over dramatisation...some times u just write...

everytime
i inhale my stomach turns
it screams as cats on traintracks,
i test myself.

i admit, if only
in the seclude of my room
by smoke and firelight,
i like the illness.

i look interesting
a little off colour,
pale grey thin
and yellow teeth
and hands of ice
and white dotting
my future.

these hands that shake
after too much or too little,
pick at any loose spots i can peel,
nod knowingly to anyone
with homemade pimples,
a gaunt kind of
bittersmile,
caloused thumbs,
shaky hands.

strange obsessions
and word games
learning new things
about the same thing
challenging trusts
with a wavered balance
between paranoia
and selfishness, need,
human nature.

attachments
built at the wrong hour
under the pretence
it is different.


a friend once asked me what ice was like
and i said its like life,
and i believe that.

for nat...

a beautiful friend of mine
who i dont tell
i love enough
you and i both fall in
to unforgiving
self proclamations of
loathing
and waiting, weighting, waiting for this to stop
darling.

i dont think you ever get over it.
like alcoholism i think it is a disease
to carry
in a matching carry on bag
and you do so well.

there is so much more
to
let your many miles a minute mind
rest on something else
that doesnt leave you
over a toilet bowl,
starving for real.

x

crack poems

I am better
crazy
in that red
on cars.

I understand
the path
my mind wanders,
now I am dead

space.

----

sweet kiss,
more than
three-day-wake
breath.
her sour
under tow,
second hand
smoke
in my room.

----

I don't think of him
as my ex
I don't think
of him. He went
to the farm,
plenty of room to run around
and decide
who we are
for each other.
Room to breathe
and embrace
and forget.