fly

fly
and rid ourselves of pain
grow soft
and feel the breaking of bones
tearing of flesh
relax
lean back and drink
the constant falling of rain
before we drown
so fly
high
until we are without direction
lost within this state of being
not fully whole
neither empty though
fly
as far as you can go
moving within circles
yet always leaving
fly away
from me
from here
from everything, until you can go no more

walk
for now your wings are shredded
broken
blistered
walk
for now you can fly no more

Drinking the Storm

You know that I can taste the thunder, pull back my eyes, cross my lips and whimper beneath the slight chill that foams across the air. Because it's coming, the splatter against the pavement, the collapse against the windows and the thrilling hum of energy as I inhale.

          

But still, I don't think you really want to hear about that, my feelings about something other than yourself. I still wish for the cheap sensations of desire to kiss my lips and knock me backwards into the damp grass while gray clouds roll and boil above my heart.

            

I'm just waiting for it all to explode with thunder and let the lightning skim across my flesh, mar my surface and try to prove something. I don't know what though, I don't know what.

            

I need to taste thunder though, chew the lightning and drink the storm, knocking it all back with the third rate sensations of sensuality detained at the border, guarded and shot upon at sight. I need to let it go, fall forward, tumble down the hill, clutching the fragments of what little self-esteem you allowed me to keep.

            

I'll keep rolling until I hit the bottom and find the rain upon me.

Island Blooming

This holds a different type
of greenery, pooled limped between
the scrapes of the pen and
arched between the branches
of my childhood,
as I lay back, caterpillers crawling
down the brittle sides of my ribs,
the mud sliding past my lips,
falling forward into the expectations
I formed on the fields, singing
while skirting the memories of previous days rain.
Yet when I close my eyes,
or run my fingers across the veins
in the bark of the tree in what
is now my city, choking back the mist off the lake,
I'm overcome to write the colours free,
spill the green forward and
spread it across the flesh of the page,
streak my tongue through the dirt
and subjugate myself
beneath the twisting,
pulsing, sadistic love
of the island in full bloom.