Spills

Sometimes the hard truths hit my head so hard all I see are stars — they’re made of platoons, full of clouds so desperate to be hurt by…

Tsunami Tattoo | Source

Sometimes the hard truths hit my head so hard all I see are stars —
they’re made of platoons, full of clouds so desperate to be hurt by me.
Maybe it’s then that I can realize what a fool I’ve been
& the fool that I so desperately want to become.

The backlashes of pain and lust and fright are all too real,
for the dreamer that never dreams.
& if he were to wake by his own hand, oh, how the ice would shed.
Infinite tears conjured like the dead stardust speak that drifts in and out
of mysterious waking moments.

Conjured like the dead like every athlete that’s pretended
he hated to kiss boys, when in reality he burdened at the sight
of having his lover screwed and fought by the war
against love.

Conjured like the dead — a thousand serpents holding oysters, pretending
that the pearls were, perhaps, so desperately searching for
in themselves, the dichotomy that could eventually save us all
from our own annihilation.

Conjured like the dead, how the corpses of every feather —
of every bird, would pray for the stars to wipe out the tears.
to wipe out the eggs,
to wipe out the intricacies,
to wipe out the maybe somewheres.

Would pray for the trees —
to burn down our friends inside the hamlets,
to burn down our lovers outside themselves,
to burn down the schoolteachers,
drunk, and in love.

How the corpses of every feather flock towards the kind —
as though they were the messiah forgotten,
as though they were the pariah latched in our veins,
as though Adam would shift weight underground.
And finish all the sons,
responsible for the womanly
counterpart of
lust & evil
conjured like the dead.

Oh heaven yes, oh heaven.
Hallowed names inside catalysts —
where we whisper false prophet into bruised esophagus,
where we whisper the burning sensation of teeth,
where the newborn infant falls from the tree.

And smashes himself into the pond —
composed of locust and lobsters,
blue as the moon and sour as the swamp
poisoned like islands
of china’s mainland,
poisoned like the education
of the poor rich child.

Where we whisper —
our prayers,
too scared
of what others might think.
If they knew we bore the
thousand-mile cross
not across our backs,
not across our chests,
not through our wrists or hands,
not across our foreheads.

But instead —
the minor yelps of the newborns,
would bathe us into a new found glory,
where we would roam free,
and screw and kill
so beautifully.