Tag: poems

Heresy

Jesus Christ was killed again
Before the bible was ever written
When Rome adopted the faith of slaves
And made it a tool of oppression

Religious freedom died as well
Before they made the Liberty Bell
When Capital became supreme
Our spirits bound to earth and hell

Salvation may as well exist
In dollar bills and banquets
Where we pretend we still hear God
As we suck its bloody wrists

Apacalypses come and go
We haven't gone to heaven though
Maybe if we just keep pushing
We'll finally break the world enough

Or rather than pursue our death
We might stumble on some path
That reawakens something deep
Enough to bury our troubled past

If there's any light to see
Outside our Christianity
The source is unbenownst
But somehow tangible to me

Jesus Christ can rest in peace
All God's children take a piece
To share without the threat of force
Or Hell when we're deceased.

This House Was Always Haunted

If you can find it, 
I dare you to look inside

The black house on a hill
Where three suicides were survived,

The remnants of their pain
Reach vapourously for a light

To expose their nakedness,
And the hollowness of their eyes.

If you're nearby,
Why not chance a look?

The forgotten undead
Would be glad to have known you.

There are fantastic stories 
Hidden under the splintered floors,

Romances and tragedies
That you could be part of.

Why not have tea
With a dysfunctional malevolence?

The eyes that inspect 
Every movement, chill, and hush,

Have a hunger for your love,
You devotion, your affection

And a hatred for pain,
And the gentleness of touch.

She's wrapped up in sheets,
In the bedroom, where she lived

Still hungry, still aching,
Still decaying from inside.

This Halloween, you should go,
She'll be delighted

To find the Haunted House
Is where she has always resided.








A Lovely Little Death

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,…

Yes.

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.

We Talk Too Much

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

Mary

When I imagine you, My empathy makes a monster of your misery, One I’ve studied often in my dreams And more frequently discovered in reality. I wonder when it breathed, When spark and spleandor clashed that evening, And you saw what it had seen How it found you in your sleep.

Transfeminine Spring

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 Grow Our Own Life Together

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.

Genderless Winter

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.

Ugly Angel

There’s a dirty kind of feeling,

A deeply driven repulsiveness

That sits somewhere between the throat

And the far back of the brain.

A moment that seems eternal,

Like a punishment for some sin,

Looking inward to an abyss

Of secretly sensitive yearning.

The reflection of something I cannot see

Knaws and separates myself from their company,

Dirty, deep and seemingly forever

Like the immortal voice of an angel that’s ugly.