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It is rooted to my teeth
                         my stomach
                         my nostrils
                         my nasal cavities

It rustles when I breathe in
It begs for more when I bite
It screams when I swallow

I cannot be your choir boy
And I will not kiss you
                   not today
                   not tomorrow
                   not tonight
I've now made it through my second semester of university only to find myself wolfing down an explosive, uninhabitable vindictiveness to quell the equally overwhelming emptiness that eats right back away at me.
I have 16 or so unfinished poems strewn around my notebooks. I'm hoping to track them all down and complete them here, and I am also hoping to be dead and gone sometime within the next 315 days.
Lying on my back in the sand
Dead fish flop desperately underneath my spine
Cold
Whispering
Corners of my vision
Taxidermied owl
Taxidermied swallow
Pinned Cicada
Etched with defeat.

Roar of the ocean
Flopping fish
You wave its fins in my face and
Run away when I wave back.
The eternally dry patch of skin
Right above your elbow

The creased duvet
A sea of olive silk

The toughest pill to swallow
Better taken by mouth
DO NOT BREAK
DO NOT GRIND
DO NOT TAKE MORE THAN ONCE IN THE SPAN OF 4-6 HOURS
Bright plum lips
Bitter to the taste
Soured and untouched
Sweetheart angel baby divine
Salvaged by time

A little bit of sugar
A little bit of salt
A little sip of red wine

Sweetheart angel baby you're so fine
Come on
Pucker up
Let's see you shine

Do you want her on a stake? A skewer? A fig tree?
See?
She can be yours and yours and yours and even mine

And she wants you so bad it hurts to breathe
And she wants you so bad it hurts to breathe
And she wants you so bad
It hurts
To breathe
Religiously, religiously, religiously
Purity is not
6 bedrooms, 6 bathrooms
Ants, in all of them

New sofa, new perfume
Still, I see the holes in the walls

Tall ceilings, silver spoon
Mildewy, a faucet that only runs warm

A carton of milk in the fridge,
Spilt over,
drip drip dripping into a sour puddle
it soaks through the floorboards
pungent, cutting through the air
I hear it as you hold the door open

Come again
But please,
Leave soon
Somebody get me out of here
Slats
planted in the sand

lashed together
with rusty wire

while scraggly reeds peak in out
And up around them

I am there and yet

I never was
More Imagism
Hamlet, sharpen your sword of trust, for Macbeth is surely waiting.

The specter of ‘Civil war’ stalks the land and the ghosts of senseless violence, so long docile, have come to hollow-eyed attention.

Our cauldron was filled with innocence, as the ever-thirsty succubi require, the glory of war is being shaken, not stirred and the betrayal will be served as quick and cold as steel.

#chefskiss
Inspired by Kurt Philip Behm‘s poem “Shiloh.”
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