YOUR HAIR

Your hair is a mess.  It is
a flock of birds caught
in a net.  It is mixed fruit & dirt &
strawberry patches.  It is yesterday,
and it is the way you wake up
in the morning perfectly,
in a huge mess on the floor.

Your hair is a nest for me,
with all the tornadoes
I could ever need.

It is bilingual and it masquerades
as something that knows nothing
at parties.
It is delirious and smells
like mold in the morning.  Sometimes
it looks like spiderwebs after a storm,
but it is its own storm.  Sometimes
it lights itself on fire.

Your hair is like a massacre
of dead plums, red-purple skin
rotting.  Your skin is a heroin-bomb dropped
on me, leaving me in worldthirst.

Your hair is the harvest of fall.
Your hair is all the stars falling from the sky.
Your hair is in my mouth.

It is like raspberries covered in dust,
fire in smoke,
babies in buckets of blades.

Your hair is a danger sign,
a smoke alarm,
my house on fire.

Your hair is in my mouth.

Your hair is a hangover.  It is a dozen
rainbows in hell.  It is the reason
I know how to scream.
I am sure it is a million reasons
for someone else now.

Your hair is the wound of an animal,
licking at it like bloody berries.

Your hair is all the drugs
I need to take
to go to sleep.

It  is the used furniture I own,
with all the blood on it.

It is the picture of a birthday cake
of someone who is dead.



<3

SHAMPOO

This shampoo reminds me of you,
the black and white bathroom
I always wanted
and I got it
but it didn’t suit;
I shared it with seven Irish men,
one black,
and one threatening terrorist attacks.

This shampoo reminds me of that place,
the baby oil carpets,
the snot walls.

This shampoo reminds me of you;
the toothpaste does too.
My Grandma bought it for me,
Because she likes to buy me things
like that.
She gave me an extra tube of hers,
for sensitive teeth,
the sensitive teeth of poverty.

But my Irish men
squeezed it all out, like oil from a pour
I wonder if they wondered at all…
I wonder if they wonder of me anymore.

I showered there,
every day afraid.
Other girls showered there, too, I thought.
If we can do what they can do.
I wonder if you can see me through
this little window,
my soft white skin
like a light bulb against the black curtain.
The black bathroom air
was always wet with washing.

I got books on ethics,
lying,
and medicine –
enough questions
and moral dilemmas
to drive any man insane
I felt I was doing the same
on the baby oil carpet.

Lips silenced by silver duct tape,
sustained by Krispy Kreme donuts
and bottled water.
His room smells like
masturbation and dust and broken TVs
that made me not want to eat for days.

Finally, they drag him out screaming,
swearing he will kill us all.




<3

STILL SMOKE

You scare me
and I don't like to see you on drugs. 
I want to stomp you like grapes into your grave.

Take back the shirts
with the skulls & the trees,
take back the drugs,
the birds & the bees.

I hope you don't burn my things
like you burned that copy of The Fountainhead I gave you
outside my first apartment door.

I hope you don't cave in on yourself and collapse
under that fake feeling of weight
from all the orange translucent bottles
and all of that fresh air.

I am removing pieces of myself that I gave
from your crippled sickly heart, and

you had better fucking sit still.

GANDHI WAS A HARDCORE MOTHERFUCKER

“Gandhi Was A Hardcore Motherfucker”

You are wearing all my clothes,
and you look better in them.
Your belly button is
as big as the world,
or an apple.

And it is crying.

You have cardboard boxes on your floor,
with vintage dresses, white ribbons, &
black sequins, dirty clothes from when
you used to live an island life.  We

watch the misty streets, realize they are
actually smoky, look up at the pale pink
sky, the faded neon red circle sun.  Your
eyes are perfect circles, too, and you sweat
rainbow colors in the cold. 

Everything is holy.

You have a picture of Albert Einstein
on your wall and you sit, watching him,
and let vegetables ferment in your mouth.

Your yellow chair smells like India,
your skin smells like chai, and your
piano smells like blood.

You drink the juice of celery sticks
as big as the sky, wear a parsley crown, &
white flower necklaces.  You eat the halves
of apples and bang on things.  The

flesh around your neck is raw, your shoes
are plaid.  Your carpet is covered in crayons,
and you pick little white things off your legs
during the day.  Half the time you hallucinate

you have fingers.  You make monkey noises in the
grass and in the flowers.  Your hands turn clear
and green, your eyes turn to iridescent crystals,
your nails to actual nails.  You are deaf because

there are pearls in your ears.  You are blind
because you wear makeup.  You are dumb because
you are dizzy because you never eat enough.

You are on a diet because you are sad. 
You are in love because you are sad.
You have rainbow circles under your eyes
because you are sad.

You are sad because you are sad.

Bubbles land in a line on your back,
they stay there like leeches,
they flatten like tar spots,
they seep into your skin and tattoo
you permanently.  There are oceans
under your fingernails, and sometimes
the tide is higher, sometimes it is
lower.

You experience mock hunger,
and the cows laugh at you.
You see Frida Kahlo in the
daylight, and cringe. 

You can count how many books
you have by Ayn Rand until you
start throwing up. 

You pull out single hairs at
a time, and eat them slowly
like some succulent dessert.

You sing the gospel.

You meet men online, text them
single words like: "no"

You decide to kill yourself.
You tie flower stems into a noose,
try to hang yourself.
You kick the chair from under your
feet, and end up sitting in the chair.
It's okay though, because you are a little
more dead now than you were before. 

Flowers are dead too.

You feel guilty,
guilty enough
to try again.




<3

DREAM DISEASE

You be the building and I'll be the fire.
She'll be the one on the funeral pyre.

All night and day I will dance around you
and climb you, as I try to escape these

twirling images.  At the moment I no longer
want to deal with these words that drip

like blood, each one a little city etched
with a smoky memory or two of something

mildly to severely traumatic.  Sometimes I
just don't want to wake up to a face, I want

to wake up to birds chirping and being blown up
by shotguns and songs about big black rivers, a

paisley haze.  Every day I grow more tired of
your tiredness, of your wavering abjection, of

the way you and your country try to suppress it all
with drugs, staving off dreams like they are disease.

TOXEMIA

“Toxemia”

My heart needs to be bled
and yours needs to be bleached. 
Our hands need something dead in them
like tongues or books full of flat flowers. 
Our prayers together create blood in the walls.
In the drips I see you in the bathtub vomiting
pages of dictionaries, shutting me out. 
I see a plastic set of veins coming out of my legs
and every day your voice splits me open like an axe. 
And for these veins in my hands I would trade you
today & yesterday; I would trade you the Iraq War
all the Senators & the dead meat on your plate.

Every time someone buys me a birthday present,
I realize they don't know me at all
and it is a brightly-wrapped reminder
of failure of heart & bone, of eyes half closed,
the bibliophile's metronome.

It is strange that we make things
and then we break things
and then we fix our broken things and feel joy. 
It is strange that we drink milk meant for calves
and we invent Tuesdays & Thursdays & nuclear war.
It is strange that you eat candy out of the trash
and somehow convince yourself that you are okay.

Climbing on top of me is a dark blur and a smile
appears in one of its gaping endless holes.

Inanition is heaven.  Money becomes a foreign object
much like forceps or hair clips or pieces of metal stuck
inside different parts of you for different reasons.
It becomes some thing you have that is not particularly pretty
that you can use to acquire prettier things.  It becomes you.
It becomes your smile and whatever kisses befall your lips.

I regret not being there to tuck you in tonight,
not being able to kiss your hands that have fixed
so many things.  Just give me one more weekend
to poison my blood.  One more day to inhale anything
black.  One more minute to say goodbye goodbye
goodbye to your sweet face.  Let me become a dog
and die by chocolate.  Your hardness is left in me,

dries up like a riverbed, cracks, and is forgotten.
The love you left in my mouth has metastasized and I swallow
every gift you gave me so I can call you to complain
of a stomach ache.  It is too easy to turn corn
or rice into some kind of drug, one you can mass produce,

& make billions.  May begins again as if it hasn't left you
so many times before and green Xs multiply like army ants. 
The contents of our cabinets become those of my gut,
and I come away knowing what they say is true: there is always
tomorrow.  And every unicorn bleeds black.  Every president
has his or her handicap.  All the buildings in the world
will eventually fall down.  And it is better to burn than to disappear.







<3



published by The Blue Jew Yorker: http://www.thebluejewyorker.com/

TRANSCENDENTAL MEDITATION.

Your walrus came to mind, and so did
her deathbed, with the rainbow over it.
Green horses and stars come to mind.
I felt a twitching in my face and
dreamed up yoga poses.  Backbends

and handstands make me feel great,
but if I could just inject the thc
straight into my veins..

One hundred percent
bioavailability
baby.


Your walrus came to mind and so did she,
dancing in a pink tutu in a pink room,
and in graveyards and penitentiaries.

Studies on the brain show that
a religious experience can be had
simply by denying certain senses
for long periods of time.  Studies

on the heart show that dysfunction
grows like a tree, and that the more
lights you string through everything
the better the world will be.  Studies

on you show that I do not exist.


<3




This shit got a Daily Deviation on Deviantart!!!

http://self-intoxication.deviantart.com/gallery/#/d39rvay

BUBBLEGUM CHAOS

+ Take down the walls and try to find the pink bowels of your house.
Squeeze your pupils like you need to, as if you are trying to squeeze
a blackhole out of it.  Swim in the mirrors like you're in love, or on fire.
Pedal faster.

+ Tell your melon coffee sweater to screw off.  Tell your mother
I said hi.  Tell the particles you inhale to slow down.

+ Turn on the radio and listen to the politicians polish and wax.
Tell Alaska she is not good enough.  Fire a handgun and
look surprised when you do.  Inhale the smoke like it's  your mother's
purple ashes.  Talk about straitjackets in public and drink too much
beer and fall on tables.  Look at the bruises on your thighs
like you would at the sunset.

+ Look a deer in the eyes and try to guess who got scared first.
Take a ginger nap in a white bed and circle your hips in the closet,
eat soy beans.

+ Write about the first time you had sex.  The first argyle sweater
you bought.  All the ice-cream cones you have refused to eat.
Marry the first one you see, if there is dust in his hair.

+ Wear glitter splashed across your eyelids like gum-paper galaxies.  Dance like
you are the dust in the sunlight.  Take your pills, but only if
the sun is shining.  Engage in things you would never tell
your mother about.

+ Throw away your collection of half-broken diamonds, and never
think of rectangles or men in suits again.

+ Let the silver peach trees drip into your mouth as you say
words that are more like shapes than anything else.  Let the jewels fall
from your mouth like words you would only say if you were smothered by
peacocks with lots of blue feathers.  Let love not bring you down. Let the shapes
of the moon hang there, like you don't even like them, like you don't even
care.

+ And no I am not going to coax you to open up to me.
Just because you left your hands in the bathroom again
doesn't mean I will reach between your ribs like windows
and feel up your heart.

+ For too long, my pen has not been a sword.  It has not been
a sword that cuts me open and shows off my fat like dancers
to the world.  It has not been a sword that cuts open
the arteries in my thighs so I can be covered in blood
in a mess like a thing that has just borne a child.  It has not been
that.

+ Take down all the pots and pans you glued to your ceiling,
touch the walls of your home, vacuum the dust and glitter
out of the carpet
like stars.

+ You could take a minute to drown yourself in bleach
rags and wipe the turkey knives of your sad intellectual wristblood.
You could take a minute to climb a pine tree naked
under a bed of stars.  You could take a minute,
and never give it back.


<3