The Apparition Jupiter

the apparition jupiter

i don’t really feel like i’m there, the ghost of jupiter says. it hovers somewhere in the middle as an unsettling voice booming from above with no body to accompany it. it’s just like i don’t exist, the planet says in a hazy shroud of mist. all the ominous portents are making their way towards jupiter in a procession. that gaseous body shifts even further from view as the spin of red-orange storms whips across beneath the surface, hurricanes and thunderstorms brewing inside with no containment. lightning will strike. but who will get struck? not jupiter, the disaster passing through like the dawn. so mighty, and reduced to so little. the planet fades to a dull sunset, an afterimage leaving this feeling that there should be something there that isn’t.

i return howling

black ringed eyes of smudged morality / questionable practises of immortality.

after ten thousand years you’d think we’d start to lose the taste / of salt and skin, lips to face.

kiss me still when i am inhuman / a beast wandering through the night.

here we are in the forest, teeth and claws and all / here we are in this dark humanity, ready to fall.

even then when i am lonely / i dream in full moons, bruised skies turned holy

i still sleep quiet underneath the night / i return, howling, home to you.

friday i'm in love (also i have your pants)

i text a lot of things at you without meaning because i’m meaning not to say too much. i got milk and look at this cat have you seen my eyeliner today, also i have your pants. you know the ones i borrowed and then i didn’t quite give back. i’m letting go now, i swear. we’re nothing more than friends. also i have your scarf, you left it the last time you were over because you left in a hurry. apparently you’re allergic to tulips or in some way to me because i hugged you on the way in and you turned right back out. god i hate myself more than i hate this or you. i text you still a lot, but never first; chivalrous and always after you. am i easier when you don’t have to look at me? also i like to look at you. every also i say is something i haven’t said to you. also i miss you. i can’t really miss you because i never had you. as your best friend i have to say i’m glad that you are happy. also it’s only just that i wish it were with me. also i’ll never do a thing about it. so i’ll just sit here and say also that i love you just a little and i’m not sure why. not a little. also i have your pants. also you have my heart.

the unquiet night

TIME IS A CONSTRUCT CONSTRUCTED BY BITTER ENDINGS AND THE SPIN OF A WORLD IN THE GAPING ABYSS THESE STARS ARE DEATHLESS AS MEMORY THEY CRUMBLE INTO DUST LIE AWAKE AND LIE TO YOURSELF THAT THIS IS NOT THE WAY THE WORLD ENDS INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT HOW LONELY WE WILL GO.

venus hates apostrophes and burning

because they’re always to the dead. the dead can’t hear you anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you shout. shout louder, even, because they’re dead. or have a conversation with the sun, shout at him instead. venus is the sun’s abusive lover, living next door. not abusive; tired. the sun still shines and venus tries to reason him away. i don’t love you anymore, venus says, and the sun gets too close still- like he doesn’t understand what this means. that venus can feel him everywhere, the atmosphere, skin blistering at a touch, his whole self burned away to leave only ash, that heat trapped inside- and venus shines brighter because of him, hopeful for something but god, doesn’t the sun know it’ll never work? a coat of armour for protection, another wasted shield and still. still, venus can’t get the light to go away and blinding is the sun’s only setting. it burns down to the truth of it, that venus only wants an apostrophe in the words “the sun’s” like a possessive and he’s tired of writing love letters to the dead or talking to the ghost of his self before the flames, venus only says those things because the sun would be better off without the second best. second closest, not even brighter than a star. the sun turns away and turns back, he always comes back, and venus wants to cry again with the heat of his gaze. no arrows, no apostrophes, no burning venus hates burning because it always means the sun, and red hands remind him of what he’s done. i’m sorry doesn’t cut it when you’ve cut too deep. he closes the door, shuts the window, turns the key and he’s still shaking, cold at the core where the light never reached. 67 million miles can’t keep out a chill. 67 million miles and venus burning still. apostrophe, from apostrophiese, to turn away. i don’t want to keep running, venus says, still half-shielding from the light. i don’t want to keep turning away.

post-it note poetry

leaving letters at bus stops that say ‘WE ARE FOREVER’ when i mean to say timeless because forever doesn’t exist. the difference between me & you? i understood what would happen when i left and did it anyway. you mean to say forever but say timeless because you can’t remember the symbol for infinity but want to know how being left is a metaphor for buses leaving. somewhere we are strangers together ‘WE ARE’ on a post-it note poem someone’s version of forever because they thought red lips on two girls meant roses meant timeless.