A little, little grave. An obscure grave.
a few words

I’m starting my poetry blog over again.  If you’re interested in following me you can find me as saltedseeds.


you can sew up your lips but I see slips between the seams, you’re no good with thread and needle and I’m great at tearing things.


oh, 
it’s trite to say “I love you” when we’re
both so good at feigning,
we are both
beautiful losers with our hearts
set on complaining and we’re better off just floating in this bind so 
unrestraining with our heartfelt set to stunned our love in all these empty spaces 


somedays are heavy the truth is

I’m hurting and long time been 

hurting the truth is I’m

self-indulgent

.

pain is the

cure is the

pain is the

cure is the drug that I’m into don’t

judge me don’t judge my intentions or

ways that I see it or

ways that I mold it in

my hands they’re my hands to hold out to

hold it out mold it and hold it before you and 

cradle the days that are

nauseating weak as

a stomach that turns all the

blackness I mold

inside out

.


now, now, now,

if i could give shape to the longing the 

shape would be

shadow of line in the

crease of the awning you

stretch up your eye when your

heart shivers right

next to mine and we stutter our

harrow to breathe now like blood

showing red on our sleeves.


Some other things I write too often:

smoke here is so heavy that it hurts my eyes to read and all the words are

poorly spelled

and some are compounds of a couple strings

of words

impossible to read aloud without a constant stumble

over crude

dyslexic text

the product of some midnight rambling.

has no plot or topic not

the outcome a complex thought

but trite and trotting on the spot

a lax and lulling burnout.


Today…

…I walk the bridge

unto expanded consciousness

with deliberate breath

drawn slow, deep and controlled until lungs are perfect full, then a

graceful exhale of everlasting even gales, the grandest winds

from deep within

the common soul.


face-lift

rigid and unkempt so a jerk with the feel of it

taught is the skin in the stretch of a face-lift the

horror of smile pulled back beyond jaw

bearing teeth like a beastly young

mammal in heat and

eyes pulled so wide the lids tear sockets pried not a

tear like “I cry” but the 

splitting of sides.


scrap

drench myself in sorrow this is my own

burden shallow but yet

deep enough to wallow in and not too thick to

swallow whole, ingestion I

allow and now knee

deep in this digestion steady process of the breaking down this

churning is too loud


excerpt from resolution.

The thought is fat and fuddled and it lolls about my throat and mouth but does not slip lip.  It grows and shrinks and twists.  My tongue is too thick and my lips are too swollen and though the words are little individuals they cannot escape.  They squish and slide through tongue and teeth until they are a sticky mass of sludge; my voice stalled by this mouthful of fat filth. And the thought, my tongue, it flicks and flops like a fish on dry surface, three feet from the shore.  It writhes with that same angry agony; the desperate plea of a failure when so close to vindication.  It is frantic.  It is pitiful.

And I am my tongue.  I am my thoughts.  Sticky, thick, frantic and pitiful.  I want to go home.


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