The nice girl who doesn’t swear.

I’m a nice girl who doesn’t swear.
So crack my head open
And pour the contents
Onto a frying pan,
Hear the squawk and sizzle
Of protein cooking with the past.
Throw the empty shell in the garbage,
And stir the browning contents,
Bet you thought a nice girl like me
Knows no bad words, no cuss words.
You’d be right.
Expletives are a strange kind of honest,
And I like my world glazed with deceit.
So I store my words in a dank, dripping cellar:
Tight.
Airless.
Hot, like a predator’s breath.
My words aren’t coarse, they are smooth,
Like poisoned wine, a bit fruity at times.
Cursing is too well adjusted;
My words foam, like rabid dogs
Enunciations flapping in the air like jowls.
My words aren’t in bad taste either
They are however likelier to dissolve the tongue.
Bet you’d bet a face like this could know no violence,
And that woodland creatures hop in and out of my dreams,
That my world is lit by leprechaun rainbow power
Because I am so very nice, and so very good.
Lets go with that then,
Wearing a wide-eyed, wide grin,
And talk lovely things about the nice girl,
The nice girl who doesn’t swear.
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Morse Code Directions

If I search I’m sure I’ll find an answer, maybe even the answer.

It might be hidden in the spray created by splattering drops on roads,

Or in the morse code of the sun coming in and out of fast-moving clouds,

Perhaps in the lonely of a supermarket parking lot at 4 am.

 

If I search, I am sure to find the question to fit the answer as well,

It might be a matter of discovering silence in a fish market,

Or dancing with the soaring, swirling blue tongues of a sulphur fire.

Perhaps at the core of a supercell, in the juggernaut churn of its violence.

 

Maybe it lies in the life and times of the shifty, sub-atomic character: Muon,

That attends no social gathering or event for more than 2.2 microseconds,

Or in the infinite schemes and plans spinning in the round eyes of a two year old,

Whose pupils are always dilated to swallow the world whole.

 

Somewhere beneath this copper sulphate blue tent lie both parts:

The perfect duet of the right question and the right answer, waltzing away,

And I’d want to sit and watch their performance from beyond the rink,

If only someone would give me directions to the damn ticket counter.

Bored Today.

Take the peeler,

And begin with your forearm,

You’ll be tempted to cry out. Don’t.

As the peels of bloody skin roll up and out,

Think of how ordinary pain is.

 

And remember,

Blood is blood inside the veins,

Within the body it counts,

Outside, it loses all meaning,

Just drops of red on a marble floor.

 

Crack. crack. crack.

My bones break one by one,

But that’s okay,

I was bored today.

 

Are you bored tonight?

Is your heartbeat quite right?

Lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub,

Listen to it a while.

 

Don’t drop the peeler,

Keep going even when it’s a mess,

It’s a lovely night after all,

And later, I promise, you’ll get to rest.

2 AM ACHE

It’s a 2 am ache,

Rising sharp at 5 pm,

Like every hour before it,

Like every hour after.

 

In the in-between minutes,

There are heartbeats,

Mingling and distracting

From this punctual vacuum.

 

I swear I deleted your face,

I don’t remember your name,

I can’t recall your smile,

Or your scent or taste.

 

I’ve removed your words,

The brand of your touch,

You don’t laugh in memories,

Because you don’t exist anymore.

 

You never were, never will be,

It was the easiest thing to do,

After a while of being the toughest,

Reached last but finished my race.

 

But then…

There’s the 2 am ache,

An SOS no other radio can receive,

Emitted and caught by atoms in my bones,

On a special kind of stupid loop,

It’s feedback without melodic genius:

This special, non-hummable 2 am ache.