Tag: dreams

dream (poem)

all liquored up in bed and I am threaded into skin
and my sour sweat is sweet on chapped lips

and I dream in infants, their soft skin and endless chub
dangling limbs and gaping mouths

my mouth agape alone in a bed filled with body
filled with body and my skin dews as afternoon

rises, noon rises before ready and I am liquored
threaded in sour sweat

dreaming in infant skin and dangling limbs
and I can’t wipe the sweat from my skin

can’t wipe the skin from my skin
and it’s too hot here, too humid

and I dream in infants
but I don’t dream.

smoothes

most the time I can’t sleep
and I stare at ceilings
and analyze their anatomies
the anatomies of ceilings
their shade of beige
their dimples
their pockets of vents
and the hum
of their emittance
nothing about love
can fix that
nothing about love
can really fix
anything
but does it soothe?
oh the calm
that smoothes
over my skin
while I sleep
finally sleep
and the resolve
I wake up to
cradled
in my collarbone

Steeped

My body’s steeped
in oleander blood
bathing the bodies
in hemlock tea
their petal skin
bowing under teeth
and I am heady
in my silent skin
bent under tongue
sheets licked
with love
liquor
and I am sick
with the
residue
of his sweat
on my lips

Sestinas Make Me Nervous

If I grant anxiety a color, it won’t be blue—
My leaden unease mingles
with the smirks of unsure gods
laced in the thread of milk clouds at night,
Grey. Half-moon fingernails can
carve out my nerves, but can’t unsee what I’ve seen

blister apart in my sleep. &My dreaming teeth grind pagan scenes
on the inside of my cheek—veins traveling blue
listless circles, nervous drunks can’t
swallow the twitch that mingles
with itching skin. Sober nights
breeding a fiending god.

Anxiety is nothing but a gaud,
trinket of disquiet—pallid scene
aching over nights
horizontal pacing twisted sheets, the cornflower blue
of my blood shot eyes—motes mingle
with the crust of feigned sleep. &I sleep when I can

but I rarely can
as my ribs roped and bloated by a mocking god
strain to mingle
in between hand-me-down sheets laced with the scene
of secret nicotine, the stench of Camel Blue.
I’ve tried to end this wrenching night

by burying a grave of down feathers—suffocate the night
that can
not drown me in the ink of sleep, my nerves aren’t blue
but instead that dead cloud pavement, made of asphalt god
a serenade of my ache my adult angst my scene
of fractured ease. This ticking of my blood mingles

city streets &choking alleys, a coarse coursing of dreams mingle
between my window screen and paned glass. Tonight
I breathe in that seam, swallow the shards from a can
of cheap beer and whisper my elegy to an unworried god
plastered from lead crystal decanters filled with something blue.

My weeping anxious wounds aren’t blue, their fever mingles
with restless gods that make a mockery of nights
&they can’t sleep either after threading these scenes out of needled nerves.

 

————————————————–

My first attempt at a sestina. That’s some difficult shit right there. &This is my fifth poem at anxiety this semester… woops.

Five-Fifteen

How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.

 

Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.

 

—————————————————————-

 

I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.

 

Obituary

 

I read my obituary in a dream
last night, sleeping on the carpet
to rid myself of his breath.
I must have carved too deep
into my own skin,
I told myself. Oops.
Haven’t had that problem in
half a lifetime. Something must’ve
sparked it back alive.
I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t
ethereal. I was heavy and dead
and still real. Just empty.
I read my obituary and it said
nothing of me. I was nothing
but a byline, not even a headline.
No one survived me. and I didn’t
survive.

 

Rêve de Fleurs

 
When I lay my body down to rest
flowers will reach out the sockets
of my eyes, wrap tendrils around
my cheekbones, and suck the breath
from my throat.
In my dreams I still sleep neck deep
in someone else’s hate, drinking
his self-loathing, cloaked in the silt
of his misery. He should have but
he never could have saved it.
He rots in my memories, feeding
the flowers that suffocate me
in my sleep.