artefact 897

artefact 897

seas of glass and broken tides
the blood that pumps behind your eyes
the curses spat between your thighs
while you sang such sweet lullabies

torn apart vicissitudes
pain in volume’s magnitude
turkish market Prostitutes
could not complain of such abuse

the fiber of your spinal cord
entangled tight in whip and lace
what held us here or in that place,
let loose to fall,
like ancient leather.
Lost to time,
my broken treasure?

union square

hotels and tourists
trolleyspotting,
a girl alone
trackmarking,
smiles.
you’re so handsome,
she says.
lonely
worn
soft
black skin
still
beautiful
sad, saucer eyes
waiting to be judged
for those scars,
the tracks
the copper moons
she knows I see
as she ripples on the wave of tourists
who came to look for something
once beautiful,
only to walk right past it.
So I took her,
my beautiful shipwreck
in placid seas of pretty tourists
and I led her away.
you’re so handsome,
she said.
I left her
at her salvation army,
walked away
past the homeless shelters,
around the corner,
up a block,
past a parked ferrari,
past the tourists
going nowhere.

unionsquare

no more poetry

circulatory subway map_image_531502111843035769745

hands on my weapon
dirty AWOL veterans
making deals with thieves

wait for violence
feel spontaneous
excitement
enjoy it
while it lasts.

when the knives flash
it becomes pointless.
dull.

go home, have fun
until someone gets hurt.
even better,
hurt harder.
we’re in a lull.

plan for action
fall asleep
in bliss or boredom
feel sorry
for nothing.

hard green eyes
fragile subway maps.
sunlit daydreams.
bound and beautiful.
tied to something, someone, somewhere.
it’s not enough to be alive.
i agree. so,

no more poetry
we’re cynical together
we shot up our dreams

dry tears and daydreams

eyedrops

castles in the sky
built on dry tears and daydreams
raindrops on the sand

lying in the sun
cold skin, bikinis, warm sea
clouds and our secrets

veins like brittle trees
make me dream of yesterdays
the sound of crickets

all night I tremble
reeds on ancient battlefields
Years pass like shadows

you miss the beauty
gaze at your own reflection
koi glide through water

lives I lost and found
always changing nothing yet
somehow still alive

I listen for you
to cup your voice in my hands
on dark starry nights

run away with me
promise I’ll never love you
double suicide

collapse into her
goodnight my sweet prince, she said
warm and safe again

Junk Romance #4: Nicole

“A mild degree of junk sickness always brought me the magic of childhood. ‘It never fails,’ I thought. ‘Just like a shot. I wonder if all junkies score for this wonderful stuff.’” 
-William S. Burroughs

True junk romance is to be totally alone, no matter whose eyes stare back at you with desire.

Relapse brings back the dreams. Withdrawal brings back the yearning. I can feel her calling, her shiver down my spine. We’re addicted to the withdrawal just as much as the high. The relapse makes the agony of her withdrawal worth every second.

In junk dreamtime, she teases me with visions of the ones I loved enough to pose a threat to her. I fell in love with her at first touch. She’s jealous because I fell in love with you at first sight.

I can see your brown eyes staring into mine in that fluorescent room with grey carpet and old computers humming to the drone of a lecture by a woman with an ironic obsession for Robert Carlyle. She can put me there with you right now, years ago, forever, some day soon. Beautiful with your short brown hair and olive skin, your elvish smile, your eyes never too coy to draw away from my gaze. Do you still exist? Will you ever? Junk makes time travelers of us all and gives us scattered dreams where we had lives as smooth as ravens’ claws.

I used to believe in love at first sight until I met her. She taunts me with your ghost and I’ve lost everything but your eyes. Dark eyes that stare into my empty soul. You’ll never exist again at seventeen, in this moment or in my collapsing future. And she’ll never let me go. I’ll only have your eyes watching me from the past, a cruel gift from her as she waits around the corner and in the dark alleys I’m drawn toward as I’m pulled away from you.

brown_eyes

isla vista

Elliot-Rodger

“After a shooting spree, they always want to take the guns away from the people who didn’t do it. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to live in a society where the only people allowed guns are the police and the military.” William S. Burroughs, 1992 (yes, I’m aware of the irony).

control your gun.
no tongue
no touching
control your love
with a bullet.
let’s get trigger happy
together
send flowers
to your funeral.
send bullets signed:
sincerely,
the end.
(of you)

Wait.
17 minutes.
quiet. there.
someone just got shot
to death.
black kid probably.
not a person of use
to gun control advocates
NRA
feminists
his name
won’t be
in the papers.

don’t want to
get shot in America?
carry a gun at all?
(times)
never leave home?
(without a IIIA vest)

all Japan is an island.
an unarmed society
is a polite society.
the police carry
batons.
the criminals steal
bicycles.
totally implausible
you’d be shot.
maybe
groped.

if you want to feel
so safe
in America,
you had better start building
walls
writing
new constitutions
get better
police.
end poverty.
end drug wars.
well,
you know
that’s a lot of trouble
and you have
so many guns.

you could try asking nicely
for the police,
when a gun is aimed
at you.
they’re over there
busy
writing
parking
tickets.

maybe you would like
only criminals;cops,
to shoot people?
wait til you get shot
by a criminal/cop.
i won’t tell you
i told you so.
when you then buy a gun
or move to Japan
where you won’t need one.

Shakespeare on Heroin

Featured

Newly reformulated and cut with iambic pentameter.

Relapse Day 7: Bad Scene, Act I

To use or not to use, that is the question—
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The stabs and shots of outrageous misfortune
Or tie up Veins against a sea of troubles
And by injection, end them? To dream, to sleep—
Ever more; and with a shot, put to end
This Heartache, these thousand unnatural shocks
Our brains are heir to? ‘Tis a preparation
Devoutly taken. To walk the world asleep…
To sleep, perchance to Wake! Aye, there’s the rub,
For on our heroin, what life may come,
While we flee in disdain this mortal coil,
Must give us pause, despite all the Thoughts
That make Absurdity of waking life
For who would bear the stripes and bars of time,
The prosecutor’s wrong, the social scorn,
The pangs of junky love, the Law’s decay,
The insolence of officers, all spurns
The world merits but we are forced to take
While we ourselves might our quietus make
With a bare syringe. Who would these troubles bear,
To grieve and sweat under a broken life,
But that the dread of losing our escape,
From sobriety, that unsought country
Travelers avoid return to, slows our Time,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than withdraw to a world we care not for.
Thus Suffering does make Junkies of us all,
And thus the golden rays of opium
Are sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Dreams,
While enterprises of great pitch and moment,
Are tossed by Time as currents turn awry,
And we yield to Inaction.

Original free verse:

To use or not to use, that is the question—
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The pains and miseries of outrageous misfortune
Or tie up Veins against a sea of troubles
And by injecting, end them? To dream, to sleep—
Forevermore; and by a shot, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand unnatural shocks
Our brains are heir to? ‘Tis a preparation
Devoutly to be taken. To walk the world, asleep…
To sleep, perchance to Wake! Aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of heroin, what life may come,
When we have shuffled away to deny this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Absurdity of so painful a waking life
For who would bear the stripes and bars of time,
The prosecutor’s wrong, the society’s scorn,
The pangs of junky love, the Law’s decay,
The insolence of officers, and the spurns
That society merits yet we are forced to take
While we ourselves might our quietus make
With a bare syringe. Who would these troubles bear,
To grieve and sweat under a broken life,
But that the dread of losing something in our escape,
From an unsought country, whose sobriety
No traveler wishes to return to, collapses the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than withdraw to others that we care not for.
Thus Suffering does make junkies of us all,
And thus the golden rays of opium
Are sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Thought,
While enterprises of great pitch and moment,
Are lost to time and turn awry,
And we lose ourselves to inaction.

Junk Dilemmas: Day 739

I feel like I’m fading away….

I cannot resist turning back to watch my own once-precious skyscrapers collapse into crystalline forms and shift in dimensions with the phases of the moon. The past is so alive and present, even rendered unto ruins. It’s not easy to let go of what’s lost when your future is buried under the dark debris of memories of what might have been. Death doesn’t lie in the future. Death lives in the moment. She whispers to you in the hollow places between unspoken words.

We all live in the past, with the present unfolding before us like a tapestry of promises woven from our dreams. But the past is a sandcastle made up of ashes and bones. Perhaps there will come a day when someone will appreciate my ancient ruins; stop to stare at them in curiosity as I stopped, once, to stare at the fresh grave of a soldier. I wanted to escape death, so I willed life to stop. On the edge of time’s glacial black abyss, I peered over the edge and—

Black_with_White_spot

Time is not a river. It is the horror of the singularity within a black hole. Forever destroying, forever fleeting, in the darkness and the silence of moments we cannot comprehend. This momentary abyss shatters everything around us, every now and every then and all forever. I can only look backwards to see the future before me. I want to escape it. I will it to stop. On the edge of time’s glacial black abyss, I peer over the edge and—

I won’t resist turning back to watch my own precious skyscrapers collapse into crystalline forms and shift in dimensions with the phases of each new moon. The future is alive, even if the past is rendered unto ruins. It’s not easy to let go of what’s behind you when your past is right before you, buried under the dark debris of thoughts of what your life could be. Death doesn’t lie in the past. Death lives in the moment. She whispers to you in the hollow places between unspoken words.