nighttimebeautiful

your spine in the moonlight, all bent up and creased. i line my finger tip with your vertebrae and you squirm away. the mountains wouldn’t impress you, neither the bottom of the sea. so nor will my finger tips setting your spine free. your eyes are green, sometimes mean, but they fill me with gemstones and coal dust.

i took a walk through rockway and thought of you today, the names of deceased on plaques under pine trees. marked with grateful words and sentiment, our memories will lay at our knees: on plaques under the pine trees.

yes, i am a creature of the sea, it's why the sunset follows me. oh dear, my dear, what you must know; the place i will drown is the land, but no dear no, not ever in the undertow. yes, the land has books and botany and bees, but i will only find home, find solace, by the sea.

the blue light of the bus shelter summons the ghosts inside you. the near biblical sound of snow; sleeping rain, shifting on the sidewalk. we take the bus when we want to drink or when we want to experience new people. we take the longest route home and watch the snow fall and the people talk. (grace me with a small plant that i can tell to grow and i’ll be happier than with a thousand dollars in a card.) and i take the bus to have silence and solace. gift me with a last-line bus ride at one in the morning and i’ll spill all my secrets. i’ll write poems about the snow and be grateful. listen to how an alone man sighs

i want to be buried near the water so when my skin is in heaven my bones can be washed to sea and i can sink to the bottom and feel the water between my joints and sleep in the darkness with luminance and life all around me.

the mermaids kissed under the stars in the thick black water. their bodies glowed in my eyes as they mingled and sang. sirens, singing me to sleep, to drown, in the never ending water. i could trace the stars with my thumb as they moved. (imagine, you’re alive for billions of years, knowing and seeing). the sirens sink to the deep thick bottom of the; river, lake, sea, ocean. their long hair sweeping their backs: burning their backs. burning constellations in their backs that i could trace with my thumb, nakedly, in the thick black; river, lake, sea, ocean, skies, galaxies. (imagine being alive for billions of years, until our galaxy c

you were occult to me, the fine line drawn between chemistry and fiction. because you read blindly, about how i believe in science, not god, and then the fog clears your head. i believe in the things i read, blindly. you were occult to me. you made me blind to what i read. i read the curving of your neck, the incandescent swoon of every curse you put on me. the things i read don’t exist anymore, they are past they are past they are past it is the cult of you,

describe the state you were in when you made me want you. use verbs. vivacious verbs in all the colours I love. introduce, comfort, analyze, reduce, substitute. these are verbs. i know that’s not how verbs work. but listen to me. you are somniloquous. you talked in your sleep. describe me and see how far you get until you start talking about me in your sleep. use verbs. weeping verbs that dream when they are said. the first two words in the definition of “consume” are to destroy. share, speak, involve, examine, consume, decapitate. these are verbs. describe to me what you were thinking when you said you wanted to take me so

i take my pulse every half hour or so. i listen for 30 seconds and multiply by two. to see if i’m dying. so maybe nursing school wasn’t the best idea for a border-line self-diagnosing semi-hypochondriac. but at least i know that if my respirations are less than 10 per minutes i’m dying. and if i don’t move around in bed i'll get pressure ulcers the size of a watermelon on my back-of-heels side-of-hands above-the-elbows. and at least i know the difference between the anterior-upper-lower-left-lobe and the posterior-lower-left-lobe and i know what kind of sounds they make when you’re dying. and at least i can

attic: the beautifully frondescent room around you pulses with my heartbeat. it’s colour is shiny and grave. the attic door, it makes me sit here and think about all those poems i wrote and the difference between the ones seen and unseen. i have a list of things to do as long as the hair on small children. you have to pay attention to all those books you have you have to trim the wicks before you light the candles you have to feed your plants because they are dying you have to sleep less than you do. just start with gaining trust and going to bed at a decent time. then it'll all be fine. but this room. oh god, this room. it's stirring m