actually, everyone and everything inspires me. sometimes it’s something i overhear on the bus, sometimes it’s rereading my favourite Langston Hughes poem, sometimes it’s a grotesque video of the exotic skins trade, and sometimes it’s just a noise I hear outside of my window at night. i don’t have a Muse or a Love —I have the World.
shedding skin, no—
pulling from either side;
some raingrey thing
has unzipped your belly
like sections of plantain flesh,
sticky but not sweet.
wriggling white, you never
thought being naked would
be so cold
and wet, eyes so bright
against pasty paper amniote vertebrae,
still thick and teary
with puss. Staring, your marble
irises flicker, vertical
you can almost see them lacing
your coat, turning it into a purse or a nice pair of boots.
I’m too far gone.
dictionaries define you as neither
a (n.) or a (v.);
you are the past to my tense,
I see you in syllables
Choose your self-presentations carefully, for what starts out as a mask may become your face.Erving Goffman (via runningthroughtheautumnleaves)
Sociology, American University
adaption is the name of the game
somewhere 5000 feet in black ink;
electromagnetic fins trail up each
shoulder blade, splaying outward
translucent rays, a train of textiles
on shells, logarithmic spiral nestled in collarbone; pressing against the waves,
moaning against the current.
Archimedean shards, mud, muscle, bone,
together like a spreading cityscape of helices and and slipped disks.
they call it a spiral galaxy,
it’s Milky Way looks like the grey in your eyes. fish scales got nothing on you, kid.
you shine like spilled oil.
you blind like gold dust in the Yukon springs. mermaids don’t exist here; you’re caught in a net, wrapped like a swaddling cloth, drowning quietly,
your last breath as sharp and bare
as your very first.