Dark Poetry Prose Poetry March 21, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

3-21-05 monday 9:35pm

a forest of eyes. slender, white birches and staunch, dark oak trees. looking at. looking down upon. hearts bending against the wind like leaves.

looking for. high up in the those thinner branches. hidden nests full of hatchlings. and the sunlight slithering through to what lies beneath.

there's no need to ask yourself again now that you have decided. always reaching up as you do. you don't need to grab hold of the sun. it's enough just that you tried.

looking up. there's plenty of distance. but that leaves you room to grow. looking down. it's hard to see what's below all those branches. but it's all right. you don't have to see the ground to know.

9:33pm 3-21-05 monday

i'm dirty. inside and out. filled with memory's cadavers unburied. time's maggots slowly devour.

unlcean. body and soul. stained with every kiss that never came back. their colors. their scents embedded in my own skin. and underneath it. blood tainted. their fluids that mixed with my own. creating muddy puddles in my heart.

a little bit of each one of them kept inside my veins. as their saliva and their semen would trickle down my throat. unclean. what i once consumed of them. so consuming me.

03-21-05 9:56pm monday

objectify me. how much more rewarding it feels than i've been conditioned to believe. make me your object. your broken window to see the sun through. as it rises in the morning. and as in the night it skulks away.

make me any object you want me to be. the blanket you clutch as you cry or the razor blade you shiver in your suicide.

let me 'grace the limits of your heart'. whether you wish to quiet the blood or let it rage.

i will be your object if you'll give me some space on a shelf in your life. i will be your bandage or your razor. whichever you desire.

11:50pm 3-21-05 monday

darker. darker until. everything that was once bright. life's giant lids cover your eyes.

everything you see now coming from rusty projectors rooted in the back of your mind.

grainy movie reels promising a happiness only celluloid still knows.

i just want to say that for all my shortcomings. and there are many. i always tried to love anyone i did with an emphasis on how i'd want them to love me. not to seek just what i wanted. but to find it in how i could give to them.

but i guess being kind is not to anyone's advantage.

and when that kindness fails me, i turn to my anger to defend. foxholes in the heart where the soldiers pause to enjoy their last cigarettes before dying.

it almost seems no one wants to receive love. be given that gift. they'd rather take it. hunt it down. shoot it. mount its head to a block of wood or cut out its insides and make a throw rug from its empty skin.

they'd just rather kill it. take ownership. because when it's alive they can't control it. but once it's dead, it's their's to do with as they see fit.

a carcass on the hood of their trucks. a set of antlers as their prize. meat to eat. and bones to grind. and all the satisfaction of knowing it's dead and they're still alive.