I am a turtleI am a turtlewith the waters of hopeto keep me aliveand hardened to the touchto protect a soft core.I am a turtlewrinkled, wrangled and drywith a home on my backand the world before my eyesslowly growing nearer.
overwhelming wordsthere's a lot you can do with wordsbut sometimes i forget how to do any.and sometimes i look at a keyboardand see so many words that come togetherfrom just some of those lettersand there's so much to writethat i don't write at all.and sometimes i thinki drank deeply from the elixir of lifewhen i was too youngand when i drank i only drank the wordsand i spilled them out in the morningbecause the night was too silent to break it.i wonder if the silence i've keptis as big as the words i've written.i'm not writing to be censoredit's not like i do that to myselfwhen the words come rollingand i don't let them out,when i'm running down the streetbut don't make a sound,it's not like i'm afraid to be loud.i hope you can tell by the heat in my eyesthat my gaze turns steady as soon as i lie.i hope you know that when i writeand my diction turns from eloquent and quaintto fucking filthy and ragingthat i'm finding myself,even if that takes years off my lifeby looking at
underage armageddon.listening to blood drippingoff your own fingers is surreal;a pandemic for gods,insult to injuryupon the wanting mouths of crackedconcrete as the acid rainfalls to split its skin,to end the world;to whisper“ a p o c a l y p s e ”into the ears of our children.(to spew a more terrifyingword forrevolution).our lungfuls of airno longer taste like air.it’s your pride we smell,our intestines we rip from our bodies,to rid our beings of yourtoxicity;from our eyes, the notion of yourblessed city.skylines of souls,of my cherishing your preciousincisors, lethal& forgotten insidemy belly. “i’m sorry,”cannot heal the 10,000 cracksyou burrowed deep into theribsof this nationwithout even giving us the reliefof breaking the cycle.wallowing in tiger teeth,panther’s pelts,& lizard scales to adorn your‘fretful endeavor’;we singfragmented couplets aboutbroken heartstrings &poisoned clock springs:a direful nexus t
find what you hateon my skeleton alleyways are built,gaps and craters. suicide pact-bound teenswalking into lava.i spied on them like an nsa angel.a xenocryst pricked my toe.i was the one veering off the fiery sidewalk,looking down,oncei readjustedmy lenses.and saw chunks of motorway half-regurgitated, ashen smegmafallout. the language into whichmy onanistic fire easily translates.suddenly everything had meaningand urgency. first of all,there was someone watching overour wreckage. and it wasno god.
the biologist.prelude.i’ve found you many timeswritten in the frays of anold biology notebook;blue was your favorite color& you lived between marginsof summertime grey. you lovedthe idea of science & studied each galaxy,nebulae, & cluster of starsas if they were your own. you had scars on yourfingertips & chipped teeth,but you still managed to smileeven while you were trapped beneathmy feet.i’ve found you many timescarved into the canvas ofmy thighs;you never once left a cutthat i couldn’t bandage &overlook. but i do miss yourfamiliar sting, your hollow nameetching crests in myirises. helpless, are the spiritsyou once prayed to,yet here i am:just as helpless as you.body & chapters.i’ve found you too many timessplayed across my living roomfloor;eyes adrift in an ocean ofmelted fire that trickleddown your young throatso many times. though i canrecall your heartentombed within my ribcage,speaking against my wants& hating me for
Death WishAuthor's note:I was thinking about how Prime can never die now, after the brouhaha in the aftermath of the '86 movie.And I proceeded to follow that train of thought gleefully off the Emo-Cliff.(I have some ideas for funny drabbles; but emo is easier to write! Ha.)As always, this is set in my personal happy universe...Death WishI visit their tombs today.Again.The catacombs are vast; as I walk through them, the hollow clatter of my footsteps echoes down the long halls, returning to reverberate in my empty spark.I follow the groove that my ever-returning feet have worn into the floor, to pay my respects to the friends who have gone ahead without me.I stop first at the most recently added memorial, and though I know he is no longer here, I whisper, Hello, Ratchet. The able mech wound down in his medbay, as he was teaching a newling apprentice how to hot-wire a transformation sequence. I will miss his gruff amiability.Next I visit a much more ancient mon
a girl at the airportwhen she eats cakeshe presses a napkinto her lips with each bite--frosting smears are impolitemurderers of good, faraway first impressions.when she sees someonebeautiful, she hides her facebehind a book, book shelf, closed doorlike a pious man hides his eyesfrom god.when she has somethingimportant to say among a crowdshe utters it like the bahof a vulnerable lamb--a fragile thing, a hesitant mantrato be drowned and consumed without thought or care by the soundof louder others.when she falls in loveshe looks aroundto make sure no one sawand when someone seesshe refuses to believetheir eyes tried to catchhers.
the arsonistit is what it is.I want to set that phrase on fire.Pour some gasoline on each lettertill they reek of volatility till they are itching for ignition, for agencyto burn and lick and singe.I want to catch her mind alight,each redwood-high issue to smolderand I want each eye to brightenlike a freshly-stoked furnaceher words to be shot-off sparksglowing in the night.for every shrugI want dynamite to livenup the shoulders that havelowered with the eyelidstill the whole body is a half-vision,my kindle, these half-dreamsand one day I’ll find the matchto set the mind to passionand she’ll wake up with a woosh,a wild wonder.