life goes by way too fast these days..

dear universe,
thank you.

I miss poetry, friends, time with my daughter, mom & bf. I miss my safe zones. they equal spiritual death.. I know. but it was easier. the best things in life are hard learnt, yes?

I still feel you in dead ends of yesterdays

“Some periods of our growth are so confusing that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening. We may feel hostile or angry or weepy and hysterical, or we may feel depressed. It would never occur to us, unless we stumbled on a book or a person who explained to us, that we in fact in the process of change, of actually becoming larger, spiritually, than we were before. Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth as it seeks to break out of its shell on its way to becoming a plant. Often the feeling is anything but pleasant. But what is most unpleasant is the not knowing what is happening[…]Those long periods when something inside ourselves seems to be waiting, holding its breath, unsure about what the next step should be, eventually become the periods we wait for, for it is in those periods that we realize that we are being prepared for the next phase of our life and that, in all probability, a new level of the personality is about to be revealed.”
— Alice Walker

everybody feels pretty in black.

minor deities by ness bloo

*^slam

there isn't a darker name for our kind of words:
off.kilter, sacred.shaken, blasphemous.
inevitable.
it creates a stumbling orphan,
awake at her first funeral
and who was she besides the thud
under your fist.



the smell of sabotage

standing on an apology
made of graves.
iris, iris,
what did you
see in the stare of last
lilacs


3rd attempt

that spring, he told me how.
to not fight about small things; they eventually bloom
bigger, like rosebuds, like water hitting pavement.
i said i always enjoyed storms
because they created imaginary bruises
behind eyes, like bolts of struck
lightning.

like rain on my face.


the colour black

when it did strike him, years later,
he fell down alone.
he'd been
taunting death too long,
and not only in his poems.....


that lovecraftian place

..........
i want him to not stop
.....
but if we had gone on, if we had dared,
on sheer buoyancy, we would have entered
that lovecraftian place
where stopping
only heightens the craze;
where the point
of contact shimmers
apocalyptic:
light neither of us knows is blindness.


closness

that was close.
they murmur, then count
off their small distances away from a drunk scene.
the swift electric current has seized.
the blue stones drowned them in their sockets.


RA and other small gods

thus the weeping endears her full
on his wide sly lips, helps her rise like a slain lamb
to more slaughter, next to the jackal.god, shaking
her mane of singed hair: what does he care.
******************
no....one...is aware.
as she becomes a child repeating the bad word,
and he is a god of the senses and
he wants to ruin her.
inside
the mind, a spotlight.
inside the spotlight............


trains and wreckage

we are smoke and metal, strange coils,
.. .. one of the shroud and one of the hurrying body.
this shape made by our turbulence finally is
a circle, collapsing and shrieking,
into the tunnel of vicious affliction.
we refuse to depart.

for once, if i can leave enough tracks,
i can hurt you back.. ...

:voice, God, simultaneous:


witness this

i chant...s low,
all joy and menace, closing in
on the debris, the bleak batik of bone
on one last expressionistic lipsplit.
nose to neck with viscosity.

and bumps, small
feminine circumferences, tight
and terrible; fingers to match a spider's
crawl, evil
in tint.

.................. .. .do i mirror you yet?


invoking latin

articulate fight.
unlearn every sound. soak it deeply.
every word i've swallowed grows, falters.
church is running late this eve.
mass held high.

ad Deum qui laetificat, juventutum meam.
no rest for the wicked,
from the needle.arm of twisted women.

i fear how you make me wind around the banister,
talking sepia over last suppers.
dies trae, dies illa. tantum ergo.

you bang my skull
against the rattling crib.backs.
dawn.
not even dawn will
make you fade from me, in blacking lustre;
even the ones i love,
in rosary cheeks and breastcrackedplates
just for this brief heartbeat,
..(pectoris pello pepulli pulsum es mortuus quod frendo..)
save me.
...................meus diligo
because i fear i will fade
in your hands,
die on us,
even as you recite,
in hope of resuscitation,
my actual name.

....... mary's breath, lily.of.the.valley, bleeding heart....


how to make a saint

white.throated me
thrown down
.
.
.
an army of mouths.
an array of murdered cleavage.

frightfully drawn,
towards four quarters .

there is no such thing as unmartyr'd faith;
so i pray mutely in your unrepentant ears.