The Beating

I see you in the bruises,
like galaxies
And I still taste you on my teeth,
blood plasma
and arteries
Clotting but not healing
My heart
And the beating.


My Baby

My Baby’s
playing in the dark again,
she’s got me soaking up the night,
submerging me in kerosene,
she’s got me waiting on her light

The Forest

We laughed in marvel at the dust between our toes
Heads thrown back in our hammock, dangling like pendulums
You said we wouldn’t fall
But I did fall
Into the sky reflected in your eyes, like twirling topaz
Glistening as we danced, danced, danced
Amidst electric trees
And I wanted to weave my fingers through
The spaces between your own
When we felt a celestial breath, like beating wings
That moment when The Forest pulsated
Within our flesh and bones.

Land Mine

I replaced his words with crowded bars
and empty promises with broken bottles.
This dulled out town is the graveyard for ‘us’
Another jewel upon a land mine,
but in a world full of places
where something has gone to die.
I’m just happy to have held onto something, so pretty.
The moment the blast scattered me into the sky.

My Apocalypse

My apocalypse boy,

You are the poverty
You are the poetry
You are the iron in my flesh.
You are the violent
You are the noble
You are the pandemic in my head.


There’s something so tragic about him.
She peels off pieces of her skin and he collects it.
They call him obsessive, its’ endless humiliation.
She’s as addictive as confession.
There’s something so dirty about him.
She eats into his soul like a cancer and he accepts it.

He Brings Her Flowers When She’s Manic.

He knows she’s not a Sunday afternoon;
With clean blood and organized drawers.
Her thoughts spin like fire poi
When no one else is alive or awake.
She’s his Tyler Durden,
Evolving and falling apart at the same time.
Deliriously in love with a world,
Extracted from a nightless sleep.
So he listens closely to her laughter,
Because it holds all her frustration and fear
He brings her flowers when she’s manic.

Thrift Shop Flower

There is a ship wrecked beauty about her
Rose petals caught in barbed wire

But she’s out of control
drunk today and hung-over tomorrow.

She only chases with broken sunrises
and gunpowder boys

She’s a thrift shop flower,
A formaldehyde girl.