I’ve wasted all my money on ****.
again.
I don’t even like it, the stench, the habit, the headaches,
the fake smiles, declarations of “I’m so high”, I’m done.
I’m done splattering my guts in the morning
displaying my vulnerabilities to the world,
the world of 275 girls. I just can’t seem to find
the acceptance I want,
but don’t deserve. what I need is a pill to forget
who I am and what I’ve done, because I haven’t done enough.
**** kids my age travel to Tajikistan, hack government websites,
cure complex diseases in their sleep.
I just lay on my futon, plop dvds into my Mac,
and waste my life away.
another day wasted, staring into a screen. which reminds me
I also waste too much money on dvds,
while my Netflix account remains untouched.
could I be anymore of an abomination,
with my tattooed skin, and pierced face,
cutting the crusts off of my bread. as mementos of my past
seep into my mind, I wonder
when I’ll see the starting line,
or if it’s already left me behind.

He said that he was scared of commitment
scared their relationship would be permanent
             And he couldn't handle that

*but his skin was covered in tattoos.

stars flow through these leaky pipes
& i'm starting to wonder if the tattoos
on your back
are starting to face
or are the yellow lights
in our rooms
are just dimming down
maybe you should try drawing
on my wrists
again to stop them from itching
maybe i shouldn't make you
cold coffee anymore
maybe you should change
the dead bulbs in the house
or maybe i should dye my hair
to make you
love me
again

I can't wait to get my tattoos.
I'll get the lyrics of all my favorite songs and poems
on my back
even though they say it's
not cool to get them where I can't see them
but you can admire them and trace them and read them
and kiss them
Will you lick my skin?
How do I taste, late at night
unshowered and covered in the day's breath?


If you promise to kiss every tattoo I get
I will get every inch of me inked
**Every inch

I had always figured that in a few years, today’s date would be tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Now the only tattoos I have are the scars you left in the depths of my mind, and the memory of a summer I won’t forget.

I trace my finger around. With red lipstick on I wear the skin of the pets I had, looking like a marigold shot through the head, my bare skin is barbed in the back. Such trouble and quiet with the wrap-around, the cross-walk, and floral shop as I browse. The white elephant in the upstairs bedroom, is making it hard for every one of us to sleep. With this Africa becomes a disease, that I unwrap from a cotton white sheet. When I breathe life is going good, under the spells of wicked and word. I like to call out in the night, so with no response I can plead for the courage to think; all the suburban philistines try to help me, but I can't tell a joke because I cannot read. Every thing amounts to being fat. Or liquidated in the most pathetic singles party for Karl Lagerfeld.

Numb fingers slur the words as I type telephone numbers that end in threes. I see a notice to be called upon, but it's hard to remember what day it is when your job only pays you in financial advice, "Don't do as I do, but please just do what I say." And I can smell that. The approach that a hunter brews in his midnight solemn cup of tea. Where a voice chimes in while a mouse runs out, dragging the corners of my eyes in a lagging meme, it doesn't do well to even be yourself sometimes, once while traveling I couldn't see. Come that morning I had left my hotel pass inside my favorite pants, black denim toting paint from a ******* shot, a picture that explains my disease.

The fifty inch fan hums an anonymous tune that when I turn quickly towards it becomes this feral baboon. And is it hardly based on fact or is it the illusions and the myths that Christopher Robins struck inside of me. With his griseous hands made of soot and of gouache, that worshipped animals that wear clothes outside. And even sometimes there are z's that transform into other creatures that hum real fast and talk out loud in nursery rhymes, a Whatsit and a Woozel are totally, too much for me. I turn the fan off and lay back down, and fight the world off with hands from another guy, much braver than I who doesn't even have tattoos but he's the top wordsmith from Buckingham. What a beautiful treat and such a magnificent surprise that the elephant lays down to die. Of course that's when my mouth dries up with smoke and my voice turns into the vanilla flavoring that everyone hates, and then too I felt like laying down to die. But I'm not 97 like I had thought I'm quite sure that I'm still alive. The white moon shines into my bedroom window at night and I pretend that I direct for the sky.

how I fall in love:
unexpectedly and uncertainly
usually under the guide of wine or whiskey, depending on my mood
drowning in a blur of voices and bursts of bright lights
an aura surrounds you; something jumps out at me
tattoos, or a woollen hat
a remark is made,
obvious or otherwise,
about your person
I can’t really see you clearly but I can tell who you are
your eyes are bright
rimmed with red, just like the amber Jameson you’ve downed
but they shine
you shine
I fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
I am smiling
when you hold me, I m e l t,
blend into you
I feel stable and erratic all at once
afraid to disappear completely into you
but wanting so much to
your arms are warm, humble and all-encompassing
you hold me
my tongue finds your both inside your mouth and out
it freely expresses how much I need
for once, we are speaking the same language
of patience and comfort and ease
and although I feel free and easy
inside, I race
my heart and thoughts
am I in love with you because you are in love with me?
afraid to
wait,
to give in to your attention to detail to the shape of my body moulded against yours
to the unease and confusion that plagues my mind
to the baggage I am carrying on all my limbs as I am lifted into your arms
to me and what I want
I can’t give you everything just yet
there’s a lock on what I will save until the perfect moment:
when we are laying in bed
yours or mind, no difference
and that secret or feeling or thought is pulsating, vibrating, screaming to be said
and because you are warm
and bright
and a knight of valour
I will say it
all of it
and I will fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
and allow myself to be saved from drowning by you.

one of the gifts for your birthday was
nonexistent constellations etched in your skin
cascading down your shoulders evoking
subdued squirms
        my ever gallant one

I swore they'd guide you home
these nebulas of crooked flora dusted
with sugary swirls of the Milky Way
a biblical formula of unquestionable permanence
        but

it was I who followed the ink which
washed down your drain
through sewers out to sea
        it was permanence
        shelter
        which skin couldn't give
and in those lullabies the ocean sang I
saw the stars clearer
        a better map than all your body combined
        could ever give to cure cosmic wanderlust