Oh, Poor House

This old house,
this old skeleton home
stands as cold as a gravestone.

I once stood warm in the middle,
on soft ground,
on proud carpet
and let the seams out,
unravelling my solid foundation.

My blood didn’t mix well.
It was dry gin,
a steady confrontation
within.

These old thoughts,
these moldy walls,
we’ve sunk deep.
It hasn’t slept since I left.
I chose to be deaf.

I chose this aloneness,
a silent voice sipping on charcoal,
dreaming about a house
that once was a home.

Oh, poor house.
Your empty threshold is tempting but,
now I know,
I have shed you,
and my boiling red blood has
calmed to blue.

I do not miss you.

I Am Part Of The Night

It is always the moon whispering
with foul breath to me,
while stars drip like bad oil
paint, chips in a perfect, black sky.

The sun doesn’t say anything. It just sits
in its place, waiting for the day
it can finally rest.
I let the sun go, on its own,
but I try to join the night.
I try to wrap my body, like silk,  around
time that sleeps,
that nods with my conversation
and smiles
in agreement.

We speak a language together, of
the deep ocean’s waves of regret
that cry into the dry sand of nostalgia,
creating mud of desire,
longing for its peaceful aquatic home
below the drama of tides;
of every shadow that
slices through jealous silence,
lonely crickets,
hollow frogs,
desperate bats free of their caves;

I will never be involved with a burning star –
I am part of the night.
I am a dead reflection of light
watching the world sleep.

Against Time

Dear Young Man,

I saw your skin smooth like the fountain of youth,
pouring down your river,
your delicate body of water.

Your body is a peach,
ripening,
a firm seed planted in your centre,
ready to harvest in the soil of fertility.

I once took your age and manipulated it.
My skin was an innocent organ,
but my mind played ignorant instruments
and I danced to drums,
too drunk to
notice hands like yours, trembling
down my back side,
searching for my treasure.

I was a golden egg, cracking over a camp fire,
cooking from the inside, out,  flirting
with the fruit of the Earth,

and now, Young Man, I feel naivety drip from
your skin, mixing with my worn complexion as
I grind against your skin,
searching for your core,
going back,
back ward in time.

Self-Reproach

She lived in a junk ocean
swimming
in the dark waters
of nostalgia

She gave birth to four babies
two in the spring
two in the summer
She tied
all four of them to Her gills

they were heavy
they pulled and tugged
on Her
making Her instinctual efforts
tedious

She never let a tide change
without
reminding
the
four of their weight
of Her struggle

still
She carried them
dragged them through
Her muck
strung them along
deep
in the dark
junk ocean

the tides changed
over and over

eventually
the four
grew gills of their own
weight
swimming muscles
and She was forced to untie them
still
reminding them of their weight
of Her struggles

the four stayed near
Her
eager to help
to relieve Her
of  the strain
they had caused

but no service
could mend the damage
done to Her
strained
tired
gills

the four
swam around the
shameful waters
drowning in moral
conditions
as the weight She
had been burdened with

slowly
slowly
grew in the gross waters
latching on
to the strong
untouched
gills
of the four

weighing them
down
down
down
deeper
into the dark
junk ocean
where
they surrendered in Her
waste