Societal Boundaries

Nothing sucks as much

as the day you relalize 

you're just another fucking 

statistic, 

Another blip of red on the chart, 

Another speck of dust in the 

eye of society, 

But fuck society, right?

What the hell do they matter…?

The Comfort of Christmas

My family sits around the
dinner table, smiling and laughing,
talking happily & regaling one
another with stories of holiday's past,

& I stand in the kitchen, a waft of
scents and aromas float in and around
my body, wrapping me as if I were in a
soft, fluffy blanket of joy,

& I bumble about, stirring,
pouring, chopping, & then,
finally, plating the Christmas
dinner,

We eat & they rave about its
decadence - I beam with pride,

& then we all sit around a Christmas tree
to listen to the tale of Christmas, baby Jesus,
three wise men, & a sparkly star one clear-skied
night,

That is always when the moment freezes,
right there, just for me - it stops - as if to say
"this moment will never happen again, so drink it
in while you have it."

& I always do, for the presents are appreciated,
the dinner was a success, but the real comfort
comes in having my entire family
around me - as if I were the most beautiful
Christmas tree of all - and so I watch them,
drink them in - because by next year - who knows
where life will have taken us all,

But in that moment - I am comforted

October Witches

We cackled like
mad matching witches,
drunken off of the sweet
insanity of our October wine
as it frothed from behind our throats
in gurgling shrill foam waves,

You always berated me when men
dare tread nearby,
I always chalked it up to
the Borderline in you,

Figured it was the scent
of your own mental infection
permeating through the
thick, mineralised osseous
tissue of your own skull

floating high to your olfactory
senses - the stench of your
brain's decay as it rotted in your
head - making you ill inside,

So it came as no surprise when
you challenged my femininity as you
were prone to do - & I suppose you
figured that since you were more
blonde & thin & tan than I - that
it was your God-given right, somehow,

But I do not think you expected me
to delicately place my wine glass - half full
on the table - collect my things & then walk
out of your life - slamming the door so hard
that the glass shattered in front of you,

I heard through the grapevine that you
became quite vicious after that,
but really - you always were...

Stokenham: First Impressions

     Stokenham, England: 

     You arrive at the train station, alongside your boyfriend who, absurdly, has brought you here to England. Foreign, yes. Beautiful, yes. Grateful, absolutely. But who would have ever thought? The train pulls up to a rickety station that looks salted with rain for the past, oh, five hundred years or so. You have seen more train stations in the past six weeks than in the past twenty-four years of your entire life. Before England you had never even stepped foot on a train. Now they are one of your primary methods of transportation. The other being by foot. But Stokenham, where his parents live, is far too great a distance to walk. So, the train. 

     Quickly, you gather your things alongside a handful or two of other passengers. You note, subconsciously, the garbled words of the train driver as he comes over the intercom speakers, mentioning something about a farther distanced location in the next few minutes or so. You don't really pay attention. Once you've grabbed all of your things you bustle (politely) off of the train. English people are strangely polite, and when you'd first arrived, you thought they were aloof, pompous, assholes - when really they were simply raised to mind their own damn business. Your friend, who had been here before, had to let you in on that secret. Otherwise, you would have likely gone the entire trip thinking "assholes" every time one of them passed you. Just out of spite. 

     You are greeted warmly by the kind smiles of his parents, who are, undoubtedly, lovely people. His father swiftly packs up the car in the spitting rain as the rest of you file into the car and then you drive off. 

     "I hate trying to get out of this station," his mother remarks, and soon, when you come upon the odd, noodle-y roads, you see why. You quickly note to yourself that, unless you have a baby, you will NEVER drive in England. The roads are far too difficult to maneuver for an American driver. At least that's what your anxiety riddled mind has decided for now. The thought floats away, though, once you see the rolling, patchwork-quilted hills, speckled with small white sheep. You fall in love instantly. In the background you can see the faintest glittering of the sea. You fell in love with the Sea in Paignton, which, he said was part of the original English Rivera. You had made a mental note of that because 1.) it sounded impressive and 2.) it sounded old and you, being yourself, love old things. The older, the better. 

     You drive deeper inland and find you are lost and don't know which way is up for the strange brush that towers above you. Something about vikings, his father says. They all make small talk amongst themselves but you are lost in a fairytale in your head and thoroughly enjoying watching it blossom into a tangible product before your eyes. You somehow feel as though you've been ripped from the hell that is your home in America and plopped, quite softly, in this delicate, pillowy place, suspended in a time that you can't quite put your finger on. 

     

     You drive around a corner and are greeted by a cheerful, pink house with a slate grey roof. To your immediate left is a large, old barn that you later come to find was initially for horses, but is now for storage. In front of it sit several dozen pots of various flowers and vegetables producing their last harvest in the final weeks of October. His mother mentions something about courgettes that had been overlooked and makes you all promise to remind her to collect them later. You climb out of the car, noting the scent of farmland and seaside, and look at the various trees, plants, flowers, etc. Just to the right of the barn is a path leading to the garden. The garden is enormous and reminds you of Beatrix Potters' fairy tales of Mr. McGregor's garden, complete with more flowers, apple trees, vegetable plants on their last legs, corn in the very back, and other odd flowers that you don't know anything about. You fall in love with it instantly. It's wild, relaxing in its unkempt beauty, and positively glorious. 

     To your right is the front yard, spare and neat. Bushes and flowers, but not as many as the garden reside here. You love the spacious feel of it in comparison to the gardens lushness. You will, one night, walk out with your Love and smile up at the sky to see a giant spill of stars above you. You will never see that many stars back home. The milky way is so vast and grand you could almost reach out and touch it with your fingers, swirl them in it's whiteness, and then lick the cosmos off of your fingertips. It will remain in constant battle for your heart along with the Sea. You don't think it's a war that will ever be properly won. 

     You collect your things and walk down the old, stone steps to the conservatory. No one you know back home has a conservatory. This one is special, though. You walk inside, it smells like apples and plant remains. Like earth-caked, rubber Wellingtons. You note that it is completely glass and that there is a beautifully spread white table set to your left and a shoe rack to your right. It holds hiking boots and wellies and strange socks and plastic bags. When you glance outside your breath is taken right out of you, for you can see glorious rolling hills for miles and miles. In the distance is a deep, blue haze that his mother says is the sea - but you can't see it for the rain. It will, as you will come to note, do that. When clear days come and there are only a few clouds in the sky - you will be able to see clearly, the white-tipped waves lapping on the surface of the water. Then on days when it's rainy and cool, the only thing you will see is a blue blur in the background and it will force you to focus on the gorgeous, patchwork hills that roll forever and ever. 

     They mention that England is not putting its best foot forward what with the rain and all - but you have no idea what they're talking about. You will never figure it out, not for the life of you. You have never seen anything so fabulous and you may never again - but who cares? You got to see it! You will, one day, sit out on that white table set and type about the house that you grow to be very fond of with it's sheep and flowers and unique smells and beautiful people. Or at least - the outside of it...and you will leave the inside for another day... 

Autumnal Reminiscing

I stare off into the distance, 

mind floating away from me 

like a gown unravelling - leaving 

threads to billow off on the breeze of 

an autumn day, 

& I think of you, 

I always do at this time of year

I believe, 

& there is nothing I could say that would make me

justify or understand my cognitive 

cycling back to you and our past 

days together, 

Especially since we swore to stay in Wonderland 

with one another, 

Never leave the other alone, 

But then when a yellow brick road 

miraculously paved itself 

before you - you clicked your heels three 

times and were gone, 

& I was still there with my Cheshire smile 

painted on my face, 

& though I tried to invite you back to 

a "better" and "nicer" version of tea - you 

didn't ever seem as satisfied as you did before, 

The teacakes were stale and 

the Earl Grey scalded the roof 

of your mouth, 

But we still tried to suffer through, 

did we not? 

Alas, the day finally came 

when the pages of your life 

and mine - were no longer 

written together as part of the same 

story, 

& so I ripped myself from the binding 

of your world to search for a new book 

in which to attach myself, 

& finally, all this time later, 

I think I have finally found it, 

& truly, I wondered if I would stay 

in Wonderland forever, alone, but no,

For it was not a yellow brick road

that rolled out before me but, rather, 

a red carpet, 

& somehow I became Cinderella 

and somehow I found a Prince, & yes, 

parts of me still wonder if I will be able to hold onto this 

or if I will slip back into Wonderland when the 

clock strikes midnight, 

But truly, darling, who cares anymore? 

Or at least, who cares right now? 

Not I. 

No - I am in Merry Old England, 

sitting in a house that overlooks the Sea, 

crusted with glorious, swirled red cliffs, and 

a shoreline dotted with tiny cafes that serve 

fish n' chips & tap water with no ice unless 

asked, specifically, 

& in front of that sits a patchwork 

quilt of fields, flecked white with 

tiny bits of sheep in the distance & 

apple trees & a kitchen hosting

toast & jam & bowls of fruit & jars of honey, 

Yes - you are happy in the Emerald City with 

the Wizard & I am happy as Virginia with Leonard, 

so really, we all lived happily ever after - & the teacakes 

are moist and the tea is fabulous... 

PTSD Nightmares

Madness knows me well 

& calls to me by name at night, 

When black velvet encroaches upon 

the lily white of me & rakes 

spindle-thorn fingers through 

my tangled hair - 

   matted with sweat from thrashing in my sleep, 

The salted drops of fear trace

lines through the remainder of my 

clown paint & soak the cotton 

pink of my night clothes

that cling to my skeleton, 

I am covered in the filth of memories - 

the ones that caused me to be 

this devastatingly sick inside, 

They have rammed their fists into my 

rib-bones with every flashback that is

played, facinorously, in my dreams - 

warping them with malevolent heat & 

melting my nerves to nothing more than 

a shrill scream resonating in the dark,

I would escape this fear 

if I could, 

But there is nothing that can 

save me from the repugnant 

stench of my own inner torment

as it burrows beneath my veins 

and drips from my skin-holes 

at night, 

For that is the worst and truest fear - 

the kind from which you cannot escape... 

Coffee, Cigarettes, & Whores

* This is a re-post of an older poem that I did back in 2009.

Red-tinted smiles,

Shot eerily over leather-bound love,

Can you breathe?

You feel the lollipop lust eminating,

So sweetly fraudulent from her candy lips,

Mezmerizing you into stupidity like the thought of your morning coffee,

So cloudy with it's addicting liquid reverie,

And tempting you now with her malicious adoration,

Strung so brightly above you like the array of holiday lights at Christmas,

You have become a junkie,

Lost in the motel-room of her embrace,

Empty-eyed like the other Washington Street whores,

You just need one more fix, right?

One more sugared-up, neon injection,

One more toxic acid rush flowing warmly through your brittle veins?

"Does she make you feel alive still?"

I ask you over coffee at midnight,

The little white clouds still astounding you,

But you ignore my plea for healthy sanity to bleed into your broken down mind,

You're lurking in love's graveyard, buried inside the coffin of her love,

Beneath the weight of her will,

She has broken you completely I fear,

Tumbling down, spiraling as quickly as a ciggarette burns,

You're all too happy to be blissfully lost,

As we chatter endlessly into the morning,

The feathery lightness of her fingertips seduces your mind,

So locked within the prison of your own heart,

I try in vain to rip the indigo sash from your throat,

Constricting your heartbeat to nothing,

I am too late...

She has captured you again from me,

One final time to my violent dismay,