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