BROKEN OPEN

seventy jagged beats
per minute,

convulsing sinews
responding to:

the surging in,
the letting out,

the sinking
beneath new skin.

I have been broken.

I have been taken
to another plane
where love
is made from
quicksand

and all bleeding
fades

unless platelets
are so filled with
life
that I can taste it.

I have been torn
open.

I have spoken
of deadness,
lived it,
until its familiarity,
our intimacy
can only be reckless
now.

these are my choices
made.

I know the void
and its beauty
will always hold me.

I have been broken
and the clawing at my veins
becomes inane

and all the hoping
I’ve rested upon
removes its presence
from my day.

there is
no
more
hoping –

I have been

broken

open.

BATLESS

I have a new core
one without bite marks
that facilitate
the toppling over
of my internal structure
by breath of
derelict
essence-faded
bats
swimming in
the dark.

WIRES

If I compare what is
to what ought
to be
of course
life will be a bludgeoning
of wiry strands
moving out of
my cage
with no hope
to correct it.

OUR SPACE

avoid me
for the syllables
that slip off my tongue
into the face that holds
the baggage
that invades my space
 
remove
your backhanded
ignorance
when another’s point of view
is publicly conveyed
to you
 
continue
to protrude
into grey coats
whose inhabitants are more
appropriate
and whose voices
are strangled
by the belief
that vocal chords are not their privilege
 
avoid me
for the challenge
I present
for the resentment
your fragile
docile
sensibility cannot accept
 
remove
my blood-red orange
silhouette
from the central concentric
arcs
closing in around atrophying
pupils
 
we continue
to move
our weary irises
out of view
 
but I
can fucking
see
you
 
(it’s just like
looking
in the rear-view)
 
and the baggage
 
that invades
 
our space.

THAT FUCKING MOON

The gravitational pull
of the moon
drags every single broken,
blackened shard
out
from my tightly sealed chest
and thrusts it into view.
 
I stare
watching as the sun goes down
on my parade
awakening to the finest details
of my perceived wreckage
as I pick apart
my daily charade.
 
The stimuli before my eyes
is unseen
since forms and sounds
are concealed
by smoky movements
reminiscent of inadequacy.
 
This is not a reflection of me.
 
This is not who I want to be.
 
I drown it out
by letting it consume me
inch by inch
but keeping my core
untouched.
 
Its fickle reasoning
is easy to dupe
when I know for certain
that my essence is enough.
 
The gravitational pull
of the moon
drags every single broken,
blackened shard
out
from my tightly sealed chest
and thrusts it into view
 
and I stare at it.

CORPUS CALLOSUM

fuck perfection
like a hole in my skull
if anything makes me dull
it’s sewn lips
and neural fibres
that split
 
create as much noise
as bad lighting suggests
infect the output
with acuity
and wit
 
subjectify subjective
experience
with delirious measures
exhuming long-held
treasures
 
that we all thought
were dead.

TRANSFUSION

returning
feels like slipping
into a warm bath

the left brain
no longer
neglected

transfuse the love
of wisdom
into my veins

they have been cold
without it

permeate expansive
notions
throughout my brain

for it has reached
a wall.

MIRRORS

It’s all mirrors –
whether I crawl
scraping bones exposed
clawing submerged shards
 
its reflection
still projects
me
 
whether my crown
kisses the clouds of intimacy
sees fiercely real love
staring back at me
 
its intention
still connects
me
 
and when sorrow’s
black wings spread
soaring away
 
transmuted from
the choice to feel into decay
 
to the recognition
that there is another way
 
all of my fibres pray
 
each inch of life
inhabiting this vessel
ignites
 
lights up the bodies
suspended in my sky
 
remembers there is
no such thing as
the things that are outside.
 
It’s all mirrors
in this place
 
just mirrors.

BLANK

Blank slates stretch across
where obstructions once lived –
augmenting the scenery,
nullifying the voices
of the dreary and dead.

This fogless day peeks
at the way nothingness unfolds –
there are no proposals
and expectations
built beneath its glass.

Penetrate my pristine pupils
and tell me what they hold
for it is now that I do not know
and now is all that can ever be known.

Desire died when frenzies lifted
their cemented lies
leaving only unutterable questions
and cutting into bones.

Consecrate my monotone way
as though silence is all I have to say
as though absence is the price
that presence has to pay.

Offer up chalices of time,
conjure my flesh to be bare –
reminiscences of the one grand, flickering design

how can I be gone
when I wasn’t even there?

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