Dark Poetry Prose Poetry May 10, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

05-10-04 9:59am monday

all hours dive in careful rhythm
attached to souls by fleshy ribbons;
all minutes swim like fishes do
eyes neither opened nor ever closed,
to put breath into lungs never used;

all silences do spark a sound
that beats in my breast so very loud,
the constant eruption of blood from my heart
a volcano spewing life, owed to the clamor
of its foundation coming apart;

all life does spoil in tired echos,
of its own repetition, alone,
souring blood homogenized,
by the humbles of love;
spilt, then cried.

05-10-04 10:50am monday

i don't write. something inside me does. some part of myself i've never known. upon reading i find insights and metaphors i myself have to decipher. i don't write. but am being written by.

5-10-04 monday 12:20pm

fitful expressions in tangled verse,
grapefruit juice spray kisses on fresh wounds;
all at once i remember why i love them,
but forget why i would want to;
like the recoil of the shotgun -
the bullet's release injures the shooter
before it does the victim.

9:32pm 05-10-04 monday

the high temperatures today reminded me that when life grows cold it needs to be reheated. that cold contracts and heat expands. that coldness numbs and heat reacts.

the night is an ardent lover. her black tongue crawls slowly down my spine. while the silence runs its many fingers through my hair. they can caress all parts of me, but they lack the affection of a person's kiss. they can do anything except let me touch them. and that makes all the difference.

just find it strenuous lately to sit with those wires between. like these lives all come down to an amalgamous frequency which skin cannot perceive. just hate the static it puts into my thoughts. to have to receive feeling from microchips.

this bottle feels so much more alive than those sterile conversations. with its sweaty flesh and willingness to taste my lips. so eager to let me swallow. the way its curves fit so perfectly within my grip.

how it moistens my throat. and makes me sleepy like ample sex. how i need not even ask. that it just lets.

the cover is hard and closed. aerated faucets now sealed. but the gasket is corroded. the connection leaks.

eager veins breathe slower now. waves of blood labor every movement. dams of grief impede their motion. hope has been such a feeble champion against so much sadness.

from the first memory to this one now, nothing shouts loud enough to overcome this madness. sorrow's din of voices does not allow.

05-10-04 monday 10:22pm

so interest does wane as touch is lessened. no more an urgency to see this face again. it's just something to occupy when there's nothing better.

what once was passion, now a bore. no reason to make much effort. no pleasure to strive for.

there are a million adventures that can trump just looking at, but not being able to touch. same damn conversations you can have without the temptation. probably nothing worse than looking at gazes that want you, but.

you'll never have to read. never have to hear again. or see it there in my stare. like lonesome constellations hanging in the darkness of my expression. never have to know. never have to wonder if. never another wish. that star never fell. instead it exploded.

05-10-04 monday 10:55pm

i hate it. every word. every syllable. like i hate myself. like i hate the thought of having to live. i hate every easy rhyme and every forced one. every page that recalls what i wish could be forogtten. every memory they cling to like fresh velcro. i hate myself for creating them. hate all this time for allowing it to happen.

hate it. every word. my worst enemy. draws me back into those feelings like landmines under my feet. every word is a magnifying glass and i am an ant. every word multiplies the sadness by millions and consumes me in its torturous wrath.

i hate it. every second of life that brought it forth. that made it so. every memory that seduces when there's nothing left to hold. no arms around me. no hands to clasp. just waning suns that cast their dying shadows upon these pages.

i hate it. i've never hated anything except. hate it like a hitler in my head. genocide inside my skin. always killing itself to find a better breed. myself. the war. the killer and the victim. gas chamber thoughts kill everything that ought. they disappear inside burning chambers of the heart and rise up into the air in thick black clouds of hopelessness.

i hate it. every word. every rhyme so contrary. every question it instigates knowing an answer is lifetimes away. i hate the rhythm and the collic of cranky emotions that cannot sleep. put them to bed only to be awakened minutes later by their cries of discontent. by things that cannot sleep, but still try to pretend.

i hate it. like a mortal enemy. hate how it infiltrates my breathing with gasious elements meant to kill the weeds, and only ends up killing everything else but. hate how sorrow accrues like so much interest from the eighties. too much return on so little input. i hate it. more than i hate myself, though it is the reason. the words. all the reasons that they are. how readily the metaphors submit to unquiet hearts.

hate how i think it's finished, only to have it begin again. how one end only leads to another beginning. how i know i can write these words forever and still they'll never relent. hate why the come. and all the feelings that bestow. like eager nooses that refuse to pull tight enough. they take their pleasure in my dangleing. my slow death. how they hang me there like an empty picture frame. allowing me to breathe only just enough. how they revel in my suffocation and then at the last moment fill my lungs.

i hate it. everything i do. especially this. black marker permanent across my heart. ink inside slowly seeping out. i hate it. like a rejected child. i hate it. every word. every syllable. i hate it. like life. like how it always promises release, but then leaves me bloated. leaves me to sink down further yet.

05-10-04 monday 11pm

what am i to do. can't love myself. can't find it in anyone else.

the illusion ended keen and abrupt. the curtain revealed. how it had fooled us.

what shall i do now. since it was worth it, but i wasn't. what can i do now until it's really over. until the ache at last forgets.

i waited. held pattern in delay, but everything happened just the same anyway.

what am i to do. the writing grows steeper still. and i am losing my grip. can't go forward. can't go back. the pages steadily thicken. and i am losing myself in them.

like a drowning man. the words like waves steadily rise above my head. like a drowning victim. all that energy spent on fighting the current is only pulling me in.