Through a glass darkly, the shadow cast by lightning, a penumbra of reflection, the sacred words and stories we tell that communicate and connect us with each other and isolate us from pure being and holy silence. “May the world be brighter for me, at least in those portions of it, where my darkness falls not.” Speak only in flame.
The restless road
Sighs and turns over
In her sleep–
My only bed partner.
The rain taps an inquiry
Or invitation at the glass,
As I sigh back in the
Language of streets.
I can’t love and
I have no one else to tell
Save this sad shell
of our remains
where once my heart sang
And still the echo rang.
“Faith in the king comes easily in lovely times,
but be faithful now and endure, pale lover.
No cure exists for this pain but to die,
So why should I say, “Cure this pain”?
In a dream last night I saw
an ancient one in the garden of love,
beckoning with his hand, saying, “Come here.”
On this path, Love is the emerald,
the beautiful green that wards off dragons,
I am losing myself.
If you are a man of learning,
read something classic,
a history of the human struggle
and don’t settle for mediocre verse.”
You walk into a room, and you’re like, “Something’s different. I’m in a different dimension. It smells so good in here!” [And then you realize] “Oh, David Bowie’s here.”
It smelled like if an ancient pine forest had a massive forest fire — but like, a month ago. So you get the new growth of the grass and the moisture, but still there’s an undercurrent of pain. But also of smoke, so kind of like marshmallows…? It’s powerful.
I spent hours dreaming of conversing with Bowie, but I will never know what he smelled like. I curled up next to a boy that smelled right to me and was able to share just platonic touch and breathing. There is a girl I love, but she doesn’t smell right to me at all. We are mammals, and I have more sense than sex.
you got a lot of nerve
defyn’ your old man’s word
blood on your boots
you got lust in your veins
Why do I have to be named for the mother of God? Why can’t I be named after a poisoner or someone more inspirational? I would suit de Medici superbly.
kept amongst the horseflesh–
you have an eye for what you like to ride.
something that kicks and purrs and moans
beneath as you straddle astride.
Does it matter if the tires grab the road,
or the hands grasp the sheets?
If the engine chokes or the throat is throttled–
if it’s the squeal of agony or rubber on the street?