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




Puking Demons

Plush Petals

Broken dreams, broken plaster
I have known myself for far too long, thus
To be the executioner is my modality
To judge my offenses is my mechanism –
Cut off my own hand, tear out my own eyes, sew shut my voracious mouth
Is my reckless propensity
My ears bleed from the screaming veins bulging at my temples
Like a disorienting narcosis –
I fall into this Springs winter slumber, its bleak grip dredging foul odors from my withering skin…
I’m not sure that I can give this dying my full attention
When the necrosis of my mind flutters and flaps before my monochromatic eyes
Stealing the thunder of my dying…
Outside, all of these weeping trees with their bony arms slice pieces from the air
I want to slide my tongue up those rough bark pillars, and through each gnarled finger –
Until splinters bite, pierce; The stinging pain abruptly shocking my silent mind into an unsettling metanoia…
Let me walk through fields of bones and blooms
Let me claw through this dingy shell, punch through spongy larva into chrysalis metamorphosis
I seek a respite from this loud, sweltering madness
Where I am swamped with derelict seeds of crushing seasons; A terminal equation of urinated moments
Dire drought leaving weighty graves in a row like a serpentine-shaped spine
And these winged things with boxy heads and mothball eyes, that try to creep and crawl beneath my veil
Laying eggs between my teeth, which fester and drop from my mouth
To fall onto the icy concrete, shatter on the ground like brittle icicles…
Do you know me?
Like the unconscious petting of a cat lulls it into rhythmic purring –
Does the honest truth of my words soothe? Harsh and cold as they may be?
Does their candor excuse these tentacled deeds of mine, which have in the past evoked guttural wails?
Or at the very least, rebuffs?
I am not the porcelain cherub, soft and pale, moonlit dreams shimmering in my limpid eyes
I puke demons
Rip them from their wombs, rend them from my soul, drag them from my shoulders
Teach them how to eat darkness, gnash it with their rusted teeth…
I kiss time goodbye with senseless words, dry, dusty, hopeless eyes, and a heart stitched shut with cyanide sutures
I am no ones breathless hour
I am made of thorns and thistles, wretched leather scars from dreams missing blueprints and seamless mechanics
Oh, what have I done?
Cut off my own hand, torn out my own eyes, sewn shut my voracious mouth
And now there is nothing left to save
No savage pain left to feel, no warm, sticky-sweet, pungent blood to dip my fingers into –
Smear my life onto this dismal, regretful existence
In a destinal attempt to confirm that I am not a ghost in a fractured mirror…
Let me be loverly, tease my own eyes into a shocked, sweet bliss
Fan perspiration in melodic hollows, and candied curves and canyons, into bursts of honeyed succulents…
I can’t explain when, or why my spirit became vindictive
Its pinched composition curdling into a sizeable, shrewish succubus…
It’s too soon to forgive myself
Too dangerous to absolve each strangled flutter, crippled bud on the vine
And cold shoulder leaned into a howling, thermonuclear pulse
Too small to try to make what’s wrong turned into right…
I’ve carved no solace, carved no silence
Just devastation
Weaving, spinning creaking webs inside my mind…
But I know that this house needs cleaning
13,000 locked doors swinging wide, the confined air within exhaling, inhaling
To suck my sage and spark into every shadowed red room, every bleak dark corner, every heavy dead space –
Where wallpaper, peeling in blues and greys –
Its musty strips of ruins of lapses, exaggerations, missed hunting grounds and forlorn sighs
Is torn away by my blistered, burning, but determined fingers
Before it’s too long past that sweet spot, and my time has rotted; Done

Vultures picking at my crying bones










Wrecked awake

Snowy Stream Skimming the Subconscious?


Gathering my energy
Histories frames illustrate that I need ritual at my table
A feast to stop the lingering and rotting
To inhibit the dying and halt the death
Strange doesn’t indicate insane, but I’m not sure where I am
I thought my definitions were crystal fireflies and amethyst dragonflies
Tilling the soil in my soul
But an ill wind has pelted me with an acrid desert and I admit that I’ve damned my own river at times
With my mortal, deceptive, checkmate sentiments, etching sharp cornered boxes that I cut myself climbing in to…
I’ve tried to scoop the stars into my blessing bowl –
Stir their soft, unwavering vitality into my emptiness
Harness the moon, bathe in its crisp, generous, purifying beams
But the tide has ebbed and hope has settled into twilights camouflage
Shadows and dust, grime and rust, present and past, and thus
Beneath frozen ground, crocus and memory feel like velvet crushed
Timeline unravels like twine; Fraying lengths of lethargy and apathy…
We slide through eons like glowworms, interpret and invent ourselves, our epitomes, between our highs and lows
We hunt and gather a montage of whispers, hums, thoughts, beliefs, voicings –
We become
But this biting, frostburn winter has come among my travels, and among the debris I have lost my pith, my flame –
My scorch
Laudanum dreams might inject some warmth into the spirit of this place –
This institution of empty puppets, their layered, paper mache strips of faded letters, extolling yesterdays presence –
Extolling yesterdays presents… those dusty, pasted pieces shape bone, and limb, and holes; Vacant eyes of the dead
Chew up the ruby fire which exists in all lifetimes of clockwork dimensions, gnash and pulverize its shimmer…

As we rush from one time to another, chasing our breath and the sanity in our minds –
Smoldering embers can be stirred into fire
Over infinite rehearsals, we create vast valleys, to traverse whenever we reach into the echoes of ourselves
Where the sacred speaks –
Stones, blaze, smoke, haze; Symbols that weep, that rise or seep; Uncover and steep…
This crust, with a gentle boot nudge, cracks open a channel
Where have I gone?
I’ve caused my own slow death
Distance has not impressed the ghosts of my tender age
Yet held close to my heart a safer place –
I wish that scars could be strung on silken thread
To wear like pretty things, but take off and lay aside when tender spots ache
Fling into a corner or set upon the sill of an open window –
For the crows to carry away and churn into shiny totems
To make, for just one moment, shattering tragedies into things with enough purpose
That the pain, shame, isolation would melt into the ground…
I’ve walked where normal made you strange
Which haunted all of my ghosts nefariously
The pieces may never fit exactly again
But I refuse to have a love affair with regret
I am my indifference against incompetence
I am my psychology, philosophies and treasons –
A whirlwind charging into the seasons
I ask myself “What conclusion did you expect from your course of action?”
As I attempt to solicit the juice from immeasurable reasons
Staying one step ahead of myself seems a potent intrusion –
It extracts the softness from falters and hindsight
Renovates the myths of this breakdown
Into the mystical of a breakthrough
I am a compass
I am a bridge
I am my own thoughtful measures

Sunshine through the window dapples the walls with flower shadows
Fall is unfolding into winter, and wistful arms wrap me in a contemplative cabaret
To cavort, in a mad feast of affection for the miseries and the revelries
Lick the bitter from the wounds
Savor the sweet teasing my lips
Like grapes left late on winter vines become ice sugared wine to sip
And I can feel the lulling weight of anticipation, a divine opus sprouting in this desert in my soul
Beneath a frosted rubenesque moon
I smile