I look at the ground and I see dirt, grime, trash, I see undesirable waste, empty containers, I see the feces of humanity mucking up the womb of beauty;
I watch as you dress me up with words of hatred, of mocking tones laced with arsenic snickers, making a perfect garbage doll. You paint me up, using shattered brushes, the colors of the fire hot tears you cry at night, hoping I will not succeed (just like you did not) so that you can keep lying to the ghosts that haunt you but I am no ouija board and you cannot use me to communicate with your demons.
I see through the rotting filth, straight to the place where the ‘dirt’ finally becomes ‘soil’, where the minerals and the vitamins make cocktails of nutrition, I see the earth laughing in flowers at everything we throw at it. We may have smothered it with our toxic love, we may have turned the rocks into gravel, cementing the headstones that will fondly cradle our names while we are finally made to listen, held still in our graves,
but still it responds in the language of artists saying
“you may think I am dead but even as I lie here my carcass will house what your eyes most love to see”, responding in rainbow kisses and in that moment,
I know that you will not stop me just like the coming springs kiss the brutal winters to sleep, I am not afraid to be warm, I am not afraid of the cold,
I am not afraid
- If we lose, if we have to leave this place, why are you so set on staying? Why the fuck could you want to live in a world that says that fat pig on the beach is a man to be respected? A world that wants its sons to become that? - When I was very small I would sneak out of the slave quarters at night to the main house. I would stand outside the window to the parlor. I would stand amongst the heat and the bugs and the filth on my toes to see inside. Inside that house was a little girl my age… With the most beautiful skin. I watched her dance while her father played music and her mother sewed. I watched her read and eat and sing and sleep, kept safe and warm and clean by her father.My father. The things it took to make that room possible, they were awful things. But inside that room was peace. That is what home is to me.
there’s a hole in the world like a great black pit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it, and its morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit, and it goes by the name of London. At the top of the hole sit a privileged few making mock of the vermin of the lower zoo. Turning beauty into filth and greed.
you see, like this flower, you are surrounded by dirt. but, like this flower, you still manage to flourish. your beauty still outshines everything else in view even when you are in nothing but filth, even when you are surrounded by ugly. and you remain so beautiful just by being yourself; you aren’t trying too hard or altering yourself in order to be something else - you are simply being yourself and nothing else, and that is what makes you so beautiful. that is what makes you so special.
you see, like this flower, you may appear to be stuck in difficult circumstance. but, like this flower, you are still growing. it is not easy for you to grow among concrete and yet, you are; you are growing because you are strong. you have so much untapped potential, so much strength that you didn’t even know was there, and that is what keeps you going even when you feel like you cannot go anymore. you don’t even realize how strong you are without even trying.
bathed / rotten- in homes made of carcusses, and dramatic violet skies i have come to you, crushed cherries in hand. calamity princess; only messes, and violence- storm come, stay in my bones / dead flowers in notebooks, and paper cranes / covered in dirty footprints back from 16, maybe 17 years ago. honey, bathroom floor tragedy, with alcohol soaked skin- love me. reach inside me, and break everything / take everything; kill me with poetry. drench me in purity, please. clean me, sticky hands / hungry tongue / cracked lips/ these bone china teeth- make me a shrine, for you. break me in with your fierceness, my dear / with this vulnerability, i crave- i’m yours to keep, down to the flesh, and bone. down to the soul. keep me. keep me, as i lay myself naked for you; in all my rawness. in all my filth. in all my beauty- i have nothing more to give, than this. please. yours.
Our society teaches us day in and day out to feel like we are incomplete.
To fee unworthy. We are fighting a never ending system, breeding hate and filth everywhere we look.
You can never reach the perfection they advertise. It’s an impossible goal. A goal, that if fought for leads to a life of constant struggle.
Choose yourself. Choose to live through the body you have been given.
Let your soul run through your veins and feel what it feels like to feel truly whole.
No one makes you feel more incomplete then your mind that has been turned against your beautiful vessel.
Take back your power and embrace the mighty took you live in.
in all that is left of me, there is you- with jupiter, and his moons // the sun that has failed us; and the beauty that we have had to bear because of it, lost among all we could have been, and all we are not
now gone, as the sky crumbles, spinning in our orbits of wanting more, and getting less // this hunger that evades, and fills us, ever so slightly; making my guilt stick- for
now, i am gone, in all the filth i carry, to the craters that have carried, the hearts of wolves, and eaten them, mercilessly // eat me- or how i wish you would, red;
with bloodied hands- painting this sun, and the faded one, with our love; and all we have // all we don’t have to show for it.
In my dreams, I see a dark man lurking in the background, unspoken and never approaching. Burdened, or rather pleasured, by the secrets that sit waiting on his tongue to tell of unknowable things. Things that will scorch my eyes and make me mad.
In my dreams, a red women flies overhead, reaching and grabbing at my limbs and hair. She sings a song of freedom and of soaring through the heavens, or perhaps a song of murder: dropping me as she rises and letting me fall back to the ground.
I dream of the lover so sweet and gentle, who batters me, stabs me, crushes me with hoof and horn. Giving me an ecstasy unthinkable as they rip out my heart.
It is a dream of love and hate, a dream of beauty and filth, a dream of life and death. A dream so true that it unites me with all. A feeling of completion, yet completely void of everything.
I dream of this mystery veiled by the blackness, with only the stars as my guide.
‘’Newlyweds are always
beautiful. They cannot fail to make the heart sing, for even the plainest faces
are alive with promise. In the East End, I found grace and faith and hope, hidden in
the darkest corners. I found tenderness and squalor and laughter amid filth. I
found a purpose and a path and I worked with a passion for the best reason of
all. I did it for love.‘’