Spilled Ink

ambiguous-transparency:

You, I never had you.
A sip of your own destiny
awaits your attention while 

gloom lurks in the corners
while alcoholic fire spreads
in your throat, your lungs already in 
ashes and dust wanders in your

veins like crystals without shine;
you, I never had you.

Combustion, explosion, emotions
thudding like missile launches in the
ocean with bottoms,
you, I never had you and

I am
rocking the cradle of pure psychosis
at its murkiest, one, two, three, until

gloom lurks in the corners
while you watch the cradle fall with
your eyes shut with frightened silence
screaming and kicking you in the heart 
so let’s break its legs to destroy, rebirth,
a sip of your own destiny with a cup
full of rust and sickly bacteria, dementia, 

You, I never had you, but you, I never had.

tempest-at-noon:

Bodies dripping yellow,
gold,
lantern faces burning
warm-breathed glow,
searing ruddy cheeks
in the middle where 
palms are gentle for
the first time since 
the light was stolen
from their homes.

Their cotton were 
hastily stitched in
broken-glass shops,
torn at the seams 
where fingers scraped
against thighs, so
they left their clothes
home in Denmark
because it was much
too warm here, in
the summer, and
they were told to 
keep the luggage
light.  

The papers told them
to hide so they stashed
their touches away
behind closed doors
to the annexed room,
smuggling sugar for
their sweet, sanguine
tongues like the rebels
they fell in love as.

Their breaths stepped
in line behind the 
soldiers outside 
since adrenaline
courses through veins
like the tea they’re
not allowed to buy,
and they’re making
love in the dark when
the light is off because
everyone wants them
dead. 

tobedlamandback:

To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. Can no longer rap your three knuckles against each ripe skull at the farmers market. You wonder if this is what it felt like. You wonder if this is what it felt like for him, taking three or four fingers and tapping against your warm growth. First comes the tapping then comes the splitting. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. This is a song about the first time you were fucked. Jesus, do I have to spell it out for you. The first time you were fucked, you remember head down, ass up. You remember a quiet ache and the feeling of spit against your most private hole. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. You remember being fucked for the first time. Did you bleed? You bled. You laid down in the shower afterwards holding your knee. You laid down and felt the blood-let clot. This is nothing like a game. This is nothing like the accidental pornography on your TV screen. You remember the first time you were fucked how your boyfriend entered you and entered you and entered you again and the ripe skull of your head knocked against the nonexistent headboard. You think you kicked a light over. You kicked a light over. This is the feeling of your body rejecting itself. You remember the feeling of cum inside your gut, against your hole, between the intersections of your thighs. You remember the not knowing whether it was a trickle of blood or sweat and why are there tears on the pillowcase? Are you crying? You are crying. You remember your cock limp and deflated beneath you. You remember his naked body pressed against yours, sweating and sweating and bleeding out this sense of satisfaction. You wonder what it’s like. You remember going quiet and then his voice. Wasn’t that good for you? Did you like it. Did you? Did you. Why are you so quiet. To this day you cannot eat cantaloupe. To this day you have to wait five minutes for the bathwater to run red. This is where we let the blood drain out. This is where every mother shakes her head and puts the book down. Why aren’t you listening to me? This is hard enough already. Where are we now? We are at the part of the story where I say I am a man. We are at the part of the story where I give birth to a stone of cum and disappointment. We are at the part of the porn flick where you can no longer distinguish moan from sob. We are at that part of the dream where you have just started falling.

tempest-at-noon:

I slipped
my name
between
your teeth
because 
you always
said that 
the sweet-
est things
were etched
into the 
insides of 
your cheeks. 

But you bit 
my bottom
lip because
you were
tired of
rum and
knew where
I hid the
vodka,  

and you
slipped
the tip
between
my legs.  

pajamaswag:

Your emotions scare you witless,
So you lock them all away,
You keep the people at a distance,
As the fear leads you astray.

You wander through your life,
Without feeling the breeze,
And when you open up your eyes,
Dull gray is all you see.

So unlock your heart from chains of fear,
And throw away the key,
Let life itself wash over you,
Enjoy freedom’s release.

ialwayslandonmyfeet:

I woke

And saw a girl

And in her hands

She held the world

And when I begged

Her, please, to stay

She dropped it all

And ran away.

I followed her

Into a glen

Void of the vanities

Of men

A glen so green

My heart did weep

I tripped on branches

At my feet.

And then the girl

Appeared, above!

She took from me

All feels of love.

So now I lie

A foppish child

Who dared to capture

A girl so wild. 

otakuorugazumu:

Ripped and torn, gutted and flayed
My soul shattered and my heart betrayed
Sunshine of my day and the glow of my night
This broken new day will never be right

Burn the world and scorch the earth
Turn the soil into a fiery hearth
Defile the land and drain the sea
This planet has lost all joy for me

Shatter the buildings and flatten the towns
Make it so ugly the sun even frowns
Tear of its axis and send into blackness
Crush what is left of the planet to dust
Send it away with a god-like thrust

We didn’t deserve you, I didn’t deserve to lose you
Nothing could be more sad
And nothing could be more true
I have been alone since I lost you

Some crap I wrote a wile ago from my old blog.

theoforx:

FOCUS LENS

I am working
at my mind.

applying figures
to my eyelids.

I will understand
A to B as a line.

until my ears are
gone, fully gone.

my water is full
my belly is.

my spine contorts
my collarbone.

my jaw is pouting
and oozing.

caffeine instead
of agglutination.

your lips, my tummy,
hair’s sheen, elbow. 

we speak a different language,
I know a few words.

I know how to raise your eyeglasses
and kiss your nose-tip.

I know how to pet back my hair
and make a terse joke, a gesture.

intestines ashamed
bile floating. 

separated thoughts
are indistinguishable.

mathematics are
cloudy-headed.

my academic manuals
are dusty on purchase.

my eyes are frozen
with, again, dust.

my reckoning is
anticlimactic.

I have replaced jokes
with square looks.

the novel is boring,
the streets covered with glass.

someone has been
stealing our mail.

bluesandbarebones:

Your efforts 
at punishment

fall 
  on 
    deaf 
      ears
        my dear

I am slightly amused
at the way old habits
revive
even though they were
shot down so many times
in the past

I am not frightened by
idle threats
conversations ended abrupt-
ly
insinuations and inappropriate
            adjectives

I may not be a saint
but experience has taught me
p a t i e n c e

and it just takes a little time
for you to reflect on what
an

ass

you

are

(I’ll wait) 

apocalypsepoet:

I need no reason
To drift amidst stupors
Like ocean breezes
In heretic manuevars,
I inhale a strange contentment,
And exhale daily abuse,
You folks drink to a toast,
I’m a breathing excuse.

submarinedreams:

I invoke the Muses, but where
are they in this psychedelic age, where we
are held in hospital rooms by
somniferous drips that muddle our
minds? The doctors say that they
will cure this delirium that creeps in
from the dark and entropic corners of a
psyche marred by razorblade rivulets running
from my wrists and dripping
from my fingers. The doctors say that they
will kill my Muses.

I invoke the Muses, but where
are they in an age where the gods
have been chased from the sky, where
Prometheus tramples the
imperfect perfection of the 
Moon? The doctors say this age is
glorious, they boast of science
and bury me in toroidal magnets
mapping the corners of my deepest
secrets, the ones never spoken, laid
out in liquid crystal where the
doctors can point and say “This means that
you are…”

The Heliconian slopes sleep silent, the
slender-ankled Muses driven out.
Helios has fled the sun, leaving a silent
furnace of hydrogen and helium.
The Nereids have left the shores of the sea
and the stars, seeing no more, are swallowed by
the lights of cities, the past paved over.

I know where the Muses have gone, the
doctors tie them to gurneys and lock them in
wards, where those who would sing of wonder
instead wander in hospital gowns and,
diagnosed, their dreams slowly drown.

intrepid-flickerings:

I am an accidental florist of bruises

on our lips, on our teeth.

I can’t fathom why they run around in circles like they do,

those silly people who don’t understand 

what is reality and what is not,

the honeysuckles wither at the end of summer

and flowers die at first frost 

yet we still madly try to keep them alive

but can’t save ourselves.

copyright 2012 kristen camino

yourdailynarcissist:

I remember you from a dream I had
of a distant land full of memories
your eyes told stories of a broken past,

but gave hope of a promising future
the curvature of your lips dragged me in
to fall for loves trap, it’d be worth the sin

your love was a poisonous addiction
and my body ached for your affection
with you seconds felt like eternity

without your love death was my remedy
I wished that this dream would last forever,
but soon I’d have to face reality

unless you’d want to live this dream with me
and escape the truth of loves misery

5.17.12

anacoluthiac:

A playwright would compose truthful soliloquies
limning the bruises left by strong, squeezing hands,
eternal burdens on tender pale skin from ages past.
But my cherished audience held no faith in these lines,
mistaking me for the actress I would never become.
They returned my words and I swallowed them down,
choking alone backstage.

But my love, I am so cold here in your arms now.
You give your heart to a starlet long laid to rest,
a performer whose breath was stolen by angry hands.
His fingers improvised, rewriting the happy ending
bitterly on her neck; her gasps for air, the final lines
as black spots eclipsed the bright spotlights.
Gone by curtain call.

theoforx:

FOCUS (cognitive process)

the price of adderall
drops after exams.

the body tries not
to caffeine.

gluten-free
canned soup.

a clever look,
over-shoulder.

I used to run
across the hi-way.

glass feet at twoam,
through concrete, water.

over fences. 

to stare at the new churches
in the new neighbourhoods.

all glass and concrete,
I shook in my place.

all the doors
were always locked.

I have been trying
to make tea for an hour.

trying to decide
to make tea for an hour.

I will find the part
of my mind that wants it.

I will command it.

the army would appreciate
my skills as a leader.

I would show them my ribs
and say, I know knives!

and they would nod,
soberly into their beers.

and I would drunkenly
tee-total to the gay part of town.

fix me fix me fix me fix
me fix eye eye ball ball.

mindscape spiderweb
freejazz dishwashing.

refrigerator broken,
rotting sandwiches.

pigs all up and down
the neighbourhood.

screaming of
electric lights. 

too many women
murdered in the valley.

not enough men
stuck for the crimes.

let the ax loose
on my neck.

and the community
will feel at ease.

revenge is sharper
than mercy.

mother is
on the telephone.