somewhere in the middle of: i thought of kissing you all day and i’m neurotic as hell


i think we’re the same person just raveled in different skin and you’re full of this inconsistency like when you look to the floor after kissing me, but it mimics my stance after you grab my legs and pull me towards you. 

i’ve been making the speech in my head for four goddamn days now:
i will push you away to get under your skin
until you love me and love me and love me-
until you want nothing but me because
i want all of you, like the aftermath of a flood
and the devastation that reflected in your eyes
when i averted my attention away from you. 
you play it over again in your mind because
you fell in love with the comfort of sadness. 

all the cracks and scars
that you try to shrug off as bad karma. 
i’ve invented words describing beauty that explain all your freckles
but you can’t even look into the mirror without getting sick 
you tell me i’m neurotic as hell but you can’t get my taste
out of your mouth or my smell out of your head
and you’re so happy that you found someone
who’s just as crazy as you are. 

we whisper things to each other like-
“those people, they don’t mean shit” and “i know 
you’ve already given most of yourself today but 
i find myself begging to get my share.”

you speak to me as we lay in bed together with something close to panic:
there’s this gap
between my hands and i can’t pick anything up. 
nothing will fill it, it leaves me empty and 
soggy and my damn glass keeps on spilling
but there’s no one there to clean it up. 



she is every deadly sin veiled in one
she hides in the darkest corner of night
where love and desire intersect
her mysteries slip in and out
of your pure thoughts,
leaving her scent of sin
her fingerprints ignite
tiny explosions against your skin
and her unrepenting kisses
keep you in her perpetual hell
you can’t help but fall in love with her



There are no echoes in the white-dark of a snow storm.
It’s as if sound itself has frozen.
But even without the echoes, there is this sound of blood.
Rushing and beating. 
Methodically beating. 
Thump. Thump. Thump. 
Poe’s Tell Tale has nothing on this rhythm. 

More times than we made love, you said that you loved me, 
were in love with me. 
Which puts that number in the thousands, at least. 
But love, true love, is eternal. 
A stone is a stone, was a stone, WILL ALWAYS BE A STONE. 
So it is with love. 
So when you say that you don’t love me anymore, 
Because I turned my cloak to you, because I walked away. 
When you say you cannot love me because I hurt you, you are really saying. 
“I never loved you.”
There is no WAS. There is no THEN. 
Love is love was love will always be love, 
Failing that, it is but an infant’s fancy.
So I don’t believe you for a second,
I was always the colder of us,
How might you expect me to believe the flame of your love would burn its wick to the quick, before mine?
What kind of Liar are you?
Which kind? 

Hooker’s Ball


I live in the black
The darkness inside brown eyes that relish time
I have a filthy fucking mind
I will not apologize for my demeanour
or style
or the fact that I’m wild and don’t value your morals
or your goals.

I live in a place that no one frequents but everyone frequents at every moment of the day
My mind absorbs every flicker of light in the eyes of an opponent looking to spread me out like butter on toast
You may be able to handle the spike in temperature when my mouth is closed;
but don’t let my finger land on your button
You won’t feel the same - and I’ll be running in the other direction faster than the dreams of a future you had with some dull lifeless pile of skin and white table cloths.

I don’t confine myself to the rules you have bestowed upon yourself to control your habits, your mind.
I don’t confine myself to the rules that you define yourself by to deal with your lack of backbone and drive.

I can be predator -
and in my eyes you are prey
Waiting -
accepting of the fact that you will soon die and be born again into unbridled pool of lust and regret that you didn’t live sooner
that you didn’t experience this before some black girl showed you a trick with her mouth and ice
I’m cold.
Cold like july when you’re dumped by life
and left on the doorstep of sadness and despair.
I am the darkness breathing adventure into your boredom
that dull dreary life where you only do what you are told to.
What a pity.

I live in the black
deep dark depth into clarity
inky well of time within myself
time to reflect on what I will do next
who it’ll be next
what stranger i’ll share my heat and fire with
and where i will move to.




Lids peeled back like
grape skins
sore, heavy
over thinking
and blinking out
this intrusive light

captive, illusive
captive, illusive

flutter by

shallow breaths
from pills
I’m not supposed to have
but don’t work anyway

and you take another,
and another, and another

even after…
how many was that again?

counting to 100
and all the little lost sheep
that bo-peep could
tails all still wagging
little bastards aren’t
fucking listening.

captive, illusive
captive, illusive

flutter by

flippant lids
that refuse
like every other part of me
to ever relent to anyone
or anything

Maybe with any luck
it might just be considered
an accident out loud
when it really counts?

Oh, Osirus
it’s light as a feather
I promise!

It’s not a heart.

But maybe a poisoned liver?
from all these past endevors
there never seems
to be quite enough
to do the job right.

21 grams Osirus
that’s all a soul weighs.

and you pass out
and wake up
once again
wishing you hadn’t

like a bloated Elvis
gasping for breath
you don’t really want

only to do it all over again
in another 36, 48, 60 hours
too much of this now
and not enough at all
and it just needs to…


and you take another,
and another,


captive, illusive
captive, illusive


Recognition of Love in Six Senses


This is what it looks like from the inside.
Look out from the corner shop picture window,
see it backwards. Watch it sit there, glowing,
spilling onto the street, welcoming strangers inside in that moment before
the bulb burns out. 
This is how it feels under a hundred pounds of
drums. An avalanche of beating hearts. Touch
your chest and feel its warmth. And this is how
it feels to jump through glass houses. Pull shards
out from your teeth, give them away like virginity
or advice.
This is what it tastes like on your pink tongue,
salivating and tart. Chew on the lean cut of it.
Swallow it like expired milk, or the morning light,
or a hornet’s nest.
This is what it smells like just before the harvest.
The petrichor in autumn. Its wet, ripe flavor
wafting into the air like a chocolate factory going
out of business, giving out free samples.
This is how it sounds in a downpour. How it sounds
in a whisper mistaken for a rainstick. How it crunches
soft in your ears like white noise or how it cackles
loud like a chalkboard screech.
This is how it falls asleep in the bathtub,
forgetting to scrub itself. This is how it inhales
like a newborn opening its eyes. This is the fabricated rain, the sharp heartbeat, the weight of glass. This is how it exhales brightest, in that
moment before the fire burns out.
- Nick McKnight

In the Dark.


In the wilderness I found you,

vines tightly grasping your neck and bones.

The unseen green ground, grey skies, and no moon or sun above.

The dark shone on the pale, naked flesh of your stomach, face, arms, legs. My legs took me forward, drawn to your pure essence.

Your back remained pressed to a tree which the vines that regretfully held you back, solemnly hung from.

The tips of my fingers reached out to touch you, but everytime I did, I could feel you push away,

unsure of whether to push your way through to reach me or forever remain in the lonely presence of your past.

Your eyes blindly reached mine, a light fog starting to drift over your blood stained lips.

They began to move, trying to speak words to comfort me; tell me everything you wanted to.

Fog’s fingers drifted over your words and kept you shut.

The only thing able to keep us together in the dark; the bells in the distance.

The dark wouldn’t win.

The chimes in the distance encouraged us to press through the seemingly difficult presence; they seemed to encourage life, though no life could be seen.

We existed through truth and trust and faith.

Possibilities became endless and our wilderness was soon a type of comfortable.

We were living.

We were life.

Boxed into the darkness, able to rely on simply sitting on the air above us.

I heard you. I heard you cry out to me, begging to make the chiming louder; to keep me closer through everything but touch.

It was all we could ever really do with no light to keep our minds safe.

My words would not satisfy what the chiming would and that was okay. 

Even though I couldn’t touch you; feel you, you were there. 

And that was okay. 

Through nothing but the sounds of life could we continue to trust and love from a distance. 

A distance so small yet so fortunately close.

We’d wait to see our life when the light would return, if ever.

Right now was all we needed to be able to breathe with the vines of separate trees gripping onto our throats and the fog covering our lips.

I am a great explorer


and your body is the last great frontier, I will spend months creating my map of pure beauty as I mark down each of your favorite places to be touched.

My lips will journey from the tips of your toes to the nape of your neck, I will travel from valley to mountain, from river to forest, leaving no landscape undiscovered.

Ordinary men are propelled to greatness by great passions and none before mine for you have been this monumental.

I will worship your body as the priest at his pulpit, singing out my praise for all of heaven and earth to hear.

Helen of troy inspired a war between empires, for you I shall conquer the universe

Letting Go


Hatred doth ring, from silent moans,
When speech does lack from feeble bones.
From clouded flesh comes lucid tones,
A diaphanous corpse, upped as alms.
A soul accepted by death himself,
A toll unrequited, to fuel his wealth.
As the last breath is freed,
Towards morbid health:
Forgive the angelic, forgive yourself.


Because there’s just something so romantically addicting about loneliness.

Sitting under shaky lights, a fake greenish glow cast over everything,

with sounds seemingly years away.

There is a disconnectedness between you and everything else,

but there is something so nice about the space.

Because it is in times like these when pretending becomes useless

and you can be your own self, absolutely.

Sitting alone under translucent lighting

with watering eyes and a sore back and a warm scarf and an unpolluted soul.

The Hypocrisy of My Own Sadness


The Hypocrisy
of mine madness
Where slumber-
Trails to nightmare,
Suffering becomes creation
Misery marvels about,
Drunkenly professing doubt
Until there’s three
Shot glasses,
Raised to the brim.

“Now we black out
   In our shackles
         Misery may love company,
              But three’s a crowd-
                     And I’m chained to you”