An eggshell splits between your fingers,
and everything that was concealed
spills out at once.
This is not a smooth, white oval.
This is not a hard and unrevealing object.
Hard and unrevealing, unbelieving,
because before you cracked it
everything was imaginary.
It makes a mess on the frying pan,
but you assure me that
you did it right.
“See all the choices, all at once,” you say,
“Now, scrambled or fried?”
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
I spill the coffee in my lap,
across from me, the TV slaps
a clip of men with
guns strapped to their backs.
The mob screams and claps;
they slur,
but the coffee’s so hot my
vision blurs —
a disgrace.
My mistake.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
The cemetery is alive,
more alive than
the lofty woods that
glower around it,
than dining halls
that pump
bodies like blood vessels,
in an out — flex and
release
here, in the heat
the cemetery smells sweet,
perhaps a morbid
sort of attraction —
yet still she sits against
the headstone,
married to life
that was once,
once was.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
It becomes.
Discordant — not
together. Dissonance — out
of pitch. Is there a pitch?
No. Not clear.
Now.
Crescendo. Key. Clear,
I hear.
Crescendo. Forte.
Forte. FORTISSIMO!
Leitmotif detected.
How do they say?
Destruction — a
personified devastation.
Key switch.
Bewitch.
Piano. P i a n i s s i m o.
Lamentoso. Their
is a fluctuating
scale, a line in
green becomes red and
frequent.
Frequency — shrill.
D e c r e s c e n d o.
A cadence alone.
Espressivo! ESPRESSIVO!
And here the octaves meet
the mark.
2 2 3 4, 3 2 3 4, 4 2 3 4
Full stop.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
on this under-trodden grain
I trample through my sleeping mind —
ah, vexing mind,
of the kind, that keeps my eyes
agape at night.
on this pressed and pondered trail
I step across worms of doubt,
worms that sprout
between my toes and keep my feet
confused and cold.
but walking is its own therapy,
and the path
propels me.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
I stir
linseed oil and orange ochre
into a sunset cream
that injects life into
my heroine’s cheeks — mixed
with Titian red and varnish,
her flesh floods with blood
beneath the skin,
and I have given
life.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
come at me, commotion
sink into the cracks of my mind
undo me right now
there’s plenty of time
have a go, grieving
grant me the pain
to suffer tomorrow
i’m already insane
break me down, bedlam
plant your lips on my life
take hold of my senses
i’m accustomed to strife
come at me, chaos
clear me of noise
monotony bores me
and order destroys
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
in love
I begin by deceiving myself
in romance
I end by relieving myself
of scars that streak red
across waxen faces
of lines that sag cruelly
against youth’s graces
in love
I begin by deceiving myself
in romance
I end with perceiving myself
as sallow with
the age of my sins
but only upon
my painted on skin
in romance
I am older
than my friends
older than
any end
that in striving for
becomes what I am dying for —
but my face is clean
clean of the sin that boils
my heart
clean of the pride
that spoils each part of me
that could be redeemed
in love
with myself
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
This is a question.
I am a liar.
Did you catch on yet?
‘This is a question’
is not a question.
‘I am a liar,’
but a liar never admits.
‘Did you catch on yet?’
is the only intention.
Even my own words
fail to commit.
Is this a statement?
I don’t tell the truth.
Aren’t you listening?
F*ck being uncouth.
Why do we censor?
There’s nothing to hide for.
Is this a paradox?
No, I’m just a liar.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
My throat is streaked with
the age of my sins; they are older
than my friends, older than
any end that in striving for
becomes what I am dying for —
but my face is clean,
clean of the sin that boils
my heart, clean of the pride
that spoils each part of me
that could be redeemed, if
to be redeemed did not require
forgiveness, for how can I aspire
for what I don’t profess?
In the end my throat is pocked
with my offenses — but only in oil,
only in my reflection.
Stellular Scribe 