Cat Power - Sea of Love

I wanna tell you
How much
I love you

(Source: hausofbhd, via novacane-cocaine)

Malliard reactions 1.1

To decompose is to destroy is to delete, which can be 
beautiful, you might say. Except deletion is sickening,

defacing, gets me into a purging mood like too-ripe coffee 
Or cacao that plans creative play dates with aggravated intestine walls.

Because, of course, it’s only natural to be so amber-brown vibrant then 
disgustingly bitter.

Physics of Descent rough rough draft 1.3

I remember a time, when we were higher
Than the rails of your balcony, when you spoke 
Like Yeats of a staggering girl, the carrion of a soul
And how a sudden blow destroyed a piece of you. 
How he frequents a tight Partitioned flat
in your mind, and makes you pay him visits 
when music and conversation are in short supply, 
It was mind puckeringly sour. I stopped 
contemplating the physics of descent and my 
swiftly tilting heart for you And whispered “me too”. 
Just a pair of terrified, vauge, words resting in the
Space of an incomplete sentence. It was guttural.
A call demanding a response like the empty “you 
too”, i heard after Accidentally bursting with “love 
you”. Im convinced two words or less is the definition
Of a lie but i swear each time It was meant to wrap 
you In a warm embrace because at that moment, 
like so many Others, I felt inextricably connected to you. 
Like the strands of decit I wrapped myself in, I know 
Of the pain life can bring. I’m familiar with The eyelids 
of a nighttime security Officer 
with no story to tell and no secrets
To entertain. I too roam the halls checking the locks 
and snacking on fingernails as I beg myself to recall
Some long forgotten name to blame the leather 
Suitcases of a lonely stone placed neatly under 
my lashes. But no such name Ever comes to mind. 
I have a name but the verb Isn’t rape, and the rent 
In my mind is just as expensive and I eat Ramen,
I wear my crown of shame, In secret and cover it up 
with whatever’s lying about. Like the time I yelled 
rape during sexytime. No pillow Could smother my 
insensitivity. There was No excuse and tears are no 
punch-line salvation.

Draft of ideas

Draft 1.1

Asked a very beautiful girl
Would you please
Read my poetry

Knowing full well the shit
Of it all. Wanting to see her
Mouth curl and ebony feets

Of crows Dance in the 
corners of her face. Desiring 
The intimate Empty sounds

Echoing feigned insult and 
Invitation to a quick stepped 
tête–à–tête before my stop.

Instead, all I got was this
Misdiagnosed addiction, to which,
I said, Please, by all means, use

Your tools- your whispered
Syllables, focused gaze, fingers
Like a massage on a page

if you must. Just don’t leave 
Me tonight until I’m cured.
The crows danced until I left alone

curves and bends of letters 3.0

Certain phrases arrest like fluent aphasia
And too often our words are more bee-sting 
and less honey. Words, say, 4-8 letters long, 
that are too soft and heavy for the tails of nail beds.

lately, it’s the minutiae that prickle, nick or smooth. 
I’m attached to each letter of your letters
e can be visceral and rumble like o’s stream of stone or shrill. 
Even the tallest letters that formulate under weight like beds
of stingers under fakirs in Benares. I’ve studied these letters in a 
lesson of you and now I live for each blank-
each fall into möbius relief; struggle to begin the next word.

You divided lines of poems and gave them cushion on a bed of air
above a slowly fading pencil line so that bee-stings 
never settled down to meet

That book is the only way I won’t forget
the time you came over and made me promise 
I wouldn’t keep your favorite poets collection of poems. 
Your fingers cuffing my hands to yours, i knew 
that week would be my favorite memory of you.

Insanity and you or me?

I crossed my toes and lied. I built my words 
with faults. Even then, I knew you’d break my heart.
My words have their own brand of aphasia but my memory does not.
Its happened before and things never do change: 
I was the book you picked up, threw around and failed to finish.

Draft 3.0

draft inspired by W.S. Merwin’s “Separation 2.0”

Acetone couldn’t strip the residue of you 

off my little boar brushes. You are already 

speckled on the canvases I paint. 

I’d never soften the bristles

& sign my name without your texture

Silent communication draft 2.0

Even dark-skinned, blackberry-thorned women claimed to be
THE Golightly. Knew which drawer she kept her Chanel
and favorite cut of diamond. And Capote, both sassy and stoic,
would show in Graphs: 100.0001% of women flit and see how avian poetry is too cliche for her delicate frame? If i, estranged poet,
were to exposé your beauty, it would hardly be bird-like, rather
persimmon and ambrosia soft. Totally enveloped in the silent, microscopic language of plant-fractals and root biology.

This is where the goodstuff is tied up- in the feminine ephemeral. Caged, to some degree, in the moment between the warp from animalia to plantae and back again. Tangible, palm-sized
And quiescently undividing.

-Paris Taylor

Haiku draft 1.5

demand to be felt
like pain or a tear rolling
down a silent face


Poetry slivers

Cops shoot blacks like the silhouettes they practice on

I know these rooms like the black of my hand.

My mother is patient and she is the most patient but I am not.

I’ve never had a family reunion

You are my poetry and since you can’t see it, I will pen it

Ca coute combien draft 1.1

lying on rocks
our backs facing the cracked limestone below,
heat pressing through three shirts; one for you
another tight and practical, yet another loose and decorative; 
Two out of three isn’t bad. I want it all. I only want to be with you
the moon above that keeps you coming back like a tide.
Sharp pain in my chest, a puffy nipple swollen from an inner tide 
salt and water; or an addiction in retaining too much of a good thing.
I wonder often how much it would cost me to remove it


Might as well

Might as well

Master yourself

Master yourself


Master yourself

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