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Literature Text
your DNA remembers
caves AND stars
(bronzed pulse
skittish pulsars)
we're space starved
graced ungrateful
faith unfaithful
flesh postcards
comets recomposed
we're heaven knows
caves AND stars
(bronzed pulse
skittish pulsars)
we're space starved
graced ungrateful
faith unfaithful
flesh postcards
comets recomposed
we're heaven knows
Literature
existentialism and shoddy metaphors
I was violet-cheeked and
diamond-hearted; a work
of art in reverse,
tearing between my ribs
and calling it beautiful,
and I wonder now why they
never taught me this in school;
the sepia-saturated glow life
gives out some point after
you’ve realized wishes are
for those who’ve not yet
woken more alone than when
they went to sleep,
they never taught me all
the reasons why or that
sin tastes sweet. I met
my maker once in a backalley
bar, stormy eyes and peppermint
breath, charming off a hangover;
he sighed, “I know how many
days it’ll take you to give up
completely. I know how many
dreams you’ve sold away and
how
Literature
don't trust me
unhinged like a stolen
surge of ocean, I become
what your girlfriend thinks I
am: drinking alone, forgetting
your name until it flowers
from my blackberry throat
I wash my tangled
hair in your kitchen sink,
malingering
Literature
Constellation
She is dream dust,
too bitter or wise
for her own good.
A timeless dragon's soul
somewhere inside a
scaled shell, burning
the silence in her bones
alive, honeysuckle sweet.
She collects fireflies only to
set them free at 3am,
crying to an uncaring moon.
& she's begging for the stars
to take her away,
make this house a home
rigged in the sky.
To me,
She is already naked fever
swimming through the cosmos
& I orbit her.
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This is pure brilliance. I love it. We're space starved, we're heaven knows. Like. Like... Like! 
I'm lost for words. This piece feels slightly random, as in disorganised, but instead of it falling apart it reveals these thin threads that you've spun that - for now - I can see but not understand. If that makes any sense at all. It's like you've written so much between the lines that I don't necessarily need to see/read in order to see it or understand it. Really love this piece.
P.S. I make no sense. I'm sorry for that. But I really do love this piece.
I'm lost for words. This piece feels slightly random, as in disorganised, but instead of it falling apart it reveals these thin threads that you've spun that - for now - I can see but not understand. If that makes any sense at all. It's like you've written so much between the lines that I don't necessarily need to see/read in order to see it or understand it. Really love this piece.
P.S. I make no sense. I'm sorry for that. But I really do love this piece.