My Last Poem for You

I sank quickly and deeply into your infinitely aquamarine opiate ocean.
The suffocation reeked of salvation
just out of reach.
I swam against the current to the point of numb-boned exhaustion,
but found myself dragged further back than when I started.
Your tide was too strong.

And I'm trying my best not to blazon the blaze in your eyes
or let myself drift to each beautiful curve of your life.
And I'm trying so hard not to retrace the pace of your pulse
or let myself fall to each thought of your warmth.

I fell further through thickening layers of glow.
My eyes were kept blindly open, desperate for some route of escape.
Breath held, I felt my heartbeat strong in every fingertip and follicle.
My chest started screaming, fighting down heart and lungs.
And I was so tired.
I couldn't keep fighting.
For a moment, I let myself believe that my lungs could be transfigured,
taught to breathe vicodin instead of oxygen.

And I'm trying my best not to bleed for the need of your smile
or let myself sway to the elegant dance of your trials.
And I'm trying so hard to unlearn the burn of your touch
and the way just your name would make my soul rush.

As I let myself take one deep gasp of the narcotic waters,
the world began to burst in unearthly shades.
Fireworks in violet deeper than black, more vibrant than white.
Reds with layers of red.
Sun-hot oranges that spread along nerves I didn't even know I had.
I could see the ocean floor plainly now,
a playground for victims desperate for sacred wrongs,
a fortress for the lost who didn't want to be found.
I could see your hand there,
and I stretched mine out, desperate to cling to you.

And I'm trying my best not to fight for the light in your essence
or dwell on shattering joy of your presence.
And I'm trying so hard not to cave for the crave of your breathing
or to let myself fall on the sword of your being.

Your fingertips were always just out of reach.

And I'm trying so hard to find form for my fight.

And I'm trying so hard to find truth for my lie.

And I'm trying so hard to find sound for my cry.
And I'm trying to find words that can say

afp

The music is what you get when you mix a thunderstorm
with tear stains that show oilslick rainbows
with a starlit night high on social-suicide intoxication.
The sound runs on an a frequency pumping like fists in the air,
the wild euphemism of unified voices; our collectivity.

Crash
in the momentum, the chords that twist like deep tissue mindwarps, the clatter of chains
pulling you into the music.
The way she says
fuck
like it’s a 120 proof sacramental wine.

It’s an experience that surpasses the point of it all,
that needs no ampersand,
that’s like touching – like very real, pulmonary to pulmonary touching,
the coitus of throbbing hearts.

And she’s the kind of girl who leaves out stardust on the bedroom dresser,
the kind who makes the sirens, jealous, cast themselves against the rocks.
And she’s the kind of girl who starts rebellions for mass self-acceptance,
the kind who will make society’s fabric into origami just to shake the stage.

The sound runs on the pulse of the audience, the collected rejects of the cabaret,
the anachronistic minds and idiosyncratic souls; they find their company here.
The music is what you get when you mix a heart attack
with auditory opiate hallucinations that resonate with both memory and dream
with broken boundaries and minds, each crying gratitude for freedom.
All of it, every syllable and shudder,
fearless.

afp

The music is what you get when you mix a thunderstorm
with tear stains that show oilslick rainbows
with a starlit night high on social-suicide intoxication.
The sound runs on an a frequency pumping like fists in the air,
the wild euphemism of unified voices; our collectivity.

Crash
in the momentum, the chords that twist like deep tissue mindwarps, the clatter of chains
pulling you into the music.
The way she says
fuck
like it’s a 120 proof sacramental wine.

It’s an experience that surpasses the point of it all,
that needs no ampersand,
that’s like touching – like very real, pulmonary to pulmonary touching,
the coitus of throbbing hearts.

And she’s the kind of girl who leaves out stardust on the bedroom dresser,
the kind who makes the sirens, jealous, cast themselves against the rocks.
And she’s the kind of girl who starts rebellions for mass self-acceptance,
the kind who will make society’s fabric into origami just to shake the stage.

The sound runs on the pulse of the audience, the collected rejects of the cabaret,
the anachronistic minds and idiosyncratic souls; they find their company here.
The music is what you get when you mix a heart attack
with auditory opiate hallucinations that resonate with both memory and dream
with broken boundaries and minds, each crying gratitude for freedom.
All of it, every syllable and shudder,
fearless.

The Cynic

The Cynic

Alone in his room, he's seeking absolution
spending his time in purgatory early
clinging to the bottle like an infant does,
watching the corners of the world blur.

Moments of mania, serenity, laughter,
intermingle with passionate eruptions.
He launches a half-empty bottle across the room
to hear it break,
to hear the shattered glass clatter,
muffled, to the carpet.
He holds himself as his body starts
to quiver;
he feels the heat of fresh tears down his face;
he wonders why these rivers never run
when sober.

He's dizzier and dizzier,
standing on ground that's turned to liquid,
re-enacting the moment of standing on water
before faithlessness sets in.
He's going further down and further down,
watching the walls as he slips to vertigo,
wondering why he's here at all;
but better days will come, he thinks.
Surely, better days will come.

Alone in his room, he's seeking absolution
spending his time in purgatory early
clinging to the bottle like an infant does,
watching the corners of the world blur.

The Shrapnel

Embedded so deep, encrusted with blood dried black -
he thought it was an ulcer.
He remembered the shard of metal enfolding into skin,
but insisted on believing it had changed its form;
steel fragments turned to a bronze shield
engraved "E Tan I Epi Tas."

Because at least you paid attention while the shrapnel went in.

But the apology for the wound was a suture
as if on eyelids
and the metal was left inside to rust.

When the second blast happened, and the third, and the fourth,
and the injury recurred
the word "accident" sounded like choking on sand;
the word that replaced it: "deserved."

Because he was counter-top height, and you were his Gabriel - his God.

He demanded it was an ulcer.

Felt the wounds bleeding, fondled scars with his fingertips.

Insisted that this heirloom wound was his birthright.

And the silence was infection,

spreading black-skinned necrosis,

gangrenous, with no sign of remission.

Because he could never tell you how bad it hurt.