Sadness Like A Syrup

And sadness like a syrup
Swiftly crawled to coat
The soft and sanguine walls
Of her unruly throat

Then beauty like a blade
Glinted in their gut
Reducing them to fools 
Begging to be cut

Sleepless sketch

Sleepless sketch


In Mortal Things

In mortal things
We dance and delve
And dull the pane
Of our whole selves

In anchored ache
We feign and forge
And pull the sleeves
Over our sores

We were conceived
Still, there we stay
In secret, screened

From cradle to casket
We cast our deceit
With slick sleight of hand
At cold, callow feet

And with the most
Eager of eyes
They gulp down and gorge on
Our gossamer guise

Take, eat
For this means my blood
Succulent sameness
Crude common cud

On high, elevated
O’er this lonesome loam
We sunder the semblance
In a realm where can roam

Our bottomless, boundless
Sempiternal soul
Our evermore ancient
Amarinthine whole


I am not lost, but
I am lagging
A snake, who knows not
How to run

Eyes by feet, on
A belly begging
For hands to hook
That sinking sun

I am not dead
But I am dragging
The carrion of
Stillborn babes

Breasts to breathe, but
A dry gut gagging
On rancid milk
And rotted faith



But the trenches are tragic
And hidden from eyes
Like those frightening fish
Who live where no light
Can struggle to reach
If it royally tried
Yeah all that they know
Are fangs and wet night

Babies and beams
And falling starlight
And the last thing he said
Was don’t try to write
Cause it’ll land in the trash
‘Fore it enters my sight
Yeah the trenches are tragic
And the bones are piled high

Like a mouth sore
The way your tongue insists
On rolling over it
Once more,  once more
Like a  napkin
Betrayed with berry blood
Requests to shed its rud
Again,  again

She dipped her hands in hearts
And drew them back with blood
A prince around her pinky
A thief upon her thumb

To blot them and to bleach
Their garnet guts she tried
But stubbornly they stuck
And like a lacquer dried

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; I am large - I contain multitudes."

— Walt Whitman (via michaellottner)

"You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that."

Edna St. Vincent Millay (via debourbon)