[x]

the things they should have told ussee, no one really warns us about growing up.
they leave out things like heartbreak and gossip and broken people you could have saved but didn't.

it is this: the girl who holds her wrists and sits alone and tells me no child should ever grow up being afraid of someone who should love them. Her eyes are fierce, and something inside me is screaming but the clock ticks and the moment is past. i pretend i can't hear the pieces of her shatter as they hit the floor.

the next time we speak there are new shadows beneath her eyes and her shoulders hunch as if somehow she could fold into herself and disappear. maybe it would be better for us both if

the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:
take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pages
out of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaper
until the last of the phrases are gone; shake it
until it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.

I will give you new words.

HeartmindWe lost electricity on the night you left me
and I spent the night curled up against the rain,
drinking in the slack of damp green winds
in our treasured driftwood home of mist.
I had to come to think of time
as a medium and my thoughts as
imperfect and cursive. It was a wrinkled medium,
a mediocrity of sunken breath: words condensing
into droplets that so contorted my teary lenses
that I couldn't tell that you were turning towards me

with a sound, the sound a book makes
when its leaves are rustled against the grain.
Tonight my body lingers on the edge of the ocean
like a gasp; New Jersey's throaty highways
bear my rosefelt thou

Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,
rather,
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
d
   r
     i
      f
        t
          i
            n
                g.
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.

Tomb Worldbuy the war bonds to my body
buy tickets to the air raid of my soul
trenches on my wrists
fight the somme across my stomach
machine gun pock marks
bombs, my flesh shakes

no land,
only lines to cross
and three miles of blood and barbed wire marshes

protect the soldiers
but there are no defenses
the western front is failing

TO ARMS!

shells that are empty
(I am empty)

the skies
(my eyes)
lighting up with flares
there's only smoke left
up there
(clouds my mind)

we left our masks behind and now we'll all go blind

packed in here, piled in
like cattle
like corpses

where is the axis?
we've been in here three days.
is t

02:22 AMi.

Like drops of water we fall

yet

I must be
of
a different
drop

you might think that
you want to be different yourself
but

you do not

you want to be special

I am not special

everyone wants to be special
although
not so special
that

they're different.

ii.

Some girls
want to seduce me

because I'm different

I don't mind, but
I've never really liked those girls

I don't really like girls at all

I like sex though, so..
I let them

even though
some will fall

(plip.)

in love with me.

iii.

Some boys
want to beat me up

show me my
true
face

also because I'm different

and because they grew up with a strong father

The EarthenI have a wooden heart.
Slowly carved from the crevice
of the poison oak
twined around the holly and ivy
hawthorne, birch, beech,
brittle aspen and whispering pine--
I am what the earth has made me.

Cut open my flesh and sow the seeds
that drift free of the veins like snow;
each dandelion tuft or seedpod remnant
swishing off with each sweep
of the wind's own broom,
spilling words and stories as they go;
growing as they fall,
dying as they wane.

I have bones comprised of iron.
They stand rigid to attention, militant
against the flaking igneous tissue
and the congealing rocky muscle,
layers of fossilized concepts
drilled

Alive Like Dirt-

Winter vanished, a dream
Minutes after having woken;
The imprint and the lines
Still crisscrossing the edges
Of thought, retreating at my
Touch. It was important.
           I think.
                      I thought.
Though, I've lost it now.
           Am reeling now.

I reached out, five distinct
Points forming a living symbol.
           A tool.
&

Exhume and InhaleI have tasted God, he tasted of sweet wine
and sandalwood, the deep forest you lay down

in the moss and twigs, scattered like finger-bones,
your spine ripped out, curved like a bow.

I couldn't find your heart, trembling
against the opened cage of your ribs,

under the gently speaking rustle,
leaves unfurling, the dance of sunlight

slinking between your vertebrae:
piccolo skims and birchskin shaves.

I fled. Your right shoulder blade beckoned still,
unfolding like the slow feathers of a wing,

your wrist flung out, palm
up, gasped my name,

but I could not stay, only
strained your skin with oleander tea,

drifted, drifted with the t

Unbound TiesYou choke on the meds—
the bitter taste of failure,
the coffee thick in your
indecisive throat.

Downstairs,
a baby howls like
a mistreated coyote
at the vaporizing moon—

the all day affair
of listening to abandonment
thumping in your ears.

Across town,
a man you might have
learned to love
boards a bus
for greener pastures—

the promise of keeping in touch
rolling in your mouth
like a pendulum uncertain
of its true purpose.

& in a tiny town
on the edge of oblivion,
your one-time, for-all-time lover
chokes on the daily defeat—

feeling the chorus
of your blood
burst against her lips,

all the unspoken

a long awaited return.It was raining when we landed.
A shock
to our sun-drenched systems,
stumbling with snatched-
away sleep.

Another bus, another train
whirring upon endless tracks.
We run, we flee through foreign streets –
disdainful eyes stare on,
watching fugitive

outsiders -
desperate for a taste
of home.

WaitingWaiting

Pale willow girls wait by the river, brides of the water,
Guppies swim through their veins, silver darts of bright pain.
Their names are hieroglyphs of mist, frost and rain.
They walk barefoot in the snow, leaving tracks so they know the way back,
A tracery of breadcrumbs that the ravens will never eat.

Twelve princesses slip underground,
Dance in slippers of tattered frayed silk,
Corkscrews of ribbon, stiff with blood and melted tallow.
They inject themselves with music until their eyes hum like bumble bees.
Then they sleepwalk through the day in a haze of yearning
For fierce wet stone beneath their frenzy of feet, of bon

Puddled GasolineHear me read it! Puddled Gasoline

Someone left the car on
with the garage door closed again;
mother-of-pearl rainbows
streak the harsh winter concrete
as I breathe past the fumes.

Your son,
forgetful seventeen
at its finest,
blares Grunge
or Punk
or some other form of noise
I'm not familiar with.

He will not hear me screaming
when I tug open the door
and you spill out like a puddle
onto my freshly-buffed shoes,
because I will not be screaming
at all.

For the first time
in almost twenty years of marriage,
you've silenced me.

beta physicsi.
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.

ii.
you lived in a widow's closet -

a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -

and then you lived in widow's charcoal.

iii.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.

(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)

"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive.

Working ClassSmoking is a working class disease
They said; he smiled at this.
Lean in body and broad of mind
With shirtsleeves rolled,
A modern man's philosopher
Who stuttered over the words
Like his fingers did over her chassis
Detroit rolling iron beneath his palms
Grease and lubricant under the nails.
The cigarette cherry glows in the dark
Giving him a hard edge aura
The gloaming settling into the lines
Of his work-worn face

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More from ~jikivigoig

now that i remember,he liked to watch
the spiders tangle in
their own nets,

almost as if they
were the hearts he

strung up,

like the veins knotted
into desperation,
breathless sighs
against his cheek until

they ran out of
thread and slowly
let go of

make-believe images

of love.

of expressed sorrowi.

"i'm sorry," he said and suddenly, it meant so much more. the word 'sorry' had faded in my mind, because everyone says it after they've broken my heart, and their insincerity crumbled the word until it's nothing but a powder. and the word simply stinks with lies and untold truths, like the tins at the back of your cupboard, staining a circle on the shelf - though i guess they never go bad.

ii.

but i found out that actually, he isn't sorry,
because you know, no one ever is. the word shouldn't have even been made; perhaps the creator of it is one of those people who say sorry, sorry, sorry all the time without thinking of it. but then, i

when a rainbow meets tragedy,black and white dreams softened to curl
like smoke around rainbow-bleeding veins,
where cherry red meets sunny yellow
and sighs with earth-embedded
confusion;
and when the dragonflies nest in the crook of
your arm, their wings like crinkled
paper against puckered skin of wicked memories,
you'll find pink-tipped marrow congealing
where it really shouldn't be.
so, summer-time weaves tales of heavy-
lidded sleepiness, crusted at the corners of
tired infants' eyes and
the scent of melting concrete in the outskirts of
rotted shells and hollow skins of pristine minds –
somewhere, beneath the waves of
blue-blue flowers blooming

mother of earth and glass.crystal heaven underneath
a blanket of clouds
shrieks so many silences

(
into the ears of
the dragonflies hovering
in the eyesight of a
dead-end,

ink pressed deep upon
the foreheads of well-worn
brick walls -)

and the knots of the
spine in our mother's skeleton –
a language of
scrawled love messages
,

and she starves herself
some more to deliver pieces
of preciousness –

worth more than that of
man-made comforts –

on her children's doorsteps.

( to howl miseries
onto a tormented sea, bearing
the souls of those long-gone,

burning a beacon into a
distinct horizon –

as the suicides twist together
in

OrbitOnce, there was nothing in the universe but a black-blue stretch of broken dreams and a scattered number of Suns, spilt around like rotten milk. They were breaks in the hopelessness and despair of beginnings; breaks in which emotions burned like fire and irregularity was welcome. And there was one particular Sun who, though small and dimmed, held the flaws given to him by the other Suns with a grace none other could manage – at least at first. Envy and compassion, weakness and love – they all bundled inside him like a coiled spring, waiting for the moment when it might be set loose with a twang.

He grew, like only a child could, an

in memory of tea and starlight.She was of freely given full-stops
and she sewed together skins of marks
and knots made of dandelion drops –
to be a broken voice that only barks,

oh, yes, she told me that would be
lovelier than living a lie upon a pedestal
and I dare not disagree, for to see
would be through glasses of crystal.

Still, bright stars bleed of colours
only the evening understood – oh –
nothing could have been duller
than watching the cold wind blow;

but it was different when it blew
through her hair, whipping strands
into the scent-billowing mug of brew
held deep in the crevasses of her hands.

And she told me of the secrets kept

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another notch on the wall.

by ~jikivigoig, May 29, 2012, 1:15:17 AM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

         1.
a while now,
a while now has passed
with bruises crying jagged from your voice
                and pretty little nicks upon
                your memory.

( tricky partners dancing
stiffly
      within your hands cupped around a flame,

for artists draw and
writers scream

           another curse at the bleeding night
           snipping stitches and
           weaving nightmares into weary minds.
                                               )

dragging bottles of paint behind you
like they were clanging and
swishing the secrets of life into
       your ears,
       oh, your ears bled with screams

                            [ until you decided to
               run away into the sunset with
                              your hands blocking everything
               from words of horrors to cries of affection

   because you never
understood ]

         2.
a year rests on your shoulders,
grinning like a fallen angel, predicting
the death of a woman

named the world –

                     (
                   because it was you who peered
                   into the dark corners with child-like eyes,
                   so surprised at the bleak

                                      strings of time,
                                      strikingly indifferent.
                                                                              )

so you hold your hands out for
more frayed strings, ripping
so clearly from tracks circling your hips –

pretty little scars, crying out for more:

{ destiny whispers in your ear,
        you're going to die through broken veins
        and blood-stained sheets and sorrowful messages
        scrawled across the walls. }

         3.
the ghosts warn you through the
windows that you should keep smiling,
keep smiling,

                  ( they mustn't know a thing –
                          the beetles will crawl into their eyes
             and eat their eyelids if you speak a word;
                                 or the ropes will slither around
                      their throat and pull, pull, pull

    while you puke onto your bathroom
    floor again and again and again.
                                    )

.

oh, darling,
it's not like they care.

.

a blindfold smirks, gnarled and old,
pressing your eyes back into your head –

                      [ because maybe if they have to look,
             you don't,
                            because they hold your friends in their
                            pockets ;
                 watch the moon cry,
                                      it's not like your family will. ]

and your voice declares itself too
injured to be used, even if you
                        whisper
back to the ghosts and the stitches and everything else
that listened once.

groove a language into time:
you'll be alright.

another notch on the wall.by ~jikivigoig

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

count the days,
you must always count the days.

-

So, I'm running out of coffee. This is not good, really not good.

EDIT: A...DD?! Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. I think I'm just going to bounce in my chair for the next half an hour.

Also, for those who care, I have coffee again!