the lost art of being human

Should tonight it break

the gorgon in the mirror

You demand of me

things I couldn't even dream

1.

I like the way he doesn't flinch at how sickly sweet my name drips off the tongue. He swallows it whole, with rounded mouth breathing shallow vowels into my ear. The way he says it with more familiarity than I ever could.

2.

The way he drives, drumming on his steering wheel as he sings along, refusing to mince words or cut corners on a rap section, leaning forward to press a made up harmony. Excusing his car, a disaster of beach bags and sand. A hurricane, not unlike him.

3.

How he manages to pull off suave awkwardness. As if he thought of it first, but his body couldn't follow through with his plans. The way his mouth makes checks to me that his heart couldn't dream of covering.

4.

His personality exposes something- or someone deeply bedded within him, only visible to those who look. Yet I don't have the audacity to ask, perhaps i'm not the poet cut out to romanticize it all.

5.

I want the weeds growing between concrete cracks

to seep into my skin as I watch him work

Local dead end artist

stuck in another rest stop town,

rather, illegal artist

with a craving to feel some danger

working in an extra wide spray paint can

only because ultra wide calligraphy tool

sounds too pretentious.

Blink and you might miss it,

the way his heart pounds

against the iron framework incasing it,

the way the cities mapped on his hands

get lost under spray paint

the way he makes everyone around him fall for it

Perhaps he goes home and considers his own hubris

the perfect image of Dionysus' youth as he scrubs stained skin

I wish to drown in my bathtub

Become the portrait of Ophelias drowing

Let the dye in my hair turn the water black

Let artificial rivers flow from copper pipes

until my bathroom is flooded

I wish to drown in my bathtub

Feel my lungs ache and burn

Until my body shuts down

Let them find me hours later,

Basking within golden sunlight

I feel one with Apollo as the grass

weaves its way around my legs

I feel the sweet touch once promised

I feel the chilled breeze of Persephone's absence

Her heart calls to hades too strongly

to part through the days

Causing dead winter leaves to dance beside me

as the blossoms sprout on the trees above my head

Red unlike any other painted by the gods themselves

As I rest in the soil

spring is awakening

and it calls me back to a time where my love told me from behind his golden crown

that I am a sun god

as I consider it,

1

Put your money where

your mouth is

then swallow every cent 

2

Mangos ripen only to fall off the branch 

onto the dusty floor. 

Left to rot

3

A cluster of stars

takes residency in my chest,

bubbling like champagne

the type of romance Chekhov would envy 

4

Red. 

Stronger than life

and love

and death 

conflated.

5

Your lips never change. 

Decades from now

they'll taste just as sickly sweet. 

6

Icarus your love for me 

is bound to cause 

If he wants me to be the honey that sweetens his drinks

I will

Only to sweeten it until he chokes on the cloyingly saccharine tea.

If he gives me the ideals of Ayn Rand

Ill give him the love of Lucille Clifton

If he points to the past of women in kitchens caring for children

I'll show him endless photos of aunts and mothers

sitting around cozy livingrooms drinking café

I'll write his hate and fold it into flowers

and leave them on his desk when I leave

As red as blood from a fresh wound

the piercing love of words

Stronger than life, and death, and love conflated

The semantic codes Lewis Carroll never explained

in his journeys to Wonderland

The desperate craving for home

within bookshelves

within novels

within words

Perpetually intense in love and war

Pierre Bezukholv and Anna Karenina

have never met one like me

An artist

a writer

1

The winter evening settles

between the slates of the window

Painfully dry middles to golden years

Golden days

Golden lips

The world is black and golden.

her muscles will contract.

their bones will crack.

like the dew of flesh.

2

I am the soul of the evermoving storm

Passed on from mother to daughter ever since the burning of witches

Mother was the raging winds.

I am the soft snow.

I am the blaring bass.

I am the stabbed seam of faux leather jackets

The swastikas and sex symbols

on the back of walls you were never meant to see

Because a god wouldn't whisper in a crowded forum

and I wont whisper now that the bass is blaring

3

Breathe in the burning air.

Golden and black

comfort feels like cotton and fulfilment.

satisfaction.

Burning firewood

will always faintly remind you of home

infinitely gentle.

infinitely suffering.

Your kingdom is made of painted glass.

You tell the others it is gold,

yet it always manages to crack and shatter

when you need it most.

The truth of the kingdom is that

there is a revolution brewing within it.

Under the foundationless soil,

unbeknownst to the eye,

there is hate and evil within your sweet kingdom

Sin drips from the palace walls

as you execute

each

and

every

member of your own council.

You shame those who seek asylum elsewhere,

and mock the other kingdoms for their stone palaces.

tell them they are nothing compared to your golden walls

yet know nothing of their safety.

You've convinced others for long enough.

So, don't cry over your wounds

when a stone is cast back,

The dye in our hair illuminates

the black lit mini golf course.

Arcades glowing with neon and laughter.

These are the days handcrafted for us.

Far too loud conversations

only matched by the shrieking laughter they cause.

All out laser tag wars within old arcades.

We aren't too old

because we'll never be "too old"

Drug rug hoodies and NASA tee shirts

paired with asymetrical and hastily cut hair.

Lewis Carroll wouldve loved us

Absolutely mad.

How shall the seraphs in heaven

save the souls of the restless

when they themselves lack a savior

in these times of war?

The lord has abandoned his creations,

left to rot for their sins.

As hell hounds rest on angels feet,

they chant tearful prayers for our fate.

In the distance, bells toil their mourning song

repeating:

God is dead

God is dead

Why is it that we couldn't speak?

that you went silent for the last few months

Were you screaming underwater and i just couldn't hear?

Or was it really the dissociociation that you mumbled

in short breaths in crowded rooms

Even though your voice would ring through the walls once i left

Through the countless nights i picked you up

walked you home through the black nights in unfamiliar towns

calmed you down and wiped away your tears

Did i simply not hear your lungs filling under the waves

Why is it that i can only talk to you while hiding behind the guise of a narrator?

When did we come to sending messengers?

When did we come to this?

Was there a hidden meaning that i missed?

Was “taking a break” a contract i never signed?

Even when doing all i could

Always so peaceful and happy

That’s who we were destined to be

Ah yes, we live in a state of deja vu

we should return to blue

We’ve spent too many nights tucked in between the rolling waves

to remember what loneliness feels like

The way the sand caresses your skin

and the water exposes every inch of you.

Perhaps sometimes

instead of staying dry on the sand

Maybe it'd be best to dive in