Tag: spilled ink poetry

For Who The Graves Toil

Soon all will be dust, swept to dirt, buried past swallowed by the Earth. Even now the wind and mountains creek, to rivers flood, flowing future whispering bones of who came before. Advertisements

Two Is A Crowd, Episode III (aka How To Swim)

I can’t dance, I said. And she said ‘It’s like swimming’ But I can’t do that either. ‘Because you get nervous, I bet.’ Because there’s so much under you hell, monsters, angels, saints, the deliman you stole two croissants from, hell, hell, hell, hell,…

When You Reach The Last Stop, Show The Grim Reaper You Have A Transfer Card (aka Subway Soliloquy)

STAND-CLEAR-OF-THE-CLOSING-DOORS-PLEASE. Crowded, packed and stuffed with no AC. Doors close, open, close, open, close, open, cl- open. Somebody sucks teeth and the whole train sighs. An afternoon turning evening ride home, ten stops away from Wednesday rituals and the nonsense we do to get…

Love Is A Death Of The Self

Silence is golden, duct tape is silver. Rope, a deep mahogany. The trunk is black, your heart a cold and frigid blue.

Is It A Drunk Text If I Still Love You?

I don’t know how to talk to you, and although I’d like to. texting at this hour might not help that effort, but, I’ve got midnight in my blood and its the only time I feel like being honest. The moon must hold some…

Mars Is In Venus, I’m Over The Moon, And You’re Always Too Far Away

No respite in highway lines, only long and lonely roads. Weals burn frostbit hearts cold, when love is warm, and yet the stars do not align.

Sweetheart, Be A Sweet Heart And Cut The Strings To This Sweet-Heart

This disaster town can hardly hold us, wild kids ingenuine as our frozen margaritas and glass brooms. Keep the dust and repercussions, we’re only looking for a good time. Radio on repeat so we don’t lose our edge. Weekend full of #hashtags on Instagram…

Oh Maria, Maria – Won’t You Open Your Heart* And Let Me In? (Editors Note: *Legs)

Mourning in the morning, even by the evening, smoked in the dusk – I’m the dew that meets the sunrise. Smell me, taste me, feel me, breathe me. Inhale – inhale. Breathe. Don’t you know? I’m the muse that gives the dawn its minty…

My Love Is Not A Pivot Table (aka Baiser Lamourette)

Weigh what men that love me the way analyst add up pros and cons on Excel spreadsheets. Fiscal year ending, lost my notes in budget meetings, but, I’ll be damned if it isn’t fun to put the smallest gestures against the guillotine of my…

Being In A Room Full Of Animals Doesn’t Give You The Right To Act Like One

I could have killed a man today. Fantasized my fingers around his neck for the better part of two hours as he sat beside me, snoring. Beating his head against the sink until I felt blood againast my thumbs and the neck stomped resisting…