theory of everything
god says he
has a plan for all of us.
i call bullshit on that motherfucker.
bullshit
because if fate
was the one who fucked up my head
and made melancholy my whore
that motherfucker should already be dead.
bullshit
because
who would spark a wildfire in their own backyard?
the answer lies in the burning of the good book:
no one owns the world.
there is no god.
there is no poetry.
this is not a sentence
and i would take the time to explain why,
but we're all dying.
nothing is what you think.
i would say
we are all made of stardust
but i don't want to make myself vomit.
if we are any part of the cosmos,
we are the detritus leftovers
that fall off of comets-
we are worthless.
i do believe
there's something bigger than all of us
but-
i'm well aware it might just be
the weight of the air we breathe.
i believe
that energy is conserved
that we are all made of matter
that gravity will be the death of me-
but there is no theory of everything.
i have been bleeding
for five years.
i walk around with
red hands
yet no one asks about my fingers.
i have carefully carried my guts
in mason jars,
only to spill them
on paper.
no one has helped me clean up
the mess i've made of myself.
so i will spell god with a lowercase g
and no one can stop me
because there is no saving grace.
i vow to shit on the bible.
Vice.
I spelled my name out
in the sand,
and it looked
like another language,
like gibberish or
Sanskrit, and I remember
you said it tasted like
hieroglyphics
on your tongue,
but that might have just been
the wine
talking.
I rest my head on my pillow
but no where to rest my
soul, I go to bed too early
but I never sleep, one of the
many side effects
of you, and they go round and
round the rim of my skull like
headache
nausea
dizziness
insomnia
thoughts of suicide.
I can't consult my doctor
because his eyes
are your
kind of blue.
The Boatman
On that stormy morn, on the rocky cliffs walked I
Underneath the billowing clouds, through the sad winds sigh
I looked out to the swirling ocean, there atop a wave
rowed a lonely boatman sure to meet his watery grave
furious rowing
Wind was howling
grey wave rose and
crashed upon the rocks
furious rowing
wind was howling
he was at the
mercy of God
I broke my spell, and ran down the rocky path
to a shore that was sheltered from the dark ocean’s wrath
but the foolish boatman was still far out, and my fear:
he’d be dashed upon the rocks before he made it here
I tried to shout and call for help and on my knees I tried to pray, but
my voice was whisked away, just a whisper in a crowded room
but I was all alone, a creature frightened on the shore
there was nothing that I could do to save the helpless boatman
so I watched him as he struggled, ’till he could struggle no more
He was coming in, slow, but sure that he would land
but the ocean couldn’t allow it, no it wouldn’t let this stand
it sent forth a lusty wave that broke his boat, it was so strong
and the poor boatman with the churning waves was swept along
I ran onto the rocks, prepared to save the drowning boatman
but he had disappeared, the selfish ocean swallowed him
and as I lay weeping for his life in the rain
his poor maiden waited by the window for her young boatman
whom her poor eyes would never see again
Body of Tears; Deposit of Sorrow
Looking out onto the serene ocean,
The waves cascading onto the shore like waves of tears,
And at once, I imagine that the ocean isn't made of water that came to be there by natural phenomenons,
But rather that the ocean was formed by all the tears that people have shed since the beginning of time;
And perhaps this is why one feels sad when they gaze into a serene ocean alone,
Because it's not a body of salt water,
But rather a body of tears,
A deposit of sorrow from mankind in generations past;
Perhaps that is why I remember all those I've lost
When I look into the serene ocean.
- Michael Hall
the colors in dreams and memories
the leafs of my favorite novel
(leads to)
the pages of his sketchbook
the red in my cheeks
(leads to)
his converses and his sweat shirt
the frame of my glasses
(leads to)
his leather jacket
the flesh on my lips
(leads to)
the flushed surface of his fingertips
the hair bow i wear on my wrist
(leads to)
the iris of the eyes i have sincerely missed
but those colors don't compare
to the contrast of her eyes
with his
or
his pale hands running through
her auburn hair
he doesn't compare
wild blonde hair
to a yellow rose
or
a spotted foal
to the freckles on my nose
instead
he writes prose
of the galaxy
and of
being the star
in her orion's belt
of feeling the sun's rays
in every feeling felt
and every love song
he belts
he's found love
in the colors of her eyes
and i've found mine
in memories
without goodbyes
Pomegranate Rain
Pomegranate storms rage in shadowed past;
Sheets tossed and stained in reddest desire.
Two pomegranate seeds planted deeply,
Between hungry lips, there for the taking.
A sweetened voice whispers from the darkness
Breaking each strand of life my heart still has.
A sweetened voice crying from deepest depths
Of a passion long since buried and done.
Pomegranate rain falls from moisten lips,
Never to be tasted that way again.
A pomegranate dream escapes my mind,
Memory to haunt me to my last days.
A picture frayed in black and faded white
A final memory tossed to the flames.
A picture stained, pomegranate crimson
The one I can’t lose, as the fire blazes.
When I Drink
When I drink,
the ever-present pain
in my back dulls
just enough to help me forget
what it is to be human.
When I drink,
you become both
exceedingly attractive
and evermore attainable
within the same passed hour.
When I drink,
the shitty music playing
at this bar, club, hole-in-the-wall pub
takes a turn for the tolerable.
My memories of every song
I’ve ever heard become more fluid,
filling in the gaps where this track is lacking.
When I drink,
my dancing improves drastically,
both in my head and the space I fill.
The muscle spasms are likely exactly the same,
but when swung with far less reservation,
appear better, sexier, bolder.
When I drink,
my teeth tend toward numb
and my tongue unfurls to flap out
every word that’ll fly on the wind.
They propel me forward into what would
have otherwise been a night of dead seamen.
When I drink,
I become more confident, more direct,
more the person I feel I ought to be.
I’ve always been an enabler,
but only liquor lets me put the springboard
under my own feet – vaulting me forward
toward a flight that only gets more exciting
with the prospect of a bigger crash.
When I drink,
I always overlook the warning label
hidden on the bottle’s back corner.
It screams, in its loudest, tiny-print voice:
May cause delusions of grandeur.
These will be fierce, fun, and loyal,
but they will be short-lived.
The body will only turn a blind eye
to the mind’s tricks long enough to bed her.
Then he will slug himself in the gut and purge
everything that temporarily made him think
he could ever be greater
than mortal.