little white liestissue paper skin and barbed wire spines "i haven't been sleeping well."butterfly wing smiles and porcelain bones"the medicine will help."sparrow hearts and rose petal hair"don't worry."undersea eyes and sailboat stomachs"these things pass in time."
cadavershe was born with arctic lipsand overcast skin.her hair fell like fresh snowand she was far too thin.her bones in locked closets,joints creaked and shriekedlike a rotten floorboardunder gossamer feet.
ocean childThe ocean has whipped the bones within her into a frenzy; they clatter loudly, violently, as the wind shakes the silt from hair burnt the colour of autumn.She breathes deeply. Shakily. She imagines, for a moment, that her bones sound like wind chimes, tinkling softly under the starlight; but the moment passes. Even wind chimes sound ugly when the wind gets too strong - and it has.It strips him from her skin in too-thick layers. She watches him drift away within the embrace of his newest lover, cloud-tipped fingers holding him in all the places she never could.When she thinks about it she feels nauseous. She wonders the things that everyone wonders, in moments like this one. She feels the things that everyone feels. She feels the ache under her ribs, the shiver in her lungs; she re-evaluates every word, every touch, every lingering brush of the fingertips; she tears herself in half trying to cling on to the memories she wants to forget. Her eyelids tingle, and for just a second she b
Some Nights Are Better ForgottenLet me slam into the linoleum allow the tiled wall to leave lines behindthat will blossom into bruises on my skin.I want to feel your five-fingered strikescaress my cheekbones like the sick love storyof disaster and self-destruction I've createdby downing one too many drinks.It's a relief to be marredwith a mark made by a handother than my own.I don't think I ever admitted to youhow your handprint hovered on my skinin sickening harlequin and hunter greens I imagined it appropriate to mask it with my make-upand use foundation to build my smiles in the morning.
In the Name of FlippancyThis is how it starts.Springand the butterflies don't know what to dowith all that nectar.Springtimeand the mountains are in bloomlike they shouldn't be:Edelweiss, Edelweisssnowy apparitions in the velvet-vomittingsky.Springand the children are dancing,chanting, howling to the blue moonand the parochial stars;"wrinkle, wrinkle [iron out the scars.]"This is when it starts [to end.]In sleep,the people dream that atmosphereis actually ocean and constellations areschools of fish -- shimmering, sashaying,shooting.In wonder,the world falls in to slumbermurky as a grotto: dismal dreamsand parting thunder.In Tahoe,there is winter, and there is July,and somewhere in betweenthe flowers bloom, seed,and die;transitions are a risky business- earth into sky, tautology into taciturn,water into wine.This is when it ends.Winter and wind-turbines;women and weeping;whispers and watsonia.Wrinkles in a water-scope.Oh, what a lovely
tangled up thoughtswhen she was a little girl, shenever wanted to be a princess.it wasn't because she didn't like them,but becausewhere other girls saw beautyand glitterand beautiful dresses, silky and softshe saw power.she saw a power and a responsibility thatno amount of beauty wouldever make her wantand she read books aboutanne boleyn,and visited haunted castlesand tried to imagine the kind of life wherepeople were locked up in towersand brothers murdered brothers,husbands wives.she tried to imagine what thosebig stone castles would look like atnight, with the lights taken awayand she tried to imagine waking upat daybreak,the crisp morning air minglingwith the smell of sewageand sweatand sour breath,and being raised by peoplewho weren't your mother.she looked at guillotinesand, in shocking moments of clarity,imagined herself bound in front of oneheart jumping, lungs achingpanic seeping through her body with nowhere to go.and then she grew up [and met a special somebod
On the EdgeSee now that I am not a Ghostamong men.Know I am a green giant of solid contemptamong the rocks and the trees and the birdsof the sky.Solid, yet decorative and flimsy with moss,lichen and dew: blinded Sunday starlight.See, too, the seano the oceanblanketing theSilver line of the chilly morning.Morning.Mourning.Mourning the still silent bubbles of stoppagein timebright pearls of clear, crystal loppingup a frozen, sodden sweater,green in the distant blue and further unfurling bluesky.To sleep long,look now that I am not a Ghost;among men.