The day you died, I thought
“So it goes.”
But,
in the months leading up, I told you,
Do not go gentle into that good night!
Be brash,
be bold,
be strong,
be safe.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light!
And you,
listened and,
went not gently, but
Burning brightly into the night sky,
an ashen angel, ascending
into a constellation.

Still and cold,
grey like
a skyscraper.
Held in shadows, with
root gnarled hair.
Breathes;
heaves:
speaks, alone
damp mud, fertilized.
Seeking the nostalgia of,
running through a sprinkler on a hot summer day,
the taste of watermelon,
the smell of barbecue,
the sights of the sun,
the sounds of the ice cream truck
just,
feeling
alive.

(first draft hastily scribbled out. putting here to save for future editing purposes.)

My lungs fill up with water, and
I cannot speak.
Self imposed exile I,
deteriorate
Speaking to the mirror i am
christened Ophelia,
too mad to be useful, flung
away, 
cast off like a second rate Juliet.
Blood stains the carpet, painting
my spider veins to match the season.
And candle light goes out as
I embellish my last moments 
with
a single word.
Eking out as my viscous bile stains the marble human, it screams
‘stop stop stop’ it screams,
overflow is not
the way to salvation, it screams
‘it is the path to destruction’, but i
just want to be destroyed.

Oh, but how the green light calls to me;
its whisper of my name more toxic than the poison I drink;
its call more of a yell than the loudest of screams.
The light that proposes naught,
the light that screams and dies;
the light that howls and cries at me through the night,
while I am
alone, on the dock.
It is, watching
waiting, for me to
Stop and stare and become captivated, for
in this green light is what I have known and what I have
wanted for so long, but I will
escape from the two edges, one pulling on me from
the heavens above, the other
pulling on me from the hells below.
Hell’s bells ringing in my ears like the loudest of screams, and I,
I am alone and staring,
transfixed, unblinking, with
tears streaming down, green reflected on my face and I,
I can see the green light, I
can see it in your eyes.

why do i only have one vicodin left

where did they all go

they used to be pretty and fly like

clouds and butterflies but now they are

broken bones cracked ribs

skeletal hands reaching into the center approaching the counter reaching

g r a s p i n g

to take your hand and twirl you about and make you forget that
they are no longer clouds they are

skeletons, wishbones

broken and when you get the bigger half you blow away the dust

“make a wish” 

(1st draft)

I could walk home after
drinking at the bar,
it is not far,
and the buildings obscuring the stars
     are beautiful.
I do not need a savior when I
climb up the fire escape, 
when I,
almost fall.
I wish
I could see 
the stars twinkling but
that twinkle is a remnant of 
a long dead giant, burnt out
to a crisp.
A match snuffed out after
a million years of lighting a solar system.
I
Could contemplate the atrophy of
          myself, but
             a tendon is severed.
Stranded in Cévennes, a language just barely 
Comprehending the magnitude of the lost thing.
                       A machine,
                                  a scheme,
                                          

                                                    lost and stranded.

looking for
            what is not to be
  out there.
        Stationary,
                    soulless,
faces,
stare.

Bleeding out
on the road,
giving color to the 
last dregs of winter,
                tea leaves,
boiled in steeped in 
history that has
already been drunk.

(im not sorry if you like #spiders do not read further.
But i ABHOR spiders with a passion SO)

(also this rhymes in some parts and not others because i do what i want and it should be read with an alternating rhythm sort of iambic like??? like Ba-BUM-ba-BUM-ba-BUM-ba-BUM)

Six should not be the number of-
the beast - i know - a better one
Eight works best - as it is the one
Where legs crawl up - and down - the spine
Without some cause - nor reason why - 
The eyes of March lying to you - 
Wherein the well they spin their webs-
They are assured that they will live - 
But lives, to me, they’ll soon all give
Eight legged foe - that crawls upon-
The ground and lives - inside the dawn
Begone, begone, begone, begone!

how easy is it to say
“love yourself” when
it’s not a soliloquy of 
every nerve ending synapsing to tell yourself that you are a candle that should be
snuffed out before
the flame overtakes the wood of the house,

 
how hard it is to be
everything that is accumulating
in the corner when all the,
dust bunnies and carcasses of insects long fallen prey to the
cavern beneath the oven.

how hard it is to survive when
your chemicals all compound and compound and stop before
they reach the peak because suddenly they are all 
noble gases
stagnant and stable not,
moving anymore and,

oh,

how simple it is to say that
“i am the best” but, oh,
how hard it is to mean every word.

My heart is a galaxy,
light years away, and filled with
unfamiliar stars.
And the stars come out at night,
splayed like the marks on your skin
nipped where the planets
kissed too hard when
creating a specimen so perfect
that they took the face of the moon and merged it with
water from mars.
The stars the stars the stars,
flying and leading  travelling into universes unknown,
survey
the light that is
unfiltered from a burning sun and they see it,
rekindled in your eyes.
The comets glare against
the sky, lightyears away but
moving fast, defying
Einstein and
Galileo.
Because your body is all the stars and the moon and the comets,
coming together and making it whole.
And you are stardust incarnate,
the face in the trip to the moon.
And the stars are out tonight because they
are creating something so beautiful, that they,
need to share it with the galaxies, because you,
are the Sun
the Moon, 
and All the Stars in the Sky.