Posts

Hoarder | poem

You shatter in my hands, litter my skin. I keep your pieces in pockets, key holes, flower pots. Cracked eyes gaze from windows - bloody cobwebs clinging to eggshells. One day, you’ll be swallowed by garbage trucks, but for now, you stick
and clutter.

World Pieces | poem

The bomb killed twenty two, twelve too young to drive. (Still dying.) On the coast, I hear it - blasted white caps ripping flesh. The fish they feed are dying too.
At his concert, Matty yells, We’re proud to be from Manchester! The crowd spouts roses, glow sticks, and smoke. I leave - too dizzy to sing or think.
Security stops me - checks my pockets for bombs - finds shards of the world. Why do you have these? They scream.
I thought music would fuse them, I plead, reaching and pulling God from the smog, but they can’t see. They stumble and puff - too numb

Bad Advice | poem

You advise: smile more, cry less!

Sorry, I forgot -

feelings aren't mine to possess.

Hangover | poem

Lungs huff morning. Sun drips in pores—honey in tea—reeks of rum.
Backs warped—pink Solo cups floating in bins—wasted.
Eyes raw—coins thumbed by scholars who can’t let go of bottles—trip over papers
strewn across crumbs on sheets on bodies on beds, and then—thesis: the cure is—

Incarnate | poem

Non-believer, your lashes fashion mystery—stories of thorny eyes, silk wine, blood spraying stone.
Non-believer, you are the anchor in God’s ruby sea. Your arms are pillars, your mouth a cross, your skin scripture.
Non-believer, you bleed Truth. The Gospel’s in your hips and fists, under chewed nails, traced fingerprints.
You are the incarnate Unknown—something you hate so much—what I love most.

Hail | poem

You find me on the balcony, where we froze the sun, where clouds made us drunk, where I now

drop tears on new friends, who catch them in their mouths.

When they laugh,

the sky cracks and your voice carries on—a plow through snow—after winter’s gone.

Subluxation | poem

I wake to rotting echoes in a throbbing world—a slipping spine.

Unfurling vertebrae, clenching nerves, swirling bones unceasing—wedged between a hopeful skull and toilet seat. Knives

tuck me in—split ego and will.