incoherence is what you do to me

you invade my mind,
fuck this my mind is too incoherent
for comprehensible sentences
it’s all
cesare cesare cesare
between litanies of et in arcadia ego
and tremens factus sum ego
(insert adjectives that... well, insert verb)
no no i don’t know what i’m saying
because he’s not pretty, he’s not
he’s dark and he’s morbid
and god you’re so sad why’re you so sad?
you know i love sad men
and say it, say it once more, twice more, thrice,
a thousand times more
say "i'd die"
because you said it with such calmness,
such matter-of-factness
but you’re no monster, cesare borgia,
are you?
only you must be, to prowl in my head all day
and consume my thoughts all night.
you must be, must be,
cesare,
eleison.

dear cesare,

nessuno.

I am nobody, you said in that sad sad tone
I am nothing, and the way you said it, the stars would
fall from the sky from crying too hard, all the while wiping stellar-snot
from their coruscant faces.

I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t reassure you,
wrap my arms around you and negate you
because you are. You are nothing.
You are conspicuously, unapologetically
non-existent.

And when I turned around to face you there was only
the enveloping darkness - that
and the unbearable, unforgiving coldness
of loneliness.

i love you as certain dark things are to be loved

i cannot write poetry about you.
you, whom i’ve known for all but
thirty-five hours.
but these were hours of lust and desire and
covetousness and these feelings
are my dearest, most loyal friends.

so i said, between swoons and sighs,
my heathen, you are dark tonight;
you are black as your heart, black as your pitiless eyes
burning into mine
as you grind me - oh grind me to dust,
to small particles of nothingness
yes, nothingness,
for ever and ever,
amen. (for you love that word, do you not?)

libera me, domine, de morte aeterna,
amen.
always these words, my heretic, my darling,
my cesare.
are you that afraid of the eternal slumber?

i cannot write poetry about you,
because the thought of you renders me febrile,
and words and coherence elude me.
and only your apocalyptic latin hymns
will soothe my feverish soul.

Haiku Love Story

I've been sucking on my thumb again

Sleeping

Trying to remember you. 

why i do not hate cersei lannister as much as i should:

This (and more) Will Explain Why I'm MIA

I really shouldn’t be here because

My ass cheeks hurt

From sitting too long in this

Plastic chair that I should

Never have bought.

She told me so

And I imagine the blood

Clotting in my ass, as

My weight presses down on it

And the cells scream for oxygen

The way I scream for you

And for ice-cream
And my eyes scream
and my eyes cream. 

But I can’t

I can’t get up

Because I have two and a half more

Chapters of anthropology to study

For a midterm that is

Too close for comfort.

And still here I am

Writing about things that

Make no sense

And too-intimate details

About my personified ass.

Happy Birthday, Armand

you are an event horizon,
a perfect black body
of gravitational monstrosity.
and i would never
be able to escape you.

you are a stellar black hole,
into which i
                     fell
               and
                          f
                            ell
and i'm
             fa
                 l
                     l
                  i
              n
                     g still.

i am alice spiralling into
a twisted dream
from which i'll never
wake.

you are the arcane, impenetrable fissure
in the spacetime continuum.
trapped in you,
i was ripped into shreds but
upon reaching
spacetime singularity
i have transcended
universes.

A Song of Marrows

i break your bones for breakfast

snapping into thirds your

fragile vertebral column.

i name your cervical vertebrae mary,

draw a pocket knife

and carve on it my name 
and words that i've never gotten around saying. 
S-O-R-R-Y over and over again
until the words overlap each other
and my fingers are coated with a fine layer of your
osseous dust. 

i name your thoracic vertebrae susan,

kiss it reverently

and burn it in a sacrificial flame.

the smoke curls smell of winter and faded dreams and
long hours of crying late into the night when
you thought i was asleep. 
i keep the ashes in your vintage
lidove umeni matchbox. 

i name your lumbar vertebrae katie,

braise it in pinot-noir with a dash of paprika,
whisk olive oil and capers and shallots
into the wine reduction. 
drizzle it lovingly over the crevices of your vertebrae

and suck the living hell out of

you. 

your kyphotic sacrum sits on the table

beside my bed 

because i am now alone.

Down the Rabbit Hole

This is one of those nights when you wake up groggy and disoriented and everything seems so distant and faraway and you find that you’re in the midst of giants. Your entire head vibrates excruciatingly as their thunderous footsteps make contact with the ground, one after the other, and the nerves in your temples are throbbing so vigorously it’s a wonder they didn’t explode into a mess of blood and capillaries. The giants are all around you, talking and laughing and occasionally one steps over you delicately - but other than that they do not seem to notice you. You’re watching them with disinterest until one of them leans down and grabs your shoulders and shakes. Hard. 
 

“Alice,” the giantess shouts, “Alice, get up.” 

I blink once. Twice. And my eyes begin to focus on the face inches from mine, her eyes wide with – what, fear? – for that few seconds until it is apparent that I have not overdosed and am still very much alive, thank you very much. 

“Tara,” I croak, “water. Please.” I’m still lying pathetically on the floor – which pretty much explains the roomful of giants.  

“Jesus Christ, Alice, are you trying to kill yourself? How many goddamn pills did you do?” 

Tara licks her red, red lips, livid; and I say, “enough to go to Wonderland”. 

Wonderland, where all sorts of magnificent creatures – gryphons and unicorns and even mock turtles (which according to the Queen is what mock turtle soup is made from) dwell. I want to tell her that it was a place where animals talked, like in Narnia, and they sang rhymes and had the most outrageous croquet games. I want to tell her that there was a Queen of Hearts, who was pudgy and rather stout but oh, how she loved having people’s heads cut off. “Off with his head,” she would say, “off with his head” because she liked the way it sounded, “off with his head” because she can. 

I could stay there forever because they were all mad. Everyone was mad and no one cared that monsters live behind my blue irises and my teeth were stained with blood. The Duchess served me soup with too much pepper and put a baby in my arms who turned into a pig. I didn’t want a pig any more than I wanted a baby so I slaughtered it and made a pork pie. Everyone at the tea party enjoyed it and the Mad Hatter pulled me aside and told me it was the best he had ever tasted and he kissed me but his mouth was full of porcelain chips and they cut into my lips and my tongue. 

Only the unicorn saw me for what I am. “You’re a monster,” he said but he got into a fight with the lion over the White King’s crown and died with his flank torn into ribbons before he could warn the others.   

“I was in Wonderland,” I repeat.

1001 Arabian Nights

i sometimes wish i was born in the desert sea,

under the harsh, unforgiving glare of the sun, during

the worst of desert storms.

i dreamt of rising like a cobra from the ubiquitous sand,

with the trickle of golden grains sliding down my body.

once i was a king

but that was before caesar.

theirs are a tongue i would give anything to speak.

rich and thick and creamy like the scented cones propped

upon ancient egyptians’ heads they rolled out of their mouths

like a lullaby.

even the words smell like

za’atar and cumin and cardamom.

the evening air tastes like baharat and the waning sun.

they say that only the strongest survive

but what is never born

may never die.