Men, women, and persons;
You enigmas of violence, misery, sex, and boredom;
How are you feeling?
To what end is your violence?
To what depth does your misery brood?
What comfort have you found in sex?
What madness does your boredom uproot?
If you're honest, I would guess, every answer, some way, stems from love.
Acknowledge this with me if you expect my intimacy.
Asleep in your dream They whisper in your ear As if they were beside you Delicately, dulcetly, in the voice of a kiss "Show us who you are,..." They tear away your covers, And you'll probably awake.
This is Death, my infinite pastime,
My plaything, my dalience.
It fucks me breathlessly into the great unknown,
And spits me out, and leaves me there.
God help us, goddamnit!
It wasn’t enough to make us feel alive?
To make us suffer so we want to feel alive?
We inherit a lust for beauty and are demanded to close our eyes?
What depth there is in darkness could never be enough.
Is it ever sweet enough to sleep? Well,…
It is, sometimes,…
When I go to bed exhausted, my sleep screams with delight.
And the more I romaticise, the more attractive it seems.
So at the end of the day, I only hope that I’m weary,
Not from toil, or troubles, but from the ecstasy of a brilliant party.
It was never over like I thought it was
Looking for myself and finding more of us
I don’t want to be that girl who can’t forget you
But I’m ready for you if you ever wanted to
We never really kissed as far as I recall
Somehow I’ve felt your lips and seen it all
I hate admitting that I think about you every day
There’s just too much I never got to put away
We talk so much, I’m thinking that I’m not alright
You haven’t heard me yet because you haven’t been in sight
I’m in a bed like always when you’re on my mind
I needed sleep, but it’s always you I seem to find
It’s over, past the date, so many years by now
Evidently I still need to feel about you somehow
I need to scream, I need to fuck, I need to fill a whole
If not with you then I don’t want to feel you anymore
I guess you should’ve never left me any hope
I’m going to cry about you now and hope to be alone
There will always be
A rain cloud sheltering us from the burning sea,
A wave of trembling gray sky
Separating the sunlight from you and I.
In these days of windy shade we shimmer,
Starlight, moonlight, refractions twinkling in time,
Sharing and searching for truths in each other,
Where faces imbue our spirits with its shine.
Clear your muddled, cluttered head
And have a slice of honeyed bread
To take into your secret room
Where your tea is hot and your flowers bloom.
There, you’ll think and have a smoke,
Text a friend with a random joke,
Watch the birds and people go by
From the window on the other side,
Start the first lines of a poem,
And just feel fully alive and alone.
Waking up with a patient hunger,
Taking my sweet time to think, body heavy from a long sleep,
I put myself together, slowly, silently in the rising sun.
Becoming aware of myself brings a strange new comfort,
A focus without sharpness, and silent sublimities.
Peace, in its few moments, is shockingly sweet.
Pleasure is simpler and easier to accept,
As are my pains, fears, and many other familiar happenings.
I care more for the thought of existing than the person I was ever could,
As though a portion of my emptiness was washed away,
Cleansing away a brutal year into my first transfeminine spring.
We could have a tiny world, a modest one, all to us,
To paint our ideals, our passions, and secret wishes onto.
Caring for each other and nurturing the land
Our children, a family of colors, scents, atmosphere and earth.
We’d till and sow all our own way,
And grow a living dream, transcendent from every angle.
We’ll compose a landscape tuned to the mood of our time together,
Like living music to the moment we’ve adopted.
Seasons and years renew the youth of our creation,
So every day we enjoy new spaces of imagination to occupy together.
This is the world we birth with our own hands and thoughts,
Held together indefinitely, in reverie and splendor.
Blank and white with a frostbitten edge,
Like silver knives stinging in every little breath.
Too cold for sex, but perfect for a touch
From fingers warm that don’t sink too much.
It starts with a trance, to the depths, to the roots,
And the emptiness inside, uncluttered, unpoluted.
A masculine abstraction made with feminine grace.
Insensitive seasons reflecting nature’s soft face.
A hunger in a dream, cutting straight through my words,
A silent understanding, an intuition unheard.
The loss of all heat and the induction of warmth.
Pining for nothing and weighing all its worth.
Ambiguities vanish, there’s only one choice,
To relinquish and recover body, disposition, and voice.