I painted the walls with your name
and then burned the fucking house down.
The oceans aren't going to boil themselves,
and what are we going to do with all this salt?
Cake me, baby. I wanna repent for the pain.
I can't hurt you like he did, or does, or will --
it's so hard to keep track of your movements.
Why did I spend months splashing Seagrams
like holy water when you like the pain?
You could've just told me that. I can find
the right shade of grey if that's what you need.
Irony is not lost on me, and the definition
is not lost on you. Your new life is built
on top of the concept like a haunted house
on a burial site. Bury me or marry me,
I'm not what you need right now anyway.
You need a familiar ache, fangs that know
how to tear into a heart, eyes that can't stop
wandering, a mouth made for half-truths
and other peoples' lips. No,
I am not what you need right now.
You needed someone to call you
when you were lying next to me.
I could call you when you're lying
next to him. And you could give me a second
chance because I don't deserve one,
and that's how this all works, isn't it?
SPEAK, BEAR. SPEAK.
Various arrangements of the same twenty-six letters by Dylan M. Thompson
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
[Pray high, sinners]
Pray
high, sinners. Take the pills and parcel them
out
amongst the lot of you. Find forgiveness
in
the lighter head, the warmer numb.
Ask
our lord for a hand and he’ll shake us
clean.
I died for you one time, but never again.
Lift
lines like lifting spirits – we live in heaven now.
At
least we think this is where we are. Darker
than
originally imagined, louder than the place
we
came from. Our fathers said this will pass
and
we don’t believe them worth a bit of salt.
We’re
worth a bit of salt. A bit of sound, quiet
or
otherwise – good men know where they are.
We
are not good men. We are the big-eyed bugs
who
can’t see the future. Who are built to ruin
moviesets
and pretty girls crying in their homes.
Eighteen
eyes, eighteen drinks in, we can’t see
eighteen
inches before us. Damned by our loves.
Silly
rabbits – they thought we’d scatter when the lights came on.
Labels:
dylan m thompson,
fiction,
new york,
poetry,
rhode island,
writing
Monday, May 5, 2014
Untitled, May 5
Hell
used to be further away than the front door
and I can only recall the better lines.
A
heart of black gold –
there was a beating to it
once, but the mass
it
don’t breathe no more. I want to dig a hole in the world
only to find someone
has done it
before.
Baby, defeat me.
There was a desire once, and pure
thoughts.
Noble action. A truth that would
burn itself at the stake. Truth like a
kiss
like
a rock.
Kiss
like a rock. Now we kiss like rocks kiss.
She
found a strange sweetness in my mouth once,
a
taste greater than the smoke.
More saccharine than the tinny blood
the sink finds each morning now.
I
filled the lungs and the hole. I burned the truth, burned the sugar off.
I
learned a lesson once,
quickly learned to kill:
Killed a heart and it turned black.
Killed a girl and she kissed me back.
Kissed me ‘til the cows came home.
Kissed me ‘til her stop came up.
Labels:
dylan m thompson,
fiction,
new york,
poetry,
rhode island
Monday, August 26, 2013
Fucked, forever
The
beautiful boys and girls used to run
ragged
through the East Village, puking
on
sidewalks and fucking themselves stupid
with
the joy they borrowed from each other.
We
used to meet their cousins – tight
and
smooth, trusting adolescents
from
the Midwest. They let their hands
rub
up our thighs, to our soft or swollen spots.
Nobody’s
cousin is fucking anyone tonight.
There
was a time we said: love.
Then,
we said: appreciate.
I
discovered a lady’s tells, and she sent me away.
I
could steal her money and cut out her tongue,
but
she would still play with my fingers –
an
aimless, silent monologue through a mouthful
of
blood. This is how we knew each other.
This
is when we drank and fucked, forever
looking
for a path. She showed me her light
and
it turned out to be a train and a tunnel
and
we don’t know what we want anymore.
We
do know what we need.
I
need a bed that won’t quit and a meter
that
won’t expire, something I can keep
time
to when the light goes out.
And
all she needs is the hard cock
of
her handsome man.
Labels:
dylan m thompson,
fiction,
new york,
poetry,
rhode island,
writing
Friday, April 19, 2013
For Boston
Boston is not our home, but our sisters
live there. Our sisters' boyfriends live
there too. The former loves we knew
are down the street, those wet-mouthed
boys and girls we kissed on Commonwealth
wait on corners with cold faces.
Kin, made of shared blood
and shared necessity, are creating
new life in the city. From within.
With one another. We are visitors
but our people are not. The city
has adopted them, like it always has.
Boston is not our home, but our mail
gets lost there sometimes. Traveling
by train or by bender, we look
to be welcomed by the ghosts
we left in the backyard of our
neighboring town. We want to have
a drink with you soon, Boston.
You're the friend we've had
since childhood. We don't always
think the same, but we all want
the same thing now. To get back
to the sweet closeness of when
we all felt safe. The soft where
that gives New England its heart.
live there. Our sisters' boyfriends live
there too. The former loves we knew
are down the street, those wet-mouthed
boys and girls we kissed on Commonwealth
wait on corners with cold faces.
Kin, made of shared blood
and shared necessity, are creating
new life in the city. From within.
With one another. We are visitors
but our people are not. The city
has adopted them, like it always has.
Boston is not our home, but our mail
gets lost there sometimes. Traveling
by train or by bender, we look
to be welcomed by the ghosts
we left in the backyard of our
neighboring town. We want to have
a drink with you soon, Boston.
You're the friend we've had
since childhood. We don't always
think the same, but we all want
the same thing now. To get back
to the sweet closeness of when
we all felt safe. The soft where
that gives New England its heart.
Labels:
boston,
dylan m thompson,
fiction,
new york,
poetry,
rhode island,
writing
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