Ink (Nephthys)

I can't see the stars here
it drives me fucking mad
that flat black sky
only the moon hanging
her beautiful face obscured
suspended in an empty sickly orange glow
the sun coming too fucking early
like a useless lover
with a useless cock

I need the cover of darkness
to get up to my nefarious deeds
I need to slip between shadows
to feel normal
I miss that blanket of stars
whispering my name
and drawing me out into the empty streets

I hate the morning
it's flushed and pinked skin
winking through the blackout curtians
sneaking in around the edges
trying to rouse me
trying to stir me
trying to ruin me
in the light of day

my neighbors little morning noises
creeping through the walls
the garbage truck waking me with a shock
as it slams the dumpster up into the air
the construction workers across the street
and their fucking saws and hammers
which I threaten to shove up their asses
to no one in particular

how I miss the silence of the night
the clockwork of the world turned still
a million little busy hands
finally stopped
this city groggily asleep
and me slinking about
feeling almost right in all her dark quiet
all her darkness
slipping down my skin
curling about my hair
lighting upon my lips

I am beautiful in the night
straight claimed by her icy fingers
I run wild while you sleep
I've seen the parks too dark
the trees huge and looming masses
the world all the same blackened colour
building become shapes and lose their grandeur
the world no longer finite in the glaring dawn
but black and endless stretching to the heavens
to the dead star light
a million miles away

I slink through the night and watch
the coyotes hunting for rats
big fat black slick furred things
with long yellow teeth
fattened by over flowing dumpsters from upscale restaurants
the coyotes sleek and quick
a jump
a squeal
a gnashing of teeth
and its all over
 
the alleyways lit by glowing street lights
with fat moths flinging themselves upwards
in crazy loops
to that sulfured glow
the bats swooping in
near silent but the rush of air
past quickened flight
to crunch on those chubby bodies
and disappear back into the dark
the velvety rhythm of their wings
singing me home

from the edge of the bed
all lost in the solid dark
I stare at you through the inky film
as you gently breath in and out
at my side
lost in the folds of my sheets
your features barely audible in the dim light
uncomfortable when you realize I've stopped breathing
you flutter and roll
and pull me closer

yeah,
I watch you when you sleep
and sigh back into the knowledge
that your daylight is going to kill me
that my black little heart can't survive
in the heat of the bright rays
we are shrinking at the thought already
and clinging to the darkness
hiding under the covers
wishing the sunlight would fucking go away
just go away

I'm curled up all small now
deep under the quilts
this false darkness not quite right
listening to your morning skin
clicking the door shut
in search of the garish sun
outside of my beautiful black world
you say
'I've got to claim the day'
more like you've got to get out of here
because in daylight my skin is too white
my truth too glaringly bare
my willingness too easy to see

it's only in the night
that I am beautiful
and without the stars
I am hopelessly lost
howling down the streets
trying to find them
and you
again

Beauty (My Father's Hands)

you say
'i am too bruised for you
i can't survive myself
look at these angry scratches
this swelling place
where would you see beauty
in these fists?'

you know
my father came home every day
with darkly stained hands
from chain oil
and axle grease
smudges on his face
dirt in his eyelashes

he was a mountain of man
to me
his hands never clean
shaggy beard
wild hair
booming laugh
as he roared into the yard
in his one tonne chariot
with two flat tires

everyday he came home
with sawdust in his hair
and huge hands
lugging a chainsaw
at his side
tossing his dirty bucking pants
over the living room chair
much to my mother's displeasure

everyday
he came home
covered in the filth of working men
rode the big machines
once came home with a branch
from a surprised falling tree
embedded in his leg
bleeding all over the seat vinyl
as my mother sped
the hour to the nearest hospital

every day there was sawdust
and blackened hands that never came clean
and splinters
and little scrapes where the sparks jumped back
and burnt his skin
and bruises from flying sticks
when great trees met the ground
at his shivering command

and everyday my father was beautiful to me

if you can not see the beauty of yourself
reflected in mine eyes
then you don't know who I am
and will never see where I came from

I Hate the Word

Is love not a vile and formless thing?
Is it not all tripped forward in flesh
hastened to punished hearts
and be quickly thrown up
like two fingers down the throat?

I vomit these words up
like Clean Christians
applying hot pokers
to naked pagans

I twist 'i love you'
around snarled lips
with a tongue so bruised
in deep purples
that only spit and bile
come to the surface
and gurgle out around
my crooked teeth

all like a buzzing
of collected bees
under my wane and pale skin
and in silk covers
all wrapped in finery
face applied
and held still like granite
I find no comfort
and spew blood upon white gowns
and smiling sycophants

I spit up love
oh wretched thing that you are
I spit it up
onto the lapsing scenery
the collapsing dreamlessness of morrow's day
where garish sun sinks to Death's kingdom
and lovers become anchors
to my blackened vomitous soul
in the dark depths
of frozen oceans on the point of the known world

tread not where monsters touch
the faces of fair maidens
and in my fury
I am blind
o'er I catch your love all up
in all but these crooked sharpened teeth
and tear it to little bloody rags
on the edge of your fraying mercy

I cough up 'i love you'
in great black chunks
and gouge my green eyes out
for this is a vile and formless thing
this horrible love
that has found its way
to the bottom of my bottomless heart

Golgotha

I thought
'this must be
what fucking Jesus Christ
is like'

your hips slamming into the thickness
of my thighs
gasps unwillingly escaping
my lips
like little breathless prayers
to dieing saints

my fingers nestled in that crown
of flesh
teeth in my shoulder
I'm searching for
just the right feeling

just the right spot
for a holy vision
and black lights
sparkling before my face

your cheek pressed against mine
leaden breath
ragged in my ear
your fingertips dug
into the meat of my ass
I saw God
in your heavy eyes

your hardened flesh
the spear
little deaths all inside me
little resurrections with each
shuddering thrust

I can almost see your halo
a shining aura of golden light
your lips at my breast
trying to find how deep I go
this holy well
this fount of wicked blood

my tongue so nimble
it utters your secret name
as it wraps around you
snake that I am
with great curled horns
burden of knowledge

I can make you come
for eternity
and feel just how awful
goodness always is

Collections of Terrible Things

the best advice I ever got?
don't do drugs before a job interview

or maybe it was
brush your teeth after giving a blow job

or don't put bras in the dryer

I can't remember

what I do know is
all of this sucks
and my pussy gets wet
when I think of you

but I can't muster the forward momentum
to even bother getting out of bed
most mornings

and I sleep through beautiful
spring days
and wake up when the sun is setting
by the ocean
blinking it's big yellow eye at me
and my ennui

you punch yourself in the face
I swallow some pills
and a couple of drinks
and feel nothing

holy fuck
how do I feel this much
... nothing?

Nothing
not a thing
it's all just...

whatever

hey how about this?
how about we be terrible together?
we could be great in our awfulness
curl up in a little ball under the covers
and pretend the world wasn't out there
we could touch each other
be inside each other
taste each other
whisper little secrets to each other
lov... 
wait...
never-mind

even my masturbation is lazy
I drink beer in the shower
but neglect to wash my hair for days
it hangs about my face in lank strips
as I trip over the vacuum cleaner I left
in the middle of the floor

I had this inclination for a few minutes
that I would clean my life up
but instead the sucking reminded me
of the endless chasm of my life
and I collapsed exhausted on the couch
the floor only half cleaned

or maybe it reminded me of blow jobs

I can't remember which

...whatever

Your Ear is Bleeding

the scar tissue had grown up over my lips
or maybe it was my cunt
either way he wouldn't listen to me
wouldn't listen to what I had to say
wouldn't list what I had to yell
just put his hands over his ears
clenched his legs and hummed

hummed a stupid tune
a stupid tone
a stupid tomb
for his cock to die in

I jammed my knees up against his ribs
sunk them in
bruised my way to something to say
snapped his head back
and still
all he would yell was
'la la la la la la'
at the top of his lungs

'I'm not listening!'
sing song singing
even as I pried his hands away
from the sides of his head
even as I pressed my breasts against
his now blackened purple ribs
in a display of violent caressing that I knew
had to hurt
'I'm still not listening!
La! La! LA!
Not listening! Not listening!
NOT LISTENING!'

that's when I punched him in the face
rattled his teeth around inside his mouth
twin rivers of blood gushing from his nostrils
suddenly stunned into silence
both eyes as big as dinner plates
tongue working but nothing coming out
his cock limp
his hands useless
at his side
his lips swelling 

I took a deep shuttering breath,
shored up my anger,
clenched my legs and said,
'I love you,
and I don't like it.
Now stop bleeding on my sheets
and get the fuck out of here.'

Christ Chuck, What Next?

all these beautiful broken boys
and not one of them named Christ

I would break fingers with hammers
if I thought it would do any good
but saints feel no pain

and hate you when you press against them

I should have sold my soul
in a buyer's market
but now it's dirty and useless
like an old condom

and pretty boys don't want it anyways

saints hate to get dirty
and I live in mud

who the fuck let
all those wispy eyelashed looks in here?
sleeping at my shoulder
caressing my breasts
and whispering in my ear
that they love me
but only under the right conditions

like heavy alcohol
and heavier drugs
maybe when they are deep inside you

possibly if I was drowning in the bath
or maybe falling from the sky
on fire
like a comet of whore-like intentions
and a great big fucking
ball of promises

that I was never going to keep

Charles Bukowski said,
"Find what you love and let it kill you."

but I don't think the crusty old fucker meant like this
achingly slowly
my brain on fire every night
my cunt throbbing
waiting

humped over like a toad
creeping in the night
to slip down some unsuspecting victim's throat
and squeeze the air out of their heart

fucking saints
and their saintly touch
and their saintly fucking ways
and their beautiful eyes
and flowing hair
and silken skin
and stupid fucking sympathies

fucking kill me and get it over with
love me to death
so I can get up
and get that glass of whiskey
I've been thirsting for like blood
I need a shower
and maybe a plasma transfusion
so I can linger with the ghost of your cock still inside me

and by the way
you can tell Christ
when you see him next
that I told him
he should come down here
to pound in his own goddamn nails

my hammer is broken
and I'm tired of crucifixion anyways