Spilled Ink (Currently undergoing updates.)

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. 　

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.  

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. 

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) 

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.

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.

whoartgos:

obviously time will
pass　 and generous
scents will linger long
after strands grace
impatient pavement
with their presence

how often does
life catch your
glance 

smallwords-smallworlds:

the thing about moonlight
is the way it hits the curve of bone
and drowns out the ivory appeal

it’s slow and carefully planned
(sunlight just isn’t the same)
it isn’t something you’re able to hide
(not that sunlight is but
why would you want to hide it
anyways?)

you can’t hide your thoughts in
moonlight
(i want to i want to)
it’s like (lambs to slaughter) another
wild (fire) night

pseud0nymph:

Awash in moonlight and the blood
of those who cried beneath my
jagged tooth and hooked claw, I
forgot myself in the deepest hollows
of night —

             I forgot your names,
  and I forgot your faces,
       pale like dying star-shine,
   and I forgot myself,
      living within a hollow shell —

But when the sun found me stripped
and famished in the forest’s leafed
womb, back arched as I begged what
vomit threatened itself to come past
my copper-tasting teeth, I remembered
the howls of those who had run from me
in the hours before, more raw and natural
and anguished than I could ever unleash 

wintriestmoods:

In and out the world fades
The blackness slithers it’s way in to the present
(It only wants my constellations)

All this bitter gold turns to grey
It prays to keep me away from heaven
In and out the world fades

My thoughts turn into swirls of haze
Confusion keeps my hopes in crescents
(It only wants my constellations)

The red of my heart begins to lessen
I never wanted to decay
In and out the world fades

Loneliness glitters in dark-eaten days
It captures my buried essence
(It only wants my constellations)

Demons crawl and beg me to stay
I’m not meant to become evanescent
In and out the world fades
(It only wants my constellations)

thedailyzack:

That darkness lets the devils loose
Out of the vents they creep up
between the sheets, by my legs
Stealthy sneaking past my torso
Grazing my neck gently, making their
way into my right ear, planting
themselves firmly in my soul
Creating irrational thoughts of war
set to polka music with strange wing-ding creatures firing guns at me in my dreams.

Paralyzed by these sights of loved ones
dying in chaotic wastelands not much
unlike our world, you’d think I’m sleeping
well if you broke in my house and watched me snooze. You’d think I’d be up the next day filled with vim, vigor and vitality. You’d think that…

No, no…

My body does get a great sleep
All my aches and pains abate nicely
But I still suffer, worse than if I’d stayed up the entire night, tossing
like a ship on the ocean, making
sleep far more traumatizing than
real life. The anxieties I’ve fought
roar back as horrible nightmares creating the most devastating
delusions, cutting right into safe zones
of my mind once protected by walls
made of the toughest strength that once repealed the most obscenely irrational tales, that if I were to share
with you, I’d have trouble faulting you
for laughing.

That’s sleep these days. Whoopee!

trust-the-invisible:

im a killer with a death wish

     oh, im the barrel of a gun

waiting to shoot you dead

     by pretending to be something i could never become

oh,  im a time-bomb baby

     itching to explode

blinding all around me

     by dressing up these woes in make-up and short skirts

fake and short-lived dreams

     of someones arms around me

or someone else’s out

     fucking up my bloodstream

so maybe i can just forget

     all the things that ail me

and i admit im changing, baby

     who could be the same?

when the world shifts around me

     or a heart draped in lonely things

tears, chills, and “promise” rings

    so watch me blow up, baby

watch my dramatic downfall from a world that only made me a fool

     for trying to become all these things

if only for attention,

     if only to forget,

          if only to feel a little less lonely as i slept.

embeeness:

Suspended in life
by invisible threads
Feet dangling
just a whisper away
from solid ground
Stretching, straining
trying to gain a foothold
But traction remains
just out of reach

So I resigned myself to
a marionette’s pose
without a puppet master
or the motivation
to propel myself

—- until —-

Complacency with stagnation
is broken by the
panicked realization that

I’m not dead yet.

acollectionofsleeplessnights:

“He’s got bones just like his father,”
she said, clamping her hand,
 over the face of her newborn son.

“He’s got eyes that could swell up the ocean,”
she says as she tightens her grip.
And now he grows blue,
and starlit—with surprise.

The nurses rush in,
trying to revive,
his infantile,
frail body.

This is her endless banter,
from her bed,
the story she can’t stop telling.

“Starlit…with surprise” she mutters.
Creaking back and forth on her holey,
blue-stripped mattress.
“My son” she said.  
“Is a star,”
she would say that in group,
and laugh for an uncomfortably long,
extension of time.

At first we assumed she meant,
movie star,
pop star
 —even rock star.

But no she means literal star,
like a sky constellation.

And I’m at a loss “I don’t know what to do.”
He admits slamming the clipboard down,
in front of a colleague.

“She’s crazy.”
He comments,
pulling at his hair.

The man sitting across from him,
chuckles darkly.
“Precisely why she’s here,
my friend,
patience,
shall be your virtue.
Keep it close,
it is your friend.”

3AM.
Sterile halls,
quiet squeaking,
of shined oxford shoes.

Pen tapping,
clip-board marking.

“Doctor, doctor!”
A frazzled nurse screams,
with lopsided hair.
She seizes my white lab coat,
in the fullness,
of her tiny hands.

“It’s …her…”her she manages,
her voice is rising and falling,
in abnormal,
breathless patterns.

“Sit down,
just sit down.
I’ll go check.”

I guide her to a nearby bench,
and break into a run.

3:15AM
Arrive in the patient’s room,
cold and dark,
knelling on her mattress,
with her hands folded in front of her,
laughing, no.
No laughing,
more like maniacal,
soulless cackling.”

Quickly,
I slam on the lights.
Young boy.
Medical bracelet,
gleaming in the light,
patient 3.

Hanging,
blue faced,
from the fan.
 

She starts speaking,
from the bed.
“You see,
someone,
is in here.”

She motions to her chest.
 
“And he will not,
leave me be.
Until there are enough stars in the sky,
and that’s why he sent me.
So I can create things that he can see.”

Forget the media.
I make stars.
Forget the media,
I make stars.”

Frozen,
I carelessly slam off the lights.

3:30AM
Flip open the intercom,
“Room 6.
Elevate the patient’s status.
We need no more stars,
in this night sky.”