poetry

sometimes my poems don't where to begin
or end.
there are too many words and feelings:
opaque meaning,
diaphanous confusion.
its self indulgent.
I don't know my own feelings well enough to explain them.
finger curl around raindrops
(its impossible)
windy and cold, but not bitter-
sweet, clouded memories.
I make things larger than they are,
magnifying details
all night and all day.

pallipitations

hmmmm.
i feel alright.
like a good strong cup of coffee.
coffee. some milk. no sugar though. strong.

racing.
myself and others.
learning to run.
its like learning to walk all over again.

things will be ok.
because there are colours.
because there are tactile things.
and things to imagine.
feelings.

steam.

open window

open window

what the fuck is wrong
with this picture
a cross section of anger
where does is come from?
rip, tears, tendril, rocks
screaming screaming screaming
silently fucking rotting, wasting
grey matter
words flow
continuously in the brain
abstract in print
a flowing substance that can't be made sense of
2 am, open window
fitful and furious
or maybe just confused with confusion
terrified, anxious, anticipating
vocabulary can't explain it
but poetry calms
even if no one reads the words

The Lovers

Lover

crowns of sunlight
apples and wine


whispers

Choice, or Invisibility
crush me with your whispers
your silence
your hand resting on my shoulder
your distance crushes me
my Invisibility
choice, each movement is a calculated decision
with fuzzy logic, bottles, empties
cigarette stained fingers
i'm empty
but full of your whispers

crush me
i wish we were Lovers