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[plantinghyacinths]

a girl who can tie your hands (5.9.17)

unrepentant lover, my only holy savoir when did i lose your favor?  i can’t recall i’d say you changed before the fall but this has always been your nature cigarette papers and alcohol to think we were in love --  your second bullet missed the wall

[plantinghyacinths]

photosynthesis is also a conversion (5.5.17)

he tried to break your very ribs themselves said he loved you but thought that maybe if he peeled away your skin he’d find that he could change the tick-tick-ticking of your heart and now you flinch my fingertips away the problem is we do not grow like plants the seed is fractured shattered burnt before the plant can breathe but we grow in layers around our pasts; his son will always be somewhere within begging absolution

there is no logic in the way you let me wear your only heavy winter coat to find the seeds burning your pocket still i cannot fix the bruise you bear to me i give only the promise i won’t try

[plantinghyacinths]

why apollo planted hyacinths (4.12.17)

you say you are willing to suffocate. your wounded wrists spill out across my bedsheets and i drink how could i not? we were athenians starving on Haze and heat while flies fed on our mutual achillean blood i hadn’t realized i was born with claws before i found your flesh between my jaws and if god damns me for the simple thought then what had i to lose by biting down? your illicit sigh against the back of your bloodied hands my god, my love with your bruised breath in my carnivorous lungs i could finally breathe.

[plantinghyacinths]

matchbox (3.16.17)

Your unholy ghost will not leave me be I burn sage in every corner of this house and still Nightly your ghost lights matches by the sill Of that great window by our bed while i pretend to sleep Vainly wondering if we could keep that flame burning indefinitely. This house is choking on the empty space Your corpse had once consumed. I cannot breathe Your intangible smoke in any amount; This ghost will never truly fill your place And so I patiently await the day it leaves And that damned match finally burns itself out.

[plantinghyacinths]

exhausted gasses (2.23.17)

You push silk from her shoulders, trembling hands. She burns below your touch, somewhere within A carapace of rouge and lace and bows; She undresses you like a nesting doll Breaking to show another painted face. Your heavy heartbeat heaves the ancient drums But the ancestral blood that trickled down From that first fallen son to you has been Diluted and distilled and now, disturbed In your veins, it runs less wine than water And you will never get quite drunk enough To meet the sob’ring red upon her lips With any honest feeling but remorse. Her touch is not the deliverance you Had been coughing up your prayers for: This is worship; but the altar you carve In her hipbones and holy hymns you sigh Cannot be heard by any deity Above the name you keep tightly between  Your front teeth and your tongue as the backs of  Your eyelids paint pictures of hyacinths. She laughs -- you bite your tongue ‘till you taste blood Knowing that you cannot ever love her Venus: martyred in someone else’s place.

[plantinghyacinths]

ariel (2.14.17)

We met not on your mother’s grave and yet Behind your lips I found her dying breath Thumb-print bruises around her pallor neck Her blue-ish veins are bleeding scarlet as She coughs her heart across the kitchen floor I hold yours to my chest and pray she cannot hear the way it beats in res’nant sympathy.

[plantinghyacinths]

when in rome (2.1.17) baptism in the acheron; these tears don’t hurt, they fall to bloodied lips and fill the trembling cups of mothers’ mothers’ fears.

we meet in vacant lots where wind sits still where vice and virtue coalesce, melange no milk and honey here; we eat our kill.

his eye makes dying wastelands of these ponds: we lie in dust, you ask me when we fell from bleeding-steeple skies to wilting fronds.

they’ll bury us before we hear the bells.

[plantinghyacinths]

something (3.15.16)

with lace-up boots and rubber souls we walk tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and yesterdays we are apt to forget upturned lips and smiles all the same we walk braiding callow beginnings into a Grecian crown your floral court rots by summertime leaving only the hard and ugly things behind we walk towards nothing and nothing towards nothing and nothing and in-between we find our own something