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Literature Text
when i woke up
i tried to tell you about
the way the moon opens up
when i say your name, it makes
the most beautiful designs, it dances
in its rippled reflection of the lakes, the oceans
the moon, it opens up and blinks
takes a knife from somewhere in the drippy
mess of constellations in the post-midnight flush
of smoky violet sky.
this knife, it's grey and white, mottled bones
the moon, she's smiling, if you can remember that
smile, so sincere, so real, pink and soft and sensual,
the kind of smile that comes when you are
behind her, fucking her, and you hold her hands
and you say something, and you squeeze your hands,
she is just, smiling
it is that sort of real smile. and you watch
because the smile is just something so raw
you can't imagine why
she would ever smile at you that way,
but here she is, like i said, i say
your name and she, the moon, she opens up
her smile like a knife
her knife a song that echoes
human woes and descriptions of gore
depictions of whores
her own mirrored reflection
that carves into her, into her, in
yes, i said, the moon
she opens herself up
for you
i tried to tell you about
the way the moon opens up
when i say your name, it makes
the most beautiful designs, it dances
in its rippled reflection of the lakes, the oceans
the moon, it opens up and blinks
takes a knife from somewhere in the drippy
mess of constellations in the post-midnight flush
of smoky violet sky.
this knife, it's grey and white, mottled bones
the moon, she's smiling, if you can remember that
smile, so sincere, so real, pink and soft and sensual,
the kind of smile that comes when you are
behind her, fucking her, and you hold her hands
and you say something, and you squeeze your hands,
she is just, smiling
it is that sort of real smile. and you watch
because the smile is just something so raw
you can't imagine why
she would ever smile at you that way,
but here she is, like i said, i say
your name and she, the moon, she opens up
her smile like a knife
her knife a song that echoes
human woes and descriptions of gore
depictions of whores
her own mirrored reflection
that carves into her, into her, in
yes, i said, the moon
she opens herself up
for you
Literature
Bathtub loose-leaf
You don't remember how you wrote
love letters,
left them on my pillows
when I'd gone into the library
to hibernate,
quiet inside
of books.
Folded in the shape of cranes
I let them in the bathwater,
sailed bubble seas
and sank
when the whirlpool drain
called them down
to the silver grate.
You don't remember,
say, it has been too long,
darling,
since I cared
or since I had the heart
or something.
Little blue lines
in the bathtub,
loose leaf paper and ink
drift south,
your signature
will wave as he
floats by.
Literature
before
a little while ago
maybe a couple of months or something
i wasn't drinking ; instead i was
waking up to you
every morning you would stretch
and your spine would move and i felt it all over
your skin stretched into the sun and
i saw it everywhere
but guess what, that shit was gold and
gold doesn't last and you didn't last.
i got boring and you got mean.
and you're less of a gypsy and more of
a woman and i know if i called you up tonight
said hey baby come home
how did we get here baby i'm crying on the
floor drinking lime pepsi
and this goddamn pepsi is flat. so why don't
you come home. just for the night.
you would say you h
Literature
Saving You
Dear Jessie,
If I could save you, I would.
If hands could mend failing lungs and piece together the shattered fragments of bones;
if fingers could sift through DNA and marrow, pull out the poison clogging up arteries,
siphon fluid bursting from synovial sacs and corroding joints;
if words could build you a bed in the nighttime sky,
string together stars and create a cavern in the crescent moon;
I would.
I would blindfold eyes and stitch shut mouths,
covers ears and tie tight hands.
If only I could.
But, wait.
Wait until your tongue is staining the inside of your mouth with lies;
wait until your bones have composed themselves
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