December 29, 2010

pressed flowers, never smell like spring again

by atti?

you’re the most hideous flower
ever pressed in to my palms.

i frequently leave my hands behind dusty bookshelves
for your peddles to be stumbled upon
when my fingers tremble like loose leaf
in virgin fingerprints
behind back corners of back corners
of secret hallways in libraries for the dead,
to remember where they’ve been.

we're everyones dirty secret.

whisperers spit our papercuts
like journalists
and the illiterate wipe their faces across the welts
we call wedding bands,
wishing our scars could spell truth in braille.

the archives of our introduction
became obituaries,
and the death you hid behind the veil
has become reason enough to spill more ink;
if only i hadn't bent the tip of this feather
trying to hammer the day we began to Live
on your tombstone,
and we didn't love in reverse
get dressed before intercourse
smile before you'd cum
resist before i'd force

-was written across the stone we call home,
on the day we signed the deed
and did the former
to which transformed seed into a hollow tree
that i split and pressed into sheets of grief
with beautiful tragedies doodled like child's play
to entice a read.

the book we wrote, has no authors note
- and the back cover reads:
Hold Me.

December 23, 2010


lyrics for an
upcoming project: faile

I. Lightbearer

i adorn stigmata
of the nihilist
i dress in absence and ambiguity
i hold on to nothing and spit glass like promises
where love sucks off the nails of it’s own coffin
and crucifixes roll back into heads like orgasms
we feed on the void
i am the light bearer
i am the terror, the light
i am hell.

II. 1988

apocalypse palms
i feel a warmth undone
alone is where i consume my self,
in together i fork my tongue
a wake of vagrants
and i’ve been abandoned by roads
i know home by the number of tombstones
and the monuments of ruin i behold.
i find comfort in its venom
discomfort in my content,
i’ve slithered a million miles
to be guiled in my return to each contempt.

III. Crucified

stack like brick your hair and flesh
begin, construct, rename your baphomet
anathemas and grotesque alike
spill your blood in spite
close your eyes and construe post fame
rue, we’ve painted thier breath for war
we scribbled sunrays on foreheads
and gave them name
we’ve built their crooked heads
we’ve stacked the bodies, then forgot
licked our lips and spit macabre
each cult, each tome
each holy quote rebirthed
you gave murder worth.