a collection of poetry i've written.
most of this poetry is considered incomplete. poems may change as i edit and refine them further. unlike the rest of my site, my poems are not to be redistributed in any way, including personal use. these are poems i intend to publish one day, and until then, i would like them to remain in the confines of my site. these poems are for reading, not for moving! i welcome and encourage feedback! especially constructive criticism! please send any thoughts to planetaryinfluence@gmail.com content warning: mentions of drug use, reclamation of gay slurs, experienced misogyny and become worse.
This is not the way to love myself.
How could I dream cimeras
and reject what's in front of me?
A quilt of every thing I've eaten,
patch here,
mend there,
sew a rectangle but leave a gap
to turn out.
Call me complete and I will be.
But isn't that just?
Optimism is flowing, a river
Lined in silver. It drips down my arms, through
My hands. I squeeze tight. Fingernails digging
Blood in my palms. I cannot hold it now.
My skin will not absorb the river that
I was once seventy-five percent made up
Of. When I lay in the dry bed praying
For the flood to come, do not pull me out
As I drown. There is a bright side there too.
When the wind parts left ways
and I can see the sea
I feel you in the clouds.
They part for me
inorganic. Bare innards raw
in half-mast blue.
I was a girl once.
Could not see past my arms.
Made choices on stars in childlike hope.
I hope that you'll forgive me
if I miss my chance to say good-bye.
I see her. Weathered as a desire path.
Every day she lifts the sun into the sky.
My brother and I bask and sometimes ask
Why it's not hot enough?
Her hands are burned.
One day she'll ask if we can lift the sun.
We won't.
But we might buy her gloves for Christmas.
10:17 there's a blue filter over the world
11:17 I love my city
12:17 I hope I can eat enough
1:17 but who is going to eat all this
2:17 I almost drown in water because my friend told a joke
3:17 in a room I may never return to
4:17 I try not to stare at people I don't know
5:17 but I love them so much
6:17 the world is indigo now
7:17 and so cold
8:17 I await love
9:17 while I give it freely
10:17 and steal warmth from another
I am acid. Unknown-shaped and sacred.
I am creeping, gushing, bubbling up
laughter that crawls your skin.
Crawls along it like rotting.
I am determination to deterioration.
When toxic waste clouds rain down
I am the sizzle on the pavement.
Should we fear that inevitable death?
I fear death. Goddess of eternal night.
They say no. Hold up those who don't as wise.
The Egyptians thought death as a party.
Breathed Her in during all stages of life.
Back then She was everywhere. Now She hides.
How does skin decaying feel? Aged with each
lightning strike of the clock. Old folk, with skin
thunderstormed, don't fear death. They welcome Her.
Like children spread open arms for mother.
Deterioration illuminates.
But what does it mean when I am just as
Capable of death now, as when I have
become thunderously old? That, I wonder.
Does the weather grow
with us, or is it in tune
with the way we feel?
Tears fall like clouds do
and when screaming is forgot
the thunder breaks loose.
The first day of school
brings rain because the sky mourns
summer, as we do.
And in the dead heat
of summer, doesn’t the wind
somehow taste sweeter?
Colours turn vivid
to a point the eye can’t take
when it goes inside.
They burst together,
to fog the vision into
greenness, redness, blue.
How long has it been
since you were in grass so long
you got to see it?
The tune of a song heard once and nevermore
Echoes to you dulcet, at twilight hours.
An overtaxed ghost who must keep haunting
Long after his names been lost. It may be:
A friend’s band played in a small bar downtown,
Caressed the vena cava, and broke up.
Or the song on local radio by
A contest winner, their name forgotten.
A popular song but a certain way,
At a talent show or a cover band,
Or a woman humming in line before
You strain to hear, at the grocery store.
Radiating tunes take refuge in you.
Can you hear them, even now?
Dainty. Pretty. Small. Long, manicured nails.
Fingers like this aren’t long enough to play
the piano. These nails too long to play
the guitar. Together, they are just right
to paint, to decorate, to scoop white bumps
for deliverance to a wanting nose.
Designer hands using designer scoops
like the models. Close to them as you’ll be.
But knuckles get hairy, we can’t have that.
Never on these dainty, pretty, small hands.
A song in the ears, languid, oozes into the unended worlds atmosphere. People walk by so fast they blur together, morph into each other, become one and individual. Every body in transit for some human reason or other, and I am a figment sitting there. A set piece. A singular grain in the film. Translucent. My brain catalogues their faces, captures them to use in my dreams. Eyes, lips, nose, the curve of the hair, the shape of the shoulder. In this moment the world is so beautiful I wish to cup it in my hands like a small, injured bird, and kiss it softly on the head. Kiss every bird, fowl and peacock and parakeet, and you, and you, and you. And you.
Is it when bestial waves brutally break
through gates tyrannical? Flooding off falls
to nourish roots that have not yet realized
their thirst oppressing? How divine water
tastes to those who have not drank in decades.
Gates stay tyrant, yet waves ravage restraints.
If broken, water cascades adagio.
Does not touch the roots but remains just that.
Falling, wanted water approaches (as
if to mock) but never fills longing lungs.
Catharsis keeps herself out of reach, danc-
ing the devils’ dance, manifesting in
quiet transfixed stares filled brim with feelings:
Desolate yearning; Opaque desire; Fear.
Callous and mazed in. Thought-waste creates a
desperation for nourishment that comes
without the burden of rag and bone. This
culminating need illuminates time
to shine as false stars; feigned light in the dark.
When exhaustion takes its place (as it al-
ways does - lapping, lavishing, loving the
sand until it becomes mud) strive for it
all-encompassingly. Beg tiredness
to bring grief with it, that bitter old friend
who drowns scarlet and burns cerulean.
If, then, you do not feel whole, shut your eyes.
Start new from step one, callous and mazed in
Water does not burn my skin.
Heat cleanses on burning thrones.
I may yet atone for sins not committed.
Tonight I will begin
Anew. Tidal-ing in ways the
Water does not. Burn my skin
With the brand. It is permitted.
Rebirth by ownership suits me fine.
I may yet atone for sins not committed.
If I could awake without the sin.
If I could forget that
Water does not burn my skin,
I think that would be benefited.
Freedom is another’s thoughts, where
I may yet atone for sins not committed.
For thoughts are made of ricin,
And my mantra is wicked:
Water does not burn my skin.
I may yet atone for sins not committed.
Moving like patterns in my mind,
you herringbone around the place.
The royal you. Some twenty or thirty or so.
I want to tell you
but the words burn out in my throat.
Love is hot and heavy.
Not in the harlequin way,
but in concrete.
It solidifies to stop
The growing nature
that dreams of decay.
Of a chance to break through.
One day I’ll sprout
through this thick pavement.
Give me time.
He must age. Experienced youth.
Created free-will without comprehending
The questioning it entails, as
You can’t know-all about what’s unexisting.
Anger rises like heat from an oven
When its mouth opens.
He takes green and punishes,
Locks gates, malicious,
And broods in His teenager bedroom.
Fatherhood delivers calm.
Adolescence awakens
On desire to say,
“It’s okay, if you were bad,
If you were what I have made of you.”
He may yet be that old man with the big white beard.
Or simply a single father:
disheveled, trying His best,
tie slung over His shoulder, sleeves rolled up,
And loving distantly.
The only way He learned how.
the little bird sits trustingly
inside the mouth of the big
african crocodile, picking
bits of wildebeest from in be-
tween its teeth. Yet the big
african crocodile never
eats the little bird. you say,
"it's symbiotic because
at the end of the day,
you feast on debris inside
my teeth and protect me
from defect."
i say "wow,
so you're a faggot, huh?"