No Use

Is desire such an empty thing?

Each time a star falls

it is greeted with a wish

and there is no end to the greed.

I am a window without resolution,

a door impeded and without passage,

a slide that spirals down into infinity.

If I were nothing would you love me?

When I am called to action

I find myself a mitten instead of a boot.

Were I to crawl I might find my dignity,

the shards of an ego gone circumspect.

Why do you look at me that way?

I am not a plaything, a secret

willed into existence

by a disreputable muse.

You cannot strip me of my roots.

My curves have worn me down.

I am sparse, thin in inflation.

There is no use hiding my face

behind yours anymore,

no use at all.

Together our skeletons make a nest

but it is without warmth

that we lie frozen back to back

facing our respective walls.

I keep catching shrapnel.

The wars we carry inside of us

are so easily misplaced

and I am tired of being a mark.

Six for Wednesday ~ 4


I drag my tongue
over your wreckage
over the salty fragments
of our would-be happiness.
There are only bones
rubbed free of their elastics
and blood bright as cherry pie.

I am swelling, disparate
the song gathers in my lungs
like a siren’s lament.
If only I could shake
this terrible indifference,
this aversion to all matters
of consequence.
The apples have not ripened
and the cupboards
are sticky and bare.

I mean to devour you
as one ingests air
without notice or consideration,
to take all that is impervious
and rend it like the excess that it is.
I will give you neither the luxury
of exile nor the catharsis of death.

Your tears are oracles
scathing and confrontational
through your scars
I am made whole again.
The stars are coffin nails,
thorns in ego’s crown,
marbles in a child’s fists.

If ever I had a wish for us
I dare not speak of it now.
The moon is queer tonight,
see her looking, see her limping,
see her passing behind
trees raw as widow’s breath.

Wordle #246


My mind is an unsettled custard,

undulate as an intestine

it flows as if everything

were expendable.

Your sick heart stands dripping

till the very last drop.

Pies, pills, pints of wax guzzled

until the corners split

and that old room-

tight as a thimble-

expands to a shriek.

I move in circles,

talking through sobs

and walls crumbling.

Only your face is familiar to me,

your soul is blank and arduous

like the tundra biome.

There’s nothing here for us

except for dust,

virulent and emphatic

a testament to surfaces used impiously.

How broken and resentful,

how sparse and cunning,

I cannot love you anymore.

I am only bones now,

my eyes, two hearses occupied.

Some tales must be prepared,

their endings hoarded

and rearranged for the ears of others.

I think my muse is mad at me for ignoring her =(


My pain is my pain

It cannot be overtaken

And though your words suggest

That it has no merit

I cannot rid myself

Of this ennui.

My openings are encumbered

And even in speaking

I am not saved.

It is inevitable that I am broken,

Nothing else makes sense.

As a child I was content

To be others, to pretend

As an adult I am unable

To maintain such pretenses.

I keep running into myself

Within others and it is she

That rejects me whilst

They pass unknowingly

Wordle #81

Week 81

I keep sugar cookies in a tin

By loaves of gasping letters.

Animal print scabs clutch

At my heart, scurrilous stamps

Ripped from the corners

And taped impersonally

To sheets of college-ruled paper.

A warehouse claws

At the horizon with its filthy eyes

And I think of you blinking

In distress at concessions

That no longer suit our needs.

I hate you, particularly myself

But what is the difference?

The rivets carrying my smile

Have rusted and my lips

Ground into a fermented pulp

No longer conceal the teeth behind them.

Your mouth objects like boards over

An unthinkable and terrible space.

There is nothing to be said or done,

Nothing to be arranged or emptied,

Photo Challenge #72 “Verge”

Alexandre Deschaumes

Alexandre Deschaumes

The Venusian wilderness

Becomes the lens through

Which all other lenses are cashed.

A cloak of stars, a prison of mist

A cruel black vacancy in

The nexus of my beloved spine.

Whatever the value of goods

If love lacks, poverty will follow

If you’re not prepared to see me

Naked than don’t stand so close.

A pursuit garnished but ill-favored,

A diaphanous skirt raging

Through snags of untenable wind.

Catch me if you dare

But be ready to suffer the consequence.




Artificial Thunder

There is nothing in the stars

That does not pass

From your exhalation into

My penitent lungs.

Unrecognized but for ink

I grow into the sheath

Of my incautious fears.

A weapon immobilized,

In a fount of slaughter.

Pain comes at the expense

Of life and in the exaltation.

These residuals, these eidolons

Cast into the borders

I haunt among them,

Manacles writhing like

Artificial thunder.

I roll myself out

My delirium, my flesh

Assuming your willing indenture.

If only I could forgive myself

As you have done.

Whatever the conditionals

My heart still gallops

Through the fire

Of our suspended rage.

Reconciliations that

May not hold but into which

We invest everything.

Wordle #69

Week 69

Your sluggish sockets tiptoe

Across the flagstones.

Face-down, tongue wadded

At the cusp of speech.

Your chitin flakes,

Messages ill-intended seep

Into your heart’s binary call.

Cruelty breaches and sickens.

Your jaundiced ego

Shrivels on the stalk.

Emanations carmine and ash

Drip from the bubbling curdle

Of your untenanted smile.

The hours reveal days

And even the day are long

When all that proceeds

Them is humiliation.


Wordle 204


Brenda Warren

Sleep stolen for the sake

Of wild beginnings

I arranged dreams for him,

Sculpted the clay of my flesh,

Spoke in burning tongues

About a life not even glimpsed,

For the keys are never

Far enough removed

From my fingertips

To facilitate such miracles.

My only power is instigation.

I am not even a person

Four-cornered, punched through

Like a time card or an used ticket

I float insensate between the ears

Popping from the bottle

With a celebratory smack

Whenever dying permits.

In hindsight love was impossible

Because right from the start

I felt it necessary to invent.