this piece was inspired by a good friend a lifestyle I long for. all characters/feelings are fictional, just like every other piece.
****************

Skinny hands under the curve of my cheek, my eyelashes brush against his finger tips, letting light in , f-stop by f-stop. Wind and the smell of tar choke me. My lips are dry, and dirt has gathered in the corners of my mouth. My tongue is a gravel pit, and my bangs are hanging in my eyes - I haven't seen a shower in over a week.

"Good morning, beautiful."


My hands reach up to his face, and I trace weeks of red and brown stubble. Tiny freckles under my finger tips, then chapped lips. Soft eyelashes under the eyes that capture the sun and my love, bigger than any fire star.

"How was your sleep?" he asks. My neck is sore from the backpack-pillow, my face indented from the straps and I am cold. "Well. How are you?" A big smile, hands on his belly, he replies "ah, you know. i am a man in need of little sleep." On that note, he opens his backpack and pulls out his portable kettle, a lighter, coffee grounds, and twigs we collected at our last stop. We huddle beside each other, facing the back of the train car. We light a tiny fire in the base and hunch our backs to shelter it from the draft of this speeding train. He pours the coffee grounds into a kleenex filter and pour the water in. It steeps for a few minutes, and then he fills our tin cups. It's dark and bitter - perfect. I can't remember how coffee from a 'real pot' even tastes.

Leaning against the cold steel, we sip our coffee and let our bones and blood come alive. He slips a gloved hand in mine. I smile and turn towards the west, gazing at the Rocky mountains that share my heart with this boy. I lean against him, skinny ribs and all, and I feel his lungs heaving up and down, sucking it all in.

It's not poetry, but it's AWESOME

Old Pieces

Beauty in Chaos

Snip
Snip
Snip

You skim stockings
hands trapped in scissors
scarring baby toes
piercing a brittle ankle
puncturing a cloudy vein.

You lick bloody sweetness
to my knees
nibbling at the junction
between
post revolution innocence
and 80's rebellion.

Metal along waistline,
you catch elastic
that turns to chain
my guardian angel's hand at my waist
breaking yours.

Snip
snip
snip.


***************

Skin

Skin against skin,
he breathes soft,
touches me.

My fingers
along his arm
playing him like a piano.

I trace shoulders,
he sighs
soprano.

Gliding mouth
from shoulders
through torso
to pelvis,
I curve like a guitar,
tongue
plucking hip bones.

High pitched
G force.

*******************

Mime In Berlin

I crawl through the crumbling ivy
that webs in the breath
of East Berlin.

The ground I tread
is charcol
smeared beneath
a dead sky.

I can't remember the colour of the sun.

I am paste
on a wall
my skin is stretched
across framework
in attempts of assimilation.

I can't remember the colour of your eyes.

My fingers are cold.
I am too brittle to dig
into the swell of your life.
I trace air instead.


*****************************

High Art

with sweaty palms
we dig into swollen bellies
hallowing out the past.

we are artists

with sharp silver
we paint pale canvases
with tainted blood
draining waste.

we are artists

with sleek spinning rubber
we smudge life
across concrete,
eliminating clutter.

we are artists.

**********************************

draft

my skin is thick with dirt
my tongue
a lump of sand filling a dry marsh

their bones are every where.
flesh still clinging to ribs
skulls
with jaws hanging wide
last breaths
taken deep
before their death.
*******************************

it's not finished, but I keep forgetting about it unless I actually post it.

Just a first draft.
But I wrote something.
*********************

Bloody leaves
of Japanese Maples
sigh and sway through the ocean breeze.

Heavy with rain and salt
they slip into the quiet folds of
gravity - the death of the dreamers.

Humans could only hope
for such grace
in the moments of decay.

To let

our tiny veins
break and spill into the soil

our lungs
breathe into the roots

of Maple Magick –
hungry for experience
and rebirth.

Today
the wind called me.

She found me
spread bare
on a slate of granite.

Her finger traced my skin
down my soul
drawing wings
from my spine
pulling me

to the North

The aspens swayed in my direction
Her voice
whipped through their branches


A love song

To the death of art and beauty.

This is for writing, and in hope that my deamons are dead.

Be patient, little sparrows. I am in recovery.