You must:
Stitch the living back into my breath.
Plate the longing under my tongue.
Knit your willing upon my brow.
Empty your knowing into my lungs.
Rip the worry from my lips.
Trim the doubt from my spine.
Drain the sorrow from my throat.
Snip the regret from my mind.
But, for a start —
you must suture my heart.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
We woke to wool and roses,
and the smell of wet wood
creaking in a hypnosis
that only we understood.
A dime of sun swayed
on a burlap bed
that, unmade,
cradled your sea-turned head.
We were marooned:
and to the seeping wind
we had become attuned,
our hardened hearts chagrined.
You woke with lips of salt,
and fistfuls of fabric.
Wool and roses, you’d exalt,
our unpracticed kind of magic.
Waking never lasted long,
and with the gulls you weeped.
Tossed across the sea nightlong,
waves carried us to sleep.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
I know the numb bliss
of ice gripping mountain tops
and wind licking lichened rocks.
I know the hairs that rise on skin
like spring on a cloak of snow — I’ve been
to spring before, you know.
But it was so very long ago.
I know the numb kiss
of sleep before a winter’s plight;
somehow I’ve made it all these nights
even as my veins turn to stone.
The chambers of my heart groan
as glaciers crashing in my chest,
but I don’t remember the rest.
I will surely miss
the scent of summer’s thighs
back when I sat in sunrise,
but she complained of my weight
and now I’m forced to hibernate.
Hush has fallen white and dumb;
and I am blissfully numb.
© 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
A daubed memory:
a singular tin soldier
stands guard in the rain.
A stained memory:
battles wage with wooden swords
in an oak’s shadow.
A scrubbed memory:
a voice sings through lightning bugs,
it’s time for dinner!
A lost memory:
weapons resign in the grass;
the foe dissipates.
© 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.
leaden words on your lips, white etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
nonsense, your voice drips. dips. regard the good.
don’t you see the cream spotting the path? the moss
is dappled in sun, veiled in virtue.
my feet sink into the dirt. but the etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
I curl my fingers against the bark. a nymph.
I find myself catching a glimpse
of green eyes in green leaves. let her be, your voice lifts.
she will not hurt you. here, a kiss will set your ease.
what is wicked is not to be believed.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
I’m not related to that dinosaur,
though I saw him sitting on my porch,
like he was my blood-born uncle.
That leather-skinned bigot
stole my place settings.
See, I was going to make a nice table,
and I had a roast in the oven.
I would have invited him too —
out of courtesy, of course —
but he left scratch marks in the wood
and now there aren’t any plates left.
No respect, nowadays, he grunts,
like he’s been around the globe.
Around the globe? Around the years, maybe,
I think, but he hasn’t got a wit to show for it.
Now I’ll tell you again, I don’t know
what he did with my place settings,
and he isn’t allowed on my property anymore —
For God’s sake, I’m not related to that dinosaur.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
an un-word, reaped
before the oasis, sees
that palm tree shimmering
at your fingertips, you
want, but it’s not want —
you desire, but it’s too dire
for pleasantries, this is lust
but without the lovelies
it is desironious,
an un-word, reaped
at your bedside, some
nonsense that makes your
stomach cry, you hunger
but it is not to please —
you long so long that you
might cave in on your own
presumptions, because
you are desironious,
simply unceremonious,
not in the bit erroneous.
harmonious?
desironious.
© 2016 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 