard, outside the south window
Your promises weren’t mine
We fell from different disappointments before we found our footing
Oddments burrowing beneath our skin, until our eyes lost their shine
And we forgot to find what we never knew
But, it doesn’t matter
I loved you anyway, and love you even still
Your voice carrying in the swaying feathered stalks that caress the brick walls
“Hush,” I tell myself
Those soft whispers are meant to be mine when I am still
The drumming of my heart turning toward the night sky where you are waiting

These precious things that you have left with me
Keep me grounded and alive though I would gladly depart if you somehow sent word –
Through old, musty pages, drum, visions or bird…
I would attempt to take flight, give up the ghost
But all I have left, in the most primitive form, is to hold the curtains to my nose, and see the buds next to the thorns
I feel your warmth against my spine
And I think that this won’t be our last goodbye
I think that it will wind
Through each season, each numinous, luminous, painterly occasion