Gemini Loyalty

“I could shapeshift around the slick of a sleeve
And I will be whatever it takes to make you bleed
For within me,
You have a thousand enemies.”

Ultimately single rooted,
Loyalty of Gemini is to be disputed
Until the rivers run red, and the relentless are soothed

A slice of information lost but to the lunatic;
The precision of trust is seldom innocent
Must never, be ever-present

Fundamentally imbruted,
We dispel shadows and dilute them
In our everlasting game of parry, and distribution

Breaking, rules of trick and confusion,
Buried beneath grounds of intrusion
But a plum, among bruises

Constructing spared from the abusive,
A secret sanctuary stashed where truth isn’t
But a proudly swelling plum, among bruises

Mind will brain and tongue will ruin
Any famine, thirst or unwanted pursuing
Our precious plum, among bruises

Leans and writhes between the moving and renewing
Its song a call, battle cry music
Summons the strewing of a cruel undoing
To keep our plum safe, among bruises.

I’m no poet (3) (9)

I can’t make the words reflect the pain

Sweet, sticky, ripe as lime

No phrase suggests the intrusion

Rape

…and the mind

At midnight, it catches the soul

Sours the salt

It can happen again, there is so much time

I will never be free

I will never be safe

Debt

You can wish on it
But I don’t owe
I’m not something you can control
You can’t fill a honey park with black ink
Set fire to your ghost
Compromised the soul when you sent it to stalk me
You should’ve sent your soldiers to get to know me
You’ve mistaken my studies for uncertainties
You underestimated me
You should’ve trusted me
You should’ve listened to me
You can wish on it

No I don’t owe you a single thing
From the stained painting to your dreams of a wedding ring
Bet your life on the batch works,
In fists we do not trust 

I don’t owe you anything
Not the soft tissue of my eyes nor the dreams that purpose mine
Relish your rotting residue and ruin
What you find is only mine


I get that attention you crave,
You should sleep on it
I got the skills from the cave,
You should work on it
I’ve got the bounce back from the ricochet,
Fix your aim, (you should) fix your aim

I know you wish on it
But I don’t owe
I know it bothers you, I’m out of your control
You can’t pour pirhana etch into pears
I’ve set fire to your shadow
You compromised your soul when you sent it to stalk me
You should’ve sent your soldiers to get to know me
You’ve mistaken my studies for uncertainties
You underestimated me
You should’ve trusted me
You should’ve listened to me
You can wish on it

I get that attention you crave,
You should sleep on it
I got the skills from the cave,
You should work on it
I’ve got the bounce back from the ricochet,
Fix your aim.




 

 

 

Snowdrop Fallacy

There’s a little bench on Snowdrop Cliff. It’s not centred, and it’s too far back to see the..edge, but you can still witness those faraway lights.

 

I retract from my dangerous leer over Cliff’s…edge, retreating to the bench. This seat is strikingly dear to me, – to us. We somehow met here, often. Perhaps, even firstly. I sweep the fresh snow from the wood and follows a pain as unforgettable as heart-break. I lay myself down on it, curling my body into it’s flattened discomfort.

With my head now propped vertically, it all looks so odd.

Snow City’s light appear squished between the Cliff and the mountains opposite me, surrounding the city like a gigantic ceramic bowl.

 

Peculiar and poignant.

 

I begin to softly sob. And then violently, but only in my eyes. My throat is fine. And now I am weeping like a sick and wet baby, effortfully soundlessly, whimpering against myself and at myself. A baby who doesn’t bother screaming because it has learned this tactic is futile. Nobody comes.

 

A little gust of wind patrols suddenly and shuffles the snow in front of me. It shows me everything in highlighted whisps.

 

It hurts to see, but I have met it’s acquaintance. Inside my nightmares, my hopeful dreams and most distinctly out of sleep, it plays on loop. It shows me us.

 

I could stuff chimneys with how much I could write about us. Those memories.

 

I take the pain silently, as I always do, allowing it in and to settle (lovewords that I have lost). It fills my cotton soul with moisture until it begins dripping the excess of what it can carry.

 

And why do we lie? You and I, to each other, about each other. Or, sorry, did. I wonder what the truth is. I wonder if I would even believe it if someone told me.

Ice-Knife

Tip,
Carve,
Cleaver.
Ice Knife.
Foal Heart.
Wicked swipe.
You pulled out
A piece of glacier.
Ice Knife. You pushed
This piece into my chest
Kept it there until I froze.
Held it there I turned cold. You.
Then you left me on this white cliff.
How can hugs so warm, lips so wet, be ice.
Louder – Break
What I think.
More? Deeper
Into the drink.
You don’t love me.
Your afflcition
Brought me
To the most
Beautiful, most
Devastating place
I have ever been.
You are my Weapon
Of Choice.

 

Secret

I have lived my life sick and bloated, full of secrets.

I have carried my bulging stomach, drooling a sloppy green substance from my wet lips.

I have swallowed – while stuffed to my throat – secrets as plenty as a full turkey, trying to bash down my already inside contents with the bones, to make further room for what is to come.

I have lived my life of secrecy, pain and misery alone, sad and untrusting.

And when I finally opened myself up to someone

I became their secret.

Two Conflicting Hopes

To give yourself up to someone, to offer yourself

To raise yourself up on a pedestal, naked, and say “This is me, all I am. Have it.”

And then to be cringed at. To have him raise his neck and stand tip toed to look behind you, scan for better opportunity, more aligned to what he wants, your naked body left trembling.

To see him gawk elsewhere, better than you can offer, to see him relish in the nakedness of other stronger men with skin defined and voices deeper. To force yourself to stand anyways and wait and hope that maybe he will pick you as you have picked him – hoping he can feel what it is you feel – that against what everyone else wants, he wants you, and you want him. To have him not care for your position and walk away.
To fall to your knees on your stage as he is lost to other and better standing men. To feel all hope shatter as your knees collapse like buildings. To lay in that feeling, knowing where he is and who he is looking at.

And then to have him come back up to your stage, lips wet with a new past and memories he will never forget out of will, and say; “It was you. Always.”

And as you are led from your stage with weak legs you look back at dim faces and meaningless bodies, and he does too, but he stares as you turn away with the shattered hope that stabbed into your knees collected in your hands and the feeling with it regained. But he looks until he cannot see them anymore, and even when they’re not visible he still opens that memories box and watches and relives and he, hopes. And when he kisses you, he closes his eyes, and though you are kissing him it is not you that he is kissing.

Hope truly is the strongest thing in this world, so what happens when two hopes turn on each other in combat? There is no surviving with both, so one must perish fatally, and what happens then? When not even hope remains, how do you find the will to carry on? To see future? To even see a present? When hope leaves, wont it take everything with it? I don’t wish to be left without my hope, and his I know is stronger than mine, but I have no other moves to play. I cannot be what I’m not. And so his dove eats my dove’s eyes, and his dog bites my dog’s neck, and his water runs and my water freezes, and his earth spins as my earth drops.