Passively
Penetrate the Deep-Down Dark:
What I was, Had, Wanted.
Forked tongue, Two faces,
What a liar.
Unwilling participant,
Or some kind of Doll.
Degrade me. Cut deep,
Reach bone, Go farther.
Leave me desecrated,
Holy site no more.
No one else can have me.
Carve your name in
For good measure.
Didn’t even Say I liked it –
I didn’t even Lie.
Name yourself “God’s Gift”,
Self-absorbed Piece of shit.
Baby Boy tired of his Favorite toy.
Used it ‘til it was Nothing
Just to throw It away.
Pleasure, pleasure,
What a Hedonist,
Guess this Fleshpot
Just didn’t quite do it.
Did you Have your Fun?
Did you Get your Kicks?
Was I what you Wanted
To embed Your Self in?
Did you leave Your Mark?
Am I just Your Whore?
I gave It up once,
Lost it forever. More.
You Want More.
Want to tear off Pieces
Even when I’m Gone.
You’ll Never be Done.
I’ll always be Numb:
Dully Disappointed
By this Turn of Events
Because I’d thought I Lost
Every Thing, then you Took
A Whole lot More.
Self Portrait
I’m a bloodsucking, flesh-eating creature of the night.
I love a jet-black vintage car, real sexy.
I’m a filthy, disgusting, anti-American commie.
I’m the slime creeping, oozing into your peripheral.
I’m starving and absolutely insatiable.
I wanted to be a fag ever since I was a little girl.
I’m frenetic and jumpy and I look like a bulldog.
I’m agnostic but I am so in love with God.
I am infantile and perversely negative.
I’m a lipstick boy, dirty numb angel boy.
I’m holy! Holy! Holy! and I am howling.
I am so ugly, you’d hate it.
I am rebellious and ungrateful of your love.
I’m seventy-two percent water, maybe fifty percent girl.
I want to boldly go where many men have gone before.
I look awful and it’s great.
I’m an Andean condor, black bear, mountain cat.
I am petitioning the lord with prayer.
I am a knight’s shining armor, exoskeleton.
I am the night’s shining amour.
I write pathetic, faggot poetry.
I don’t know any of the words I was made from.
I am the son of a Murakami mother.
I have been killed several times, publicly.
I feel my body come to an end; my mind is so clear.
I know there is nothing left here for me.
I carry a body on my shoulders everywhere I go.
I’m on the outskirts no matter where I am.
I am dry mouths, half-lidded eyes.
I have a sketchbook full of brunette musicians who break my heart.
I’m swaying in no wind, just idle motion.
I’m in neutral.
I am methodical, maniacal Apollo.
I am a drugstore cowboy; vigilante.
I’m not my mother’s or my father’s child.
I butcher myself each morning. Routine.
I don’t know when I got tough.
I’m a sad gay boy regurgitating dated, jaded movies.
My Best Friend and I Just Saw a Dead Body
It was winter, sophomore year.We got snacks from 7-11 – but not the smaller one
with the ringing sound – the good one,
because she’s banned from CVS.Our hands and noses were bright red;
I kept licking my chapped lips.It was by the T station under construction.
There was a crowd and an ambulance.
Figured someone got stabbed, overdosed, etc.“Oh shit.”“Yeah.”There was a covered stretcher.“I think they’re dead.”She looked like she wanted me to disagree,
but I didn’t, and neither of us could look away.“They don’t cover ‘em like that unless they are.”We watched it get loaded into the ambulance.
We watched the doors slam shut.
Didn’t stick around to see it drive off.Kept walking towards my bus stop, kept drinking soda.It was horrible, knowing what was shut in those doors.We made conversation; we were talking circles around it.
Every so often we’d go quiet, just look at each other.My best friend and I just saw a dead body.
Killing Ourselves
“This body will never be safe from harm”
–Jeff Buckley, Mojo PinI don’t want to go to your funeral.
I don’t want to see you go down.
No, I love you so.I want to see you heavenly,
floating on peach clouds.
I want to see you silver and gold.
I want to see you be born again
from so much love.I can’t stand you like this,
emaciated.
You were never supposed to be
less than me.
I was sick, I was so sick.You knew me so sick
and you wanted me better
and now I want that for you.You got sick as I stopped getting sicker.
You picked up your habit as I kicked mine.
I pushed glimpses of it out of my mind.I know what you feel,
we are two of a kind.I didn’t want to wait for you
to realize you’re down.
I can’t just stand here
and watch as you drown.I used to lie to you
like you’re lying to me
and I used to chewed gum
to hide starvation on my breath.I know about lying up at night
and planning your own death.
We both tried real hard to die.
Thought you died or got close
on a sunny day two Julys ago.
I wanted to scream in your face
when you said you were fine.We don’t have to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk about it.
I know what’s happening
and I’m so sorry.I know the lying hurts
but telling the truth is even worse.Please know I only got mad
because I love you.
The End of the World Will Be Boring
We thought it’d be a bigger deal when the world ended.
We thought there’d be angels and trumpets and fire.All we got was a general unease quickly replaced by resignation.
We felt completely crazy, and nobody cared.If we stayed home, the undead hordes faded away.
It felt like we could wait it out, or that’s what we kept saying.The beginning of the apocalypse felt more like a sleepover.
It was fun. At least for us. We told each other it was fun.It was easy to forget until I ran out of my medication.
We couldn’t just go to the pharmacy, get a refill and some sour candy.We needed food and the lights were out in the supermarket,
the glass was all smashed, and strange groans came from corners we couldn’t see.I figured, if the world ever really ended, I’d give up and make it easy.
You know. I told you. I’d say there was no point, no reward on the other side.I also figured if the world ever really ended I’d realize it’d happened.
But that’s the kind of thing they don’t tell you:The world’s gonna end while you’re distracted.You’ll never admit to yourself that it’s over
and the news won’t tell you it is either.Total chaos will come, and you’ll think about doing your laundry
or reorganizing your CD collection alphabetically.It’ll be the end times and you’ll be listening to punk rock from 2005
and thinking about the graphic novel you know you’ll never make.The world as you know it could end right now,
and you’d have no idea because you’re still kicking.You’ll trace back to that moment later, in fragmented memory,
and only then you’ll realize it was all already over.
After Party for the Apocalypse
Maybe it’s hopeless,
maybe this is forever.
Maybe it’ll never get better,
so, they take what they’re given
and do what they can to love it
like it’s all that they ever wanted.Take danger days and sleepless nights.
Spray paint and duct tape.
Neon and black, so cool.
Blood drying on sand.
Hot concrete that was once a pool.Sand shocked to glass is glittering in the dessert.
Sweat on skin, fruits of the devil,
days wasted in lamé and leather.
Cars, calories, and carelessness.The youngest is a bat out of hell
with all the charm of a social disease.
All of the cool kids around there are liars and thieves.
Lazing in the sun in dirty but uninfected paradise.Reanimated corpses groan outside
on the way back from a supply run.
Real daredevils drive out,
try to run them down for fun.Endless day trips to the dusted-out Vegas strip.
Water’s locked up like jewels, not a drop ever drips.
It was the worst when it’d just started,
all the anticipatory dread.Eventually some of the dust settled.
Suddenly there’re kids who only know the aftermath.
Suddenly there was a new Year Zero.Those kids got dead tired hearing fossils ramble on
about the lives they used to live
and returning to a normal
that seemed so completely bizarre.
Starry eyes gaze up at a starless sky.
What Are You So Afraid of Losing
Where are your eyes now?
You look away like someone’s there,
someone I can’t see, and you disappear.
I wish you’d stop going away.Do you think we’ll ever stop living like the dead?
Unabashed hedonism will only get us so far.
I know you know that. You know I do too.
It’s hard to pass up the cheapest kind of enlightenment.What the hell came over you?
You know what I mean, when you got all stormy.
You started talking all the time about getting out.
Tell me what you’re so intent on forgetting about.Do you know what you’re saying?
Punk rock means freedom and my scoff means ‘thank god.’
Your words carve paths I can’t follow, but I try.
I wish I understood when you talked about the stars.Is this all there is?
‘God don’t make no junk’ so I guess we’re meant to be this way.
But that doesn’t make it feel any less wrong.
I’ll keep asking you if you think we’re right.Do you still believe in me?
I hope you don’t, and I think you do.
You and Me or Love Song for the Post-Apocalypse
You and me and all these living dead.
You and me and their voices.
You and me and so much caffeine.
You and me and the exorcism I need.
You and me and all our medication.
You and me and the big, black void.
You and me and endless nights.
You and me and mold on clothes.
You and me and this haunted house.
You and me and words we wish we knew.
You and me and the smell of ethanol.
You and me and our car crash hearts.
You and me and no honeymoon.
You and me and so-called best friends.
You and me and crying ourselves breathless.
You and me and burning throats.
You and me and youth we’re wasting.
You and me and cold, white hands.
You and me and something missing.
You and me and coming back wrong.
You and me and laughing at misfortune.
You and me and apologies I don’t need.
Tragic Together
“This time we’ll show them,
We’ll show them all how much we mean.”
–My Chemical Romance, ‘Demolition Lovers’All I have left to do is make good on my word,
prove that my threats have never been empty.I meant what I said when I told you:
“I know how I’m going to end.”
We both do.We’ve been dead, we’ve been ghosts.
We’ve been emergencies and graveyards
and tragedies and bouquets full of thorns.We’ve left a trail of broken bodies,
auto and otherwise, in our wake.I would never want it any other way
than ending it like this, with you, today.Spit glitter in the bathtub,
mumbling about “what a fuhkin’ waste,”
and dinner won’t go down the drain.Bonus tracks, never favorite records.
Cheap and without regret
like drugstore makeup in your pockets,
up your sleeves.I’d be your detonator if you’d let me.
I’m telling you I’d be your ride or die,
I’ll be a ride you won’t survive.One of us has got to kill the other.
Isn’t that what they mean
when they talk about lovers?I’ve wanted any and everything for you:
Heaven on earth and fast cars, ran off the street,
crashed and crushed with you in the passenger’s seat.Entry wounds will always be smaller than exits.
The pain really starts when you pull out the knife.This world will know we were here,
come hell or high water.
We’ve got something real big to prove in this short life.
Maybe Next Time
I’ll know not to say
something stupid like,
“I’ll be there,”
or “I’ll wait for you.”I’ll remember not tell you
anything you’d want to hear
like, “Please,” and I won’t let you
see me smile with my teeth.I’ll tell you I don’t remember
any of it if you ask me,
and I’ll try and convince you
you don’t remember a thing too.I’ll be smart enough
not to say your name
because I can’t think of a single time
I heard you call me mine.I won’t be dumb enough to admit
you’re still getting under my skin.
I know my fifth amendment rights,
so, I’d never self-incriminate.I’ll remember not to tell you
something useless
like, “You ruined my life,”
or “I’ve been hoping you’d die.”“Maybe next time
I’ll remember not to tell you something stupid
like, ‘I’d never leave your side.’”
What I Bring to the Table
Bad news, worse luck, and even worse days.
Coffin nails and a freshly dug grave.
Wishful thoughts, the worst intentions.
Bad tattoos and a risk of infection.
Thirty-year-old comics and unpaid debts.
My well-researched tenth grade presentation on death.
Half-written songs and head trauma that sounds just as good.
A still-beating heart and my hands covered in blood.
Echo, echolalia, and other pointless repetitions.
My new body and uncomfortable positions.
Jackets coming apart at their seams.
Self-fulfilling prophecies and haunted dreams.
Sleeping in late with all the usual suspects.
A series of abandoned and uncreative projects.
Playlists making damn sure I’ll never have a girlfriend.
Tired eyes, long nights, graphic violence every weekend.
A sincere, pure, and un-kickable habit.
A smile that won’t stop the one thing I really should quit.
My canines and my serrated bite that can break skin.
Matches burnt but never lit, incriminating evidence.
Songs that still own the beating of my heart.
My feelings for someone disguised as art.
Bruises, now gray, from skin hitting hardware.
Words spoken in an accent from who-knows-where.
My spit, my backstory, my undying devotion.
Ultra-sweetened iced tea and unsweetened emotion.
Chris
Chris when she’s sitting on her bedroom’s peachy shag carpet floor meticulously arranging magazine clippings.Chrissy when her older brother who stands a foot above her pulls her into a hug.Chrisann Leighton with raised eyebrows when her mother saw the silver ring in her freshly pierced nose, courtesy of said older brother.Blondie when she’s at the convenience store chatting up the cashier a year her senior who pretends not to see Tommy stealing as long as he gets to talk to Chris.Christy despite there being no “t” in her name to her dad’s mother who never liked the name Chrisann but thinks Chris is too boyish.Annie when, in her dad’s eyes, she’s still the timid little brunette who begged him to hold her hand wherever they’d go.Merch chick when she’s taking cash from impatient fans of whatever band is coming through town this week.Band girl when she’s lugging guitars, amps, mic stands, and drum hardware and pigheaded dudes forget the words “roadie” and “tech.”Chrisann with “Ann” drawn out, sickly sweet, when extended family members set down glasses of wine to pull her into hugs while she stands grimacing, stiff as a board.CJ’s little sister when his heavy metal friends she hopes think she’s cool are hanging around.Christopher when Tommy’s in a joking mood.Chrisann Shavonne Leighton, calm but venomous, when her mother finds her in her room with Tommy and thinks they were doing something much more intimate than simply hanging out.“Chri-“ and “you-“ and various cut-off syllables when she tells CJ about that the next day and can’t hold back his raucous laughter.Hushed and sighed and exhaustedly, Chris when of course she’s the first person to find out Tommy ran away from home.Chris at a show in a parking lot with fifty-or-so sweaty teenagers and twenty-somethings, jumping around with her hair in spiky pigtails.
Hanni + Niko
13:
Her parents kicked her out and nothing before that mattered anymore because her parents kicked her out. She got on and off the city bus and walked a few blocks with three heavy bags. He found her crying on his doorstep and dragged her inside. He begged his parents to let her stay like he’d begged them to keep a stray cat earlier that year. It worked both times.17:
She quit smoking the cigarettes she’d been smoking for years because a kid in the park who almost looked the way she used to made a face when she lit one. He stole makeup from convenience stores and his mom’s collection and practiced in the safety of the bathroom he shared with her. When she walked in on him, she taught him to tightline his eyes and get lipstick symmetrical.19:
They lived in an apartment that was halfway between their respective stupid retail jobs. He rang people up at a record store and she served coffee. Their once separate closets of secondhand black and gray clothes had merged. When the coffee shop regular she had a crush on came over she had to assure the girl that she was not dating him and never had and never would be. He, practically her brother, found this hilarious the next day.25:
They were in a better apartment and had separate bedrooms rather than two twin beds. She got a less stupid, non-retail job at a small record label and formed a moody band with the coffee shop regular and another girl who also had short hair and an attitude. He still worked at the record store, now managing, and by nights he dressed up campy and goth and was a tech for the band.27:
He replaced the coffee shop girl in the band because she got a boyfriend and suddenly became unfortunately sappy and serious about everything but playing bass. She took a liking to the singer of a band recently signed to the label and orchestrated a date for him and her best-friend-roommate-almost-brother thinking they were equally strange, so they’d be cute together. She was right.29:
In the same apartment from 25, they were living with each other plus the singer/boyfriend and a girlfriend she met at a gig who liked paganism and photography and set up an altar in their dining room. It always smelled like incense. It was the first year none of them went “home” for the holidays.
When You Get Cool
You’ll talk about shows instead of concerts
and they won’t be albums, they’ll be records.You’ll beg, steal, and borrow slang
from across the country—the valley, the bay.You’ll look like you’ve never seen the light of day:
blindingly pale, sleeping in a dim, collaged cave.You’ll have a freshman love affair with shoplifting
and have six piercings total at age sixteen.You’ll cut up clothes with the good scissors
and cut up your hair with the dull ones.You won’t let anyone get away with shit.
What you’ll do—you’re off scot-free for half of it.
Maladaptive Fantasy No. 9
We’ve got all I made up in common
and the letter K I’ve had since I was born.
Half an X and both of your initials.Your sunglasses and my headphones.You don’t know how to teach
so, I don’t know how to fight.Snakes. Snakes. Snakes.
Spikes. Spikes. Spikes.Spiritually connected to one another
just by being somebodies’ kid brothers.
Though I’ve been a kid sister
and that was so much worse.I’m talking us far off-course.We’re good together.
Drums and bass.Nothing new with you
and I’m still twitchy.You laugh.
What’s so funny?You say it’s nothing.
It’s not nothing.You call me cute and for that
I could kill you.‘Cause I’m a bulldog and a vandal
and violent like animal print.You smile wider, laugh more,
tell me to quit the tough shit.
Stars Forming
It’s all “hang on, hang on, hang on.”
I’ve lost track of what it is
that I’m holding
so tight.I’m afraid that was
as good as I’ll ever feel.
Scared that maybe, the whole time,
I was always right.Hallucinate Heaven, Iowa.
Wishful thinking.
Do I want this?I should’ve let you hold me back.
I know you well enough to know
you thought you loved me.What do you notice?
What does it make you feel?
Did this art hurt you?Hate that I keep wasting songs
and pages on him.
What happened, what he did,
what I was.These swords form a star
how they go through me.
They form a star.
Having a Good One
Is it your job to hurt me?
Stop looking at me so smugly.
You were supposed to love me.
Hate when you say you know me.When I tell you “No”
you know I mean “no”
and I know you hate that.Can’t handle rejection.
Tell everyone I was desperate,
but I didn’t need you—I never needed you.Would you shut up about how I stayed?
As if I could’ve left.
Like you wouldn’t have begged.The truth would hurt worse
than anything I could bring myself to do.
I don’t ever want to hear
what I already know is true.Can’t hold much in a tight fist, can you?
Lie down and look at me like I owe you,
like I got something I have to give you.Talk about the abuse of love and leave alone
faces you claimed you wanted to take home.