Wednesday, March 31, 2010



dry hands.


boxes on the ground.

boxes on a pallet.

boxes on a conveyor belt.

boxes from a truck

in the shape of a box.

cardboard cuts my dry hands.

the blood becomes my moisturizer.

the boxes pile up.

the boxes crowd around.

applies pressure on my patience

but not on my wounds.

the blood spills.

the boxes pile high.

the dust gets compressed.

fills in every space.

fills the gaps between boxes.

fills the gaps between eyes and lids.

it burns to see.

to see these boxes pile over.

to see the blood fill the room.

swimming in my blood

i almost drowned

but the conveyor belt is my raft.

the pallets are vessels.

the boxes become pirates.

the dust keeps compressing

and we fight in the fog.

i wash my eyes out with blood.

not from this ocean

but from my everspilling hands

that keeps filling the room

thickening the fog

and drowning the pirates.

the ceiling gets closer.

death from above.

it takes no side.

the raft capsizes.

the pirates sink

and i'm holding my breath.

and as i bleed

my blood

my patience

my hope

the ceiling breaks

the roof collapses

and i breathe.

i lay on my back

as i flood this town.

not tears from my burning eyes.

not sweat from my dry skin.

i float away.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

a bottle

passed in circles

like the whore that she is.

she's disgusting by nature

so she puts on her face

in a fancy bottle

to imitate happiness

that we can hold in our hands.

she glosses her lips

and deodorizes her stench

with soda and lime.

she looks so pretty and inviting

though she's so bitter at heart.

the ice that floats around her body

glistens her chill.

who would have thought

that something that shines so bright

could feel so cold?

she freezes our mouths with hers

as we kiss her repeatedly.

she deceives us by burning our throats

like the whore that she is.

she numbs us.


we'd feel the pain

from the glass on her lips.

we forget who we are

or what we're doing

we forget that we hate ourselves.

the only way we can ever look good

is by destroying our livers.

but the beauty is only temporary.

the damage is eternal.

we drop all our cares

and live in the moment

or sometimes

die in the ignorance.

she leaves us with headaches.

every sound we hear

makes us regret even meeting her.

she's so wet

and though we lap up all her juices

we're the ones left with dry mouths.

she makes us feel

as if we matter

so we take all that we can

from her

until she's gone.


yet again

we are left with nobody

but ourselves.

until she's just an empty shell.

until she's just

a bottle.

Saturday, March 13, 2010