daisy water.

&again my dreams will not stop
unlikely situations playing & replaying
in my thoughts.
&me, for the first time
playing the liar
the thief
the breaker of bodies
[& my own skin]
&regret.
[oh my dear, the regret]
although love in generally forgiving
mine, for you, stitches together
my disgusting wound of a heart
with a ten mile needle.
opening old scars
renewing the screaming agony of nerves
&starting to bleed all over again.

you made me safe.
the tighter you held me
the more paranoid i became
because the more i knew you
the more i loved you
&the more you could hurt me...
...
so i hurt us both
&now i could die a million times
&hurt just the same.

why the fuck did i do this

&the past is not interchangable
&it hurts.
because my jealousy
&fear
&everything else a father could have given
his daughter
ended me... you...we...
a bird should not escape its cage
if it has previous clipped its own wings
my fear & love of being kept in your heart
turned to wood & nails
&each day is a resurrection
more painful than the last
the greatest shame for my pen to
touch to paper
is that even death may be a blessing
second only to your forgiveness
&it kills to me realise...

death is tenfold more likely.

je suis très desolée.
je te manque... et je t'aime... je pense, en plus d'avant je suis partie.
parce que je suis en fait le votre.

liber tea.

i laid my weapons down
&expected the earth to come to a halt
so i could step off & learn
what it should mean to live
underneath the sand
i heard the echoes of voices
which have long since escaped vocal cords
now lying in a disheveled heap
crumbling beneath numb fingers.

to die is to unclench your fists
& explode into a life-full fury
the freedom that burns nearby stars
&causes the moon to raise up
galaxy-encrusted hands to her eyes
shielding herself from the whiplash.

through the confines of everything mortal
i am only permitted
to write such things.

son of a bosch.

original painting by h. bosch:


colour scheme:


finished piece:


for 2-D design ART103
-a. sanjari

sorrow. [no more]

the mood strikes
&everything seems more & more fucked up
closer to reality
or further away.
i have no authority whatsoever to distinguish between the two.

the world doesn't run on a merit system.
a good thing, the best thing has happened to me.
do i deserve it?
absolutely not.

before i even knew how to sin in any shape & form
stability unraveled from below me
quietly
i never even heard myself hit the bottom.

zoom back in.
a room.
locked door.
tearing at myself.
bloodshot eyes.
the.
clock.
ticked.
so.
loud.
i.
wanted.
to.
die.
it dawns on me now.
that the reason that happened is because i did do a lot of bad things.

&i continue to torture myself in their place.
[?!]

how many children are out tonight?
the possibilities tear at me like
car windows obliterating at 80 mph.

i dream about needles & smoke
&sad eyes in empty sockets
my eyes in my face.
crawling with swollen blood vessels.

if one can even call that dreaming at all.

the grotto.

tiny souls waver still
between the act of being alight
&exploding softly into smoke
stolen away by the night's gentle
inhale.
silent kept embraces:
the collecting flame of letting go
&holds it in careful hands
until you
a solitary bystander
takes it in to humble pores

something as universally
disfiguring as
mortality
takes on a candle's glow
while a worn & pale virgin
[shrouded, yet unignored]
weeps upon torn enwspaper
faded ink
&dried flower rosaries

line 01. [animation]

[incomplete37/60 frames]

not satisfied...
but am i ever?

despite this...
i feel rather bright today.

tweak.

'they say
this is the city
the city of angels
all i see are dead wings'
[-thedistillers]

line01.

and it makes me wonder...
which line am i?

mary undone.

you are my fingers

tugging at my scalp

a burning ache

soothed only by the

loveliest

of sin

you are my own skin

beneath my fingertips

extracted out of sheer

exhaustion

frustration

love.

it does not interest me.

not as much as the slightest notion-

[slippery like a nesting eel]

-of your hand beneath my flesh.

seethrough.

i woke up & realised
he stole my colour
the very hue
from my irises

the sun marched though my window
keeping both its rays
&the rain in meticulous order
my pillows had turned to
a solid-esque air
&i was smaller &younger
&now better off

[because santa carla is worlds away]

his mouth danced more than his
narrow hips
&feathered feet
&i couldn't stare behind him
in a coyly indifferent fashion

[the way i often do]

our skin whispered beside one another
embracing liquids
whie be breathed smoke into my hair
much so that i thought
i would soon disappear

the.art.of.letting

with your permission
i am going to hide.

from you.

& your chemical eyes.
you once laughed & noticed the matching hues.
[not at all true]
now you have nothing off which to reflect the colour.

because i am making you disappear.
& i can step outside the house
maybe even without prison wall sunglasses
keeping out any words which would subsequently
spell out
your name.

but.
with every sacrificial cigarette
the burning nubs scream out for you.
& i can't seem to stop coughing until the smoke clears entirely.

& i'm left with a brand new mirror.
smudging white fingertips across my paling lips.
am i dying already?
was my life really only worth
violence.
false longing.
the occasional fuck.
addiction.
your worth as well.

which consists of every lie you've ever breathed.
& whispered your love outside of a broken home which shelters a broken girl with a broken mouth
[what would you have said if she could have heard?]

you would have told me a hug.
i would have driven away.
knowing that your cobalt blue
was one step away from being gone.

'i will be inside the one who holds you.
...& then i won't be"

Credits: DeviantArt for Photography & Francesca Lia Block for Quotation [from Wasteland].

7th street revisited.

gone is the illusion
which clouded just how
wooden the walls really are
&how the doors are but cheap
plastic&nails.

the carpet which once burned
in a frenzy of shared breathing
&the fusion of warm, young skin
lies bored & useless under tired
chairs --- of which there is one fewer.

somehow time

[&the loss of you]

gently murdered the
"make yourself at
home" that was before.

home. [or something like it]

with you.

those few but perfect minute-long fragments

of time.

your fingertips curled

gently

into my back.

i realised now

your eyes are the same colour

as mine.

so when they meet

they stay cautiously still

examining their twin pair.

the dandylion chains

were made because i was happy

that

you are still inside your body.

trapped beneath your grief

because you use nicknames

you gave me

eons ago...

...&you still smile the same.

"another moment

there always is

as time stands still

&always is this..."

[anniversary - the cure]

brighton.in.flames

the beach was black that summer night
we were staring at the sea

you turned to talk & found me laughing
what fools we mortals be

the buildings soared above our heads
the wind blew off the sea

the flames were silent when they came
they warmed us---you & me

the pier-it shook with wooden might
& cast shadows on the sea

i held your hand---you touched my hair
i trembled at the knee

the city fell like Babylon
& crashed into the sea

we witnessed this but we stood still
just the embers, you & me

brighton fell that fateful night
and debris graced the sea

yes, she fell with pride and grace
and with her, so did we

[but we still]

whisper of summer, salt & flame
while buried by the sea

-a.sanjari.

[for d.h]

his hands
must have shaken
yesterday
beads of sweat may
or may not have
clustered
around his eyes.

one hand
outweighed
the other:

lead weight

maybe he heard shouting
maybe it was his
maybe it was quiet
maybe :

he was still

he hurt more
[than us]
more
than melodrama
allowed

RIP Derek Paul Hicks.
22 January 1983-2 April 2007
you will be missed.

in which he curled his fingers through my hair long enough for me to notice

i wish i could find a tone
nonchalant enough to tell you
how much i wish you'd never
have let go.
in such a casual manner
to where the words would
strike you but i would hear
no verbal counter.
to where you'd wonder
how much of you is
still inside of me & dare
to ask.
after which i would reply
the tide does not vanish
seaside stones but turns them to
glittering sand.

Credits: Dave April for Photography

the.meaning.of.life

wet grass brushes my ankles in
an attempt to wash off guilt
from my supporting features.

he asked with his hands if i liked
to hurt. i said "yes mister but make it
quick. i have appointments to keep."

sunrises & pollutants go hand in
hand. it only makes sense that which is
capable of beauty is capable of murder.

-28 march 2007-

Credits: Dave April for Photography.

santa carla revisited

SLAM!
right into the wall behind me
your letter cracked the tar and brick
and leaked words into a puddle
dripping like black hole pores
you are still there
meddling in my tear ducts
watering down the concrete
i used to construct myself
and fucking with the pipes
tearing down the rooftops while i
sleep and smear raindrops across my face
you are always surrounded by a bay of
doubt but sure enough
the current is one tough bitch
and your smile reminds me
of seaweed between my fingertips
[i think i spoke that once]
you injected colour into
my poloroid form
rudely bringing out the green
when i insisted it wasn't necessary
and smearing your faithful
"you say this you do that" bullshit
all over my angora carpet

well i've missed you,
you cocksucker piece of shit.

until.

you left in a wave of soil
scattering doubt & salt
beneath the roots on my Gethsemane
turning the green to gray
the action of
pushing stalks against the
surface of ground
drains my fingertips of warmth

feverishly i strive
for indifference
but will you ever call again?

spiders & inquiries
scamper up & down my spine
& creep over my shoulders
sinewy legs brush my cheek & my
mouth then traces the shape of
your name in the dry, dry air

a saline taste haunts my teeth
& stray curls are still nestled
between my floorboards
hiding from my temporary distain

like an April bird to a
familiar nest-Home
i will return to you
bearing the fruits of my forgiveness
in exchange only for a new found
honesty
which will this time
lower itself
gently
against my ears

nor are we.

the sounds from my speakers
echo the ongoing struggle of Moving On

i knew the casulties would understand
i imagine how their mouths would twist

baring their teeth
into the classic sneer

at the false
sincerity i have witnessed

i have to now learn to speak with
the utmost sarcasm when i turn to

him and say in a tin can voice
your opinion matters to

me and while you're at it
get your clothing out of my sight

because your memories aren't welcome
here anymore

i have so much for him to take
gently into his splintered hands

in the way of things i feel which he
should bear witness to but the absence

of his company is more of him
right now than i can take

morning on monroe street

the insistant chirps from
morningbirds chisel veins
through my bedroom glass
overcome only by an exhausted
train bellowing its arrival

monroe street, don't
you know

a borrowed beat of a heart
and belt, and socks
still covered with your hair
take the cake for
my Most Prized Possessions

banging on the floor now
because 8:40 is too early for
children
this 'bad' neighbourhood
in the 'questionable' part of
town is cozier than Hilton
could ever fathom
to one
[like myself]
who has slumbered upon
wooden panels and waif-thin
sheets
i have no double vision
left over from the prior eve
just a slow, steady
headache and the luxury of
stretching my limbs out on
Someone Else's mattress as wide
as i please and falling asleep
beneath all of the covers

solitude has its perks, baby
today
waking up next to myself
was bliss
in a subsidised wonderland
spotted with tiny square gardens
overpriced cars & peeling
rotten
paint
i write & i smile
& realise i am in no hurry to leave
so i play the saint & stand
purely against the reflection of
a sea of rusty trucks & dead leaves

my skin is smooth & my hair, tired
as it sulks back, is contained in a ponytail
i snake his belt around my hips
not missing a single loop
and step out today before i
lose myself in the thought

or nearly so

remember
that day?

you promised yourself to me, i think
[in an autumn breeze]
[in my tempest of a bed]
[in the front seats of your car]

& said
"forever"

my reply:
"or nearly
so"

i prayed so hard my fingers
turned to sandpaper
that i would never tell you

i told you
so

time turned to dust
between my clasped hands

i told you
so

you left your shirt here you know
I pretend to push back curtains
into a play
for a theatre which engulfs this
respectably gaudy house

and that you mean for your character
to come back for it---
holding me in the process

because my eyes burn bright red
and crack with the giveaway puffy misery
of something.
gone.

i never acquired your taste for chemicals
but if only the sporadic curly
remnants of a haircut
didn't give me such a high

& the leftover woodchip smell
of your clothes didn't calm my nerves

i can't trick myself into thinking you that you're here
because
every movement made with your shoulders

i can recall

drinking too little
to be able to call you and say
iwanttospendtherestofmylifewithyou

in my intoxicated world
life is going to be perfect
your daughter will be a hero
and I shall hold your hand backstage
while she lights up the earth in the Performance of Living

the Performance
which will linger in both our eyes.

& exchange air through our lips.

& intertwine our fingers.

note

i hurt someone today.
this is for them.

karma bit me quick this time.
i instantly regretted my
stupidity.

[and believe me, it was bad]

now i am

leaving.

and this goodbye is for you.

as.wings

power is such a
simple
disgusting

thing.

i would sew together
the cells i gave to you
with ink strands
laced with an
angel-wing-ed
feather-pen

if you let me.

your hands are still around my back.
and i'll keep them.

there.

until of course
you want them back

in which case i'll have to

re.
install

the ache which came prior
to the callouses on your
finger

tips

over a glass of water
and broke the clarity
with which it mocked

my dirty face

red with uncertainty
rouge with unstable

expect.
ations.

suri is the persian word for
crimson [is such a petty word]

used by romantics and cynics.
either for sex or blood.
for passion or for grief.

for loss.
or for loss.

the thought of equality
frightens me

the closer to the ground.
i am.
is all the better for.
if i fall while sitting.
i won't know the difference.

i'll disregard talk of such things
as wings

because the grass
which i clasp beneath my
curling [in prayer] palms-

-is your hair
and you are here.

in which the factory works on my lover, not he in the factory

if i could strip
your body

of time for a
chance to

search and
maybe i'll stumble

upon
the secret

pore

out of which

pours

the strongest
magnet

is of Gold Coasts
and sawdust.

eulogy.for.a.legend

she cuts through the streets
like a razorblade dream
she smells sulfur-smoke in the air
leaves a smile like amphetamine

shes the gutter glitter
in this landfill of a city
strangers sneer & point & stare
but she’ll never need such pity

he likes to ride life fast
the thrill of living every day
with an arrogant anticipation
knowing it could be his last

his leather jacket studded
with thread and colder steel
hes sewn his heart right on his sleeve
cos all he knows is how to feel

they line their lungs with tar and ice
cos all that matters is today
they know any moment changes all
& will take them all away

tonight the skies are overcast
there is not a star in sight
but you can hear the laughter ringing out
while they fight just one more fight

the coke, the dope, unneeded shit
they throw it all behind
they breathe air through each others mouths
that’s how they blow their minds

the house is old and worn like soil
but they don’t really care
“cos money is a tool”, they say
while teasing bleach-white hair

I wish the world could see them now
sneers on their burial faces
in winter they play musical graves
while interchanging all their places

dedicated to abby matthews. 1986-2006

vapour.footsteps

so she opens the ink jar again
unzips her skin and takes out an old pen
she writes of old train tracks and those whom she loves
she says "care for me, stay here again"

the light from the lamp is to bright
it pulls and scratches and stings at her eyes
but she keeps on reliving all of her summers
she says "care for me, never leave"

she calls him the first time gently
invisible smiles creep in too silently
he could never know how she wishes him safe
she says "i'll care for you, & never leave"

outside her footprints dance away
wrapping in the vapour and then led astray
but her feet only go when she lets them know
'its time to leave'

she lies down to sleep late at night
while ten thousand thoughts stay in her head and fight
but she has no fear, she imagines him near
and says
"shhh..."



ps.
yes. i am thinking of you.

windmills.

the windmills behind us had never stopped turning
but I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead
and we watched summer nights turn into mornings

you said our lives are only about learning
to never let old words into new beds
the windmills behind us had never stopped turning

i tilted my head and saw you were scorning
at the disappearing dusk with a hint of dread
and we watched summer nights turn into mornings

your hands and your car were filled with a meaning
of time which had long turned heel and fled
the windmills behind us had never stopped turning

the smell of the hay and the wood which was burning
choked all the fear I had built in my head
the windmills behind us had never stopped turning
and we watched summer nights turn into mornings

2004. [a pantoum]

what souls come nigh
under these stars
while ghosts shiver by
we watch from my car

under these stars
the sky had gone red
we watched from my car
and you thought you were dead

the sky had gone red
while you spoke to me words
you thought you were dead
because life was absurd

while you spoke to me words
I stared into space
you thought life was absurd
we should leave this place

I stared into space
while you toyed with your thumbs
we should leave this place
before we turn deaf blind & dumb

you played with your thumbs
like you played with my nerves
rendered me deaf blind & dumb
so we didn’t disturb

you played with my nerves
so I gave you a sigh
so as not to disturb
what souls may come nigh

within.you

with ev'ry candle lit
& dream left undisturbed
i have been there
in the rosy pale light of unwashed scenery
there i found silver on my wrists
& a crown upon my hair
and there i found you
melting together with the waves
of a china white beach
what thin silk warms me now?
my every motion is fluid
& i saw you still
your face above the misty sea
rose petals scattered from their hosts
and lined your mouth
but the wind blows inland
so i follow into the verdant beyond
where the lilies and fern lie
waiting for my delicate feet
to kiss them with my descent

wonder.full [a sestina]

as I child I was never told “no,
its impossible for someone to fly
and land feet first in fields of strawberry
blossoms and dinosaur bones
to spend weeks weaving intricate daisy masks
and running up mountains ‘till you collapse”

sometimes when it snowed I would collapse
and greet the people I pretended to know
the snowmen I built would never fly
but remain earth-bound, covered in strawberry
tinted handprints where the cold penetrated my bones
while the world became invisible under its white mask

when winter no longer would mask
the grass which appeared with the season’s collapse
I’d venture outside, into the suburban inferno
where the ice cream trucks would dance and fly
proclaiming the delights of its strawberry
sorberts and line the pavements with little mouse bones

I dug my toes into the sand, trying to reach the pirate bones
which were buried along with pearl mirrors and sand dollar masks
beneath the white hot orb, we collapsed
my friend and I, we were never to know
any better when the seagulls would above us fly
and we made them burst, their insides like strawberries

autumn always brought the death of the strawberry
blossoms and we made necklaces out of the bones
we found beneath the tragedy masks
in his attic, the boards of which seldom collapsed
but we trod carefully still, no
matter what, because unlike in my youth, I could not fly

my mother always said that time would fly
and that responsibility would replace strawberry
stains on my fingers and the little mouse bones
but adulthood did not slip on easily like a mask
and hope for an airbourne ice cream man never collapsed
and I never took a liking to hearing “no”

[[see, no one has ever seen time fly
by like strawberry fields on a road of dust and bones
and I'll refuse the mask of logic until the day I collapse]]

irony setting in from the season whence saint valentine chose to start living

despite the snow-
the air is a shard of glass.
rubbing up against my skin.
and i breathe in wood and sand.
freezing rain scrapes off dead cells.
and introduces new tissue into the harsh tundra of monotony.
but i know
if water was to fall untouched from the sky
and if our bodies would shiver not.
outside of our second habitats.
that we would clasp hands like it was the end of the world.
[so tightly our fingers would start to meld]

and start to run.

'There were some younger kids who followed the tracks that day

It was a passing afternoon that came and took them away

So we forgot our names lying in the tall grass under the billboard dreams

Oh I'll be with you running from the rain

When it reaches the end of the line

See myself reflected on the broken glass

As the gates come crashing down

There is blood on the tracks tonight

And rust inside our veins

We will make it time before the storm'

-"Running From the Rain"

Credits: Taylor Williams for photography & Thursday for lyrics

speed.of.memory

i forgot how to mourn today
letting the dead stay buried wasn't the easiest thing to do
but they haven't moved yet

he called today
before i answered the phone i smiled
he didn't say anything

"hey. how are you?"

he said words to me until i had to go
three minutes and fifty-four seconds later

i wonder why he called.
i hadn't a moment to myself to breathe all day.
rushing from building to building
like a bee steering from
iris to daisy to tulip

although i haven't thought today-
i'm still glad that my only breath
was wasted on him.

love.like.winter

i was worried about you.
despite the way you pulled the hope from me
like candy floss from a string,
why do you get to upset when people care?
are you really as much of a waste of time as people say you are?
because i've refused to believe them.
I'VE REFUSED TO BELIEVE THEM.
i throw all of your broken promises away
and look boldly past your faults.
are you sure that this is what you want?
to push me away like this?
the snow is falling fast
and you are burying yourself even faster.
if you want me gone...
i'll go.
just tell me.
i've tried to be good to you.
i've tried to be everything that everyone else wasn't.
i wanted to be your best friend.
your lover.
if anything---an incentive for you to take care of yourself.
i may as well have been a martyr.
you're killing me, you know.
the flakes outside are tinted pink
with broken-heart-liquid
and what feels like the last time we'll talk.

-a-

.transparency.

Eternity approaches
An overall hypnotist, alleged and crude
Diving through the thoughtlessness at hand
I need
To etch me into glass so I can see
And be deaf to my surroundings
I take comfort in the distance
Between the stars in my sky
But I know there is one out there somewhere
Somewhere beyond the black, in the way
After all, there is no such thing as forever
Without hitting something
To wake you back up
To know how it feels when your sheets
Don’t smell like your own
Instead, like rotten kisses
And wilted smiles
It feels like the bubonic plague:

A virus that kills more people every second
Than any disease anyone could ever manufacture is
The realisation that you truly believe
Your life isn’t worth living

I want to kill and sustain at the very same time
To throw myself out of bed
But hide under the covers
The duality of the moment eats away
At my sense of belonging---
Belonging only to me
I want to scream:
“Lament! Jesus fucking Christ and his bloody nails too!
Fucking
Bleeding
Lament!”
“But my child, it was all for you…”
And I find myself on my knees for the third time that day

I’m all to used to servitude…
After all, once you’re born
You can’t go back to the
Warm crimson bed in which you were knitted
Stitched together cell by cell
Seeing through nothing but your own eyes
Now there is such a haze of uselessness
(I could say ash but there never was a fire)
There is a slate on which I beg to be drawn
So visible it burns my very nerves
If only I could un-see myself
Through one as distinguished as you
I wonder if I would appear any different
If I’d only see transparency staring back
Or if I’d see my face
Cracked and bleeding but still pleading for salvation

I wish so much that my soul could escape through my eyes
And be transported to a painting
Only to sacrifice my last tear for hopelessness
But I seem to have smeared my watercolour
Pay no mind…
My face is not any less blurry than before
Before the fine lines of my own mortality
Outlined my breathing
With a pen known only as
Time
The ink has run out now
Still walking the halls of my existence
All of the doors are locked
And I have too many keys in my hand
They all appear the same
While calling out taunting words
As if to narrow my line of vision all the way to the end
This door it won’t open either
At this point my fingers are fading
They say I am not grey enough
I can’t be a shadow
And even if I were
Whose shadow would I be?
“Not mine”
they say
1000 voices all rolled into one
But it’s still barely a whisper
Against the roar of my echo
“Echo… echo…
“Lament…”

Not a shadow nor memory nor expression lingers
Just my whispers and me

By Aimee Sanjari
Written 2004
Revised 2007

2:30

the quiet crept into my ears
and became my favourite blanket
nearby lampposts illuminated the
falling snow
at 2:30 am
my cigarette became gin and tonic
my legs became cushions
the cold became home
if the city was on fire
the snowflakes would be mixed with ash
but they stayed clean
expectedly
for sirens didn't belong that night
just me and the sky and the snow
me, perched on a concrete step
the sky, shaking of crisp white dust
the snow, drifting lazily to kiss the ground

in my mind i held you
and i held you
then you were gone.

.quicksand.

we are beautiful when we are together

its a shame time is the quicksand in which we sink

gasping for air inside of each others mouths

-aimee-

i.never

pessimism was my brightest quality
it shed light on the uncertainty i thought was there
and made apathy more possible than ever before
but i never had something good enough to dread losing this much
every little misspoken word
runs a page of doubt across my mind
making little cuts appear
not too visible
but they sting all the same
[maybe thats why i ache so much]
i hate the way it gets me to me, really
i always thought i was above the concept of feeling
despite my previous pains, every fresh hurt
makes me wince just as much as the first
does this make me sensitive or gullible?
i wish i wasn't so disappointed at my lack of indifference
i wish i didn't feel so stupid for caring
even moreso, i wish that i could focus on everything good that is coming out of this situation as opposed to everything that could possibly go wrong [but hasn't]
sometimes i think i get it from my father
that
is definitely
NOT
a good
thing


"enchantment has
but one truth
i weep to have
what i fear to lose"
-t. holopainen [nightwish-'gethsemane']

something.different

my poetry professor is a genius.
he told us that a poem was like someone you are madly in love with---
in the way that you can enjoy them & love them
without really understanding them
my mind rewound to kevin's explaination of why he was late that same day
"i'm sorry baby"
"on the way here, there was a hit-and-run accident"
"involving a horse & buggy"
"i had to run home and get the digital camera"
"the horse was dead and just lying in the middle of the road"
"so i took loads of pictures and put them on my website"
"in one of which, i was posing with a cigarette dangling half out of my mouth"
"with my thumb up in the air"
"grinning like a madman"
he stopped and looked at me
no way in hell could i be angry with him
i stood there with a half-grin on my face
no sure what do to
i could be offended
[so taking pictures of a dead horse is more important than me]
but then i realised
before my professor even said it
or before i could say anything
i knew
that there are things i would have stopped for---
like a flying ice cream truck
or a dead butterfly on my windshield---
and expected him to understand too

treat poetry that way.
treat your lovers that way.
& on occasion
treat yourself that way.
never expect the world---
but always be pleasantly surprised if thats what you end up with.

Credits: Kevin Mock for photography

---------------
just a thought
to divert your attention
form the prospect of airborne ice-cream men
and something that just irritated me:

isn't it annoying
how there are those people you hate
not because you've ever met them
but simply because their existance
in a way
seems to cancel out yours in some ways...

of course it never helps---
if they are better looking than you are

involuntary.solitude

she hadn't left the room for days
footprints were worn into the carpet
imprints of her laughter remain in the stale air
but the walls remain quiet
as does she
she hates crying
but no one makes her
feel anything else
nothing else at all.

"i remember i remember everything
all those times when no one ever came to get me
all the nights when i was scared..."
-m.devine

she's.just.crazy

it all came back around this time
because she hates the slight hopes he gives her
'maybe' someday has gone & past
everything is black and white again
there is a certain envious air to the way she walks
accentuated by the lack of peers within a ten foot radius
'there she goes', they say
they whisper about her ripped jeans and set jaw
sometimes when he looks at her
she feels too exposed
she met him one evening, bundled & clothed
he unwrapped the fabric as if she was some sort of rare fruit
he unwound her soul as if it was a barrel of spirits
past & present gushing out in a quiet torrent of feeling
now he wants to peel off her skin
after that, then unzip her ribcage
finally, when he has uncoiled her genes and lived
every
single
second
of her eyes
he will try to put her together...
but there are some pieces that can't stick back where they belong
being ripped apart too much takes a toll on her skin and it can't stretch the way it used to
he'd try ribbon and glue and tape and twine
fusing the tissue back together with kisses and a desperate sinking feeling
of loss
so he'd go to the sink and wash of his hands
unable to meet his eyes in the mirror
'she's crazy', he would try to assure himself
'she's just crazy'

Credits: A Softer World for photography

.parachutes.

Today I remembered those parachutes they used to give us when I was very young. A huge multicoloured circle with handles all around, one for each child. Having my luck, I always got stuck between two taller people, so that when I threw up my hands, both grasping a fabric handle, my arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets.

I'd jump
I'd stretch
I'd wish for just another inch

Maybe if I was able to pull up the giant semi-orb with ease, I would have had the courage to be one of the brave children who ran under the parachute to another side before the fabric would come down again.

The last time I played that game, I was tall enough---
to lift the handles at least.

But come to find out, I was too tall to run under the parachute without getting the synthetic material caught around myself---or at least thats what I figured. To this day, I have never run under a parachute. I was so afraid of not being able to do it, to risk the laughter of the other children, to suffocate, to not feel good enough if I failed.

Now, I am older... a decade or more older since I last played with the parachutes.
And I would still probably be too afraid.

They were mentioned today in a passing conversation, and I all I remembered was hot good the sun felt on my skin, and how inviting the grass seemed, and how deep of a blue the sky was.

I guess you're expecting some kind of a moral to this story, but I don't have one for you. I mean, if you're willing to offer one, go ahead, or what you think I'm hoping to get out of writing this. I would actually appreciate it.
I think the most I could say is that I'm still afraid of suffocating.
I'm still afraid of being laughed at.
I'm still afraid of being not good enough.
I think everyone is, sometimes...

I just wish I wasn't afraid anymore.
I wish I could do just fine on my own---& not need everyone else's approval.
This past year I found Rocko. And Kevin. And Amanda. And Mindi
I met Megan when I was closer to my parachuting age.
I'm not afraid with you.

I hate being alone.
Its like the stretch in your muscles when someone pulls you too hard by your arms.
Its an ache.
For some reason this place reeks of being alone.
Maybe its the horrible first semester which gave me that feeling.
Maybe its the semi-new dorm room.
Maybe its how my phone never rings now.
Not like when I'm back home.
Here, I'm not needed.
I need to be needed.
Or something.
I'm going to bed.

.1947.

You called me two years after the bombs came

The telephone shuddered

then calmed with your warmth

You said

"I'm long gone baby

Its time to go outside

Dry your eyes and part the clouds

There you'll see me

Proud

Bright

Pure

If you ever see me out

Of the corner of your eye

Slowly turn away

Or you'll start to slowly die

Streaks in the sky & burning buildings

Sealed this man's fate"

I said

"Darling, rest.

You're two years too late

Years & tears & sighs have passed

The least you could do

Is find peace at last"

I cried & cried until I could no more

I then stood up straight and walked out the door

I laid myself down, thinking of the life I shed

I saw you for the last time the next day

And found myself dead

heaven.on.a.broken.bridge

We drove too slowly before we jumped

You spoke into the steering wheel

"Darling we'll be there soon

Long ago--

Great metal giants fell into the sea

The way I crumbled and fell into you"

Our tyres were slipping and

You smiled and you blinked

Closed your eyes and drove us under

Deep below the iron Atlantis

Laughing, you said--

"Darling we'll be there soon
Long ago--
Great metal giants fell into the sea
The way I crumbled and fell into you"

It wasn't long 'till the sun set and joined us

You led me out of the car and held me

[Tell me, tell me you mean it forever]

The phantom dolphins carried us far

To a pearly bed on sand and scale--

My first night with you

I fell, I fell, I fell into you

-29 December 2006-

Brighton, East Sussex