A Warm Place to Self-destruct

by Weasel

holy

  thinking it’s cold outside, you took

  me to the arsonist, making flames drip

  from your eyes, we quiver in the heat,

  sedated in your eden

  you were holy—giving blessings

  from your chipped teeth and

  cigarette saintliness

  i can see them in your body,

  seeds from the prayer beads

  you swallowed as you dissolved

  the nightmares i carried

  my fears have run dry

  angel of small death,

  i was your follower, still dreaming

  when your body could no

  longer satiate my hunger

  when time began to crack away

  at the glow that surrounded you,

  i could not hear you speak anymore

  i could not open up your wounds

  i could not explore the decadence you inherited

  requiem

  it’s cold, but there is a comfortable silence in the late hours; a lost peace only insomniacs understand. midnight is an apple from the wrong tree, but is eaten because sacrifice is an addiction only we can explain—a ritual lulling our hearts as we appease questions that fill our bellies. nirvana as it lies.

  i am driving under broken streetlamps when i see them, local street ninjas uncovered sensually by the headlights in the frozen ohio air. passing good times and nicotine through huddled flesh. they slowly dissolve into darkness of sidewalks, eyes locking, dreams opening doors painted with paths I never wanted to delve in to.

  he is only a house away, temptation that rips my personal eden, waiting for us to follow the stars to their graves so we can be reborn. he is a labyrinth my hands grow anxious to explore. tonight he is holy, filled with a decadence i have not yet tasted, and this odyssey can only be made once in a person’s lifetime. we have hated ourselves just long enough to drive into the same black hole of freedom.

  i trudge through the snow with an appetite greater than the dope these ninjas sell to each other, trading personal requiems for quick fixes and pale stories. it is not what i desire. in all our dreams we come to know this, and we wait to experience.

  i think of you in terms of hysteria

  the moon hangs empty tonight

  leaving tall buildings

  and sharp sins to shelter us

  under busted street lights

  you lure me closer

  lips cinching

  tongue plucking teeth

  leaving the taste of maraschino cigs

  the taste of tobacco with class

  my fingers climb the stairway of your back

  but you have eaten too many thorns

  your stems have grown jagged

  i slice my hand trying to get inside you

  dance the tango while you make the earth quake

  you were obliteration

  pulling apart our bodies

  yet this is what i crave

  dust and debris piling in my throat

  the taste of our home crumbling into dissolution

  abandonment

  you slipped away from me

  left your last words on the concrete

  they were the shotgun shells

  pumped into my gut

  the last delirium that will never heal

  afflictions

  my thirst quaked for your tastes

  when the fevers left

  i searched for you

  inside every crevice made

  from the linings of a last breath

  we were weak

  fingers wandering

  final roadways of our bodies

  no recovery in our sleep

  only erasure as we fall

  to our frailty

  such is uncertainty

  such is time—

  eroding our vision

  taking all our patience

  for each other as we eat of our flesh—

  we are hungry creatures

  wanting each other to die

  so we could meet in the other life

  our hands gather at the confessional

  arsonist waiting inside

  when the fires touch your skin

  i could only think

  of how lost we will be

  when we finally share

  our last rites

  poison

  feet touch cold cement

  as the alarm screeches 4am

  it rains this morning

  barren skies light up

  with quick shots of lightning

  every few moments

  it returns the pulse

  to earth

  when she is running dry

  rain drops slam down

  like spilled beads in a thrift shop

  all i can hear are the thuds

  bouncing my sheet-metal skull

  fingers fumble with aspirin

  slamming three pills down

  i wonder am I poisoning myself?

  some nights my head rumbles while i dream

  yet dreams are only temporary novacain

  even a natural drug like sleep can’t last forever

  5am, shower, pop meds

  for blood pressure

  take a long drag of nicotine

  before downing 260mg of caffeine

  it keeps me calm

  but alert enough to push

  through another 9-hour day

  starve until lunch

  then eat processed garbage

  eventually this’ll kill me

  but, I can’t be bothered

  with death

  father corp. needs folks

  to man his computers

  for piss-poor wages

  don’t dare get sick

  h.r. can’t handle the paperwork

  end of the day

  sit in traffic

  take another cig

  think about a beer

  when i get home

  it’ll help sleep off

  the caffeine intake

  before repeating

  the process

  all over again

  to keep the lights on

  to be distracted

  by cable news

  reporting fluff pieces

  and political opinions

  i’ll never find interesting

  before i sleep i imagine

  what it would be like

  to just drive off

  to be nameless

  and on the road

  but all roads crack

  as you awake

  roaches

  i shudder when i see them on my stove

  fluttering wings in the darkness

  jutting out erratic spasms

  when the lights flush on

  there is an infestation somewhere

  otherwise they wouldn’t hang around

  i killed one on my wall today

  slammed the good show into its back

  and wriggled it around

  white noise scraping

  as remains fall

  the ceiling drips like bad plumbing

  mold will set in soon

  and the bank has run dry

  these walls are slowly dying

  at night i sit in bed suffocating

  from the thinning air

  this house is taking me with it

  struggle is our nature

  and we have known

  the art of decay all our lives

  i cannot save it this time

  i am a poor soul

  with debtors prepared

  to wrap the noose around my neck

  and kick the stool from under my feet

  the roaches call the shadows home

  at night i hear them scurrying in the walls

  like rats, they hide to survive

  this house is not meant to stand much longer

  the root of infection is far from my grasp

  i reach out to tend the scrape
s

  but I only give quick fixes

  that rapidly deteriorate

  i wonder if the infection will leave

  when the house finally falls

  frailty beneath wreckage

  when the sun rises

  they will come to take the car

  they will pull it out onto the street

  they will knock on the door

  and tell me that the bill is past due

  by the afternoon

  the lights will be shut off

  i will peel poems

  from my skin

  and mail them to the debtors

  for i have nothing else

  they are not interested in my begging

  there are no more extensions

  they say they tried

  yet their negotiations

  are not flexible

  the collectors have finally caught me

  their fingers encircle my throat

  leaving me without breath

  i could pray, but prayer

  is only a currency

  made of air

  it cannot fulfill demands

  it can only push back the inevitable

  i have nothing

  they can take

  i am a shell

  buried in the back yard

  midnight’s starving

  i met him on the street

  corner, where the world

  crashed, and the stars

  spun in the lamps; a

  mecca of forgotten bus

  tickets and too many

  starving midnights that

  never seem to leave. he

  had worked hard for his

  sorrow as it spilled onto

  the ground, seeping deep

  into the roots. the earth

  swallowed his words like

  holy water, never becoming

  fully blessed, only taking them in

  like a shot of morphine

  right into its heart.

  he followed people covered

  in deserts, and talked to

  ghosts, believing that if he

  killed himself enough times they

  would answer back. he told me

  this, and when he finished it was

  as if we had prayed on the same

  cliff, but i had lost the ability to believe.

  the day i got off the plane

  i pulled weeds from my past

  and got lost in the bones

  that were buried

  when they let us off

  i fogged up the glass of my body

  so you wouldn’t see

  slivers of bad gardening

  most days, all i do is panic

  my hands become seizures

  my legs—jitterbugs

  then i heard your voice

  and i realized

  we were perfect

  let the healing bleed through

  we send our prayers

  in hopes the monsters

  will remain in the shadows—

  when creatures swarm around us

  they burn our bridges to heaven

  i sent my prayers with you

  the morning you were coming home

  stuffed them all in a text

  and let the words ride

  electric currents to you

  you said he flashed his penis—

  told me about his hands rubbing along your thighs

  as open fields swam by the windows

  it made your bones tremble

  i sat at the other end of the screen

  sending more words

  through stiff keys

  fingerprints etching

  into the keyboard

  out of anger

  my fists could shatter mountains

  unscarred knuckles hungered to see teeth

  splattered into the wall

  instead, they held your hand the car ride home

  allowed for stars to form between our fingers—

  constellations we use to find each other

  because not all things are burned away at dawn

  i drew you closer when we got home

  held you as a lover should

  i wanted to help the healing

  bleed through

  it takes time for moments to become illusions

  the same distance it takes for our fingers

  to reach gods lips when we’re desperate

  but there is still hope here

  and you’re worth every new stitch

  etches itself along our path

  foreign as it may be

  my fingers know

  how to return to you

  when we’re lost

  i still dream of you when the stars are gone

  you were the centerfold i stared at in the dark

  growing crinkled over time

  catching a few rips on the edges

  but flesh is only temporary

  when i thought about tasting you

  the air stood still

  my frame grew fragile

  hushed breaths squeezed out the thinning of my dreams

  as i let you roam around inside me

  we were skeletons

  playing bass with each other’s veins

  waltzing jitterbugs through our blood

  this is all we have left

  chunks of bone

  growing brittle over time

  interlude

  waiting for our burgers, we stand in the drive-thru at 1am

  pale lights flicker underneath barren skies, at the edge

  of consciousness you huddle against me, cold hands

  linger close to my chest, cars whisper ripe exhaustion

  while tired cooks nuke frozen patties between stale

  buns—we stand silent against the air, holding our

  yawns, wondering what parking lots look like during

  the day, weary hands toss brown paper bags through

  the window, we walk home listlessly, dreaming

  of stars to follow, wondering if this road will end

  bouncing prayers off the living

  my boyfriend asks me if i have religion,

  i tell him i offer prayers to the wind

  in hopes of one day growing whole

  but being whole isn’t about god

  it’s about finding the strength to love yourself

  because the bible belt instilled

  the fear of angels in your heart

  he tells me our beliefs make us people

  give us our traditions and the manners

  to live with one another

  but i have yet to feel human inside

  i have yet to feel my heart beat like the next guys

  my coworkers ask me if i go to church

  i keep my head down

  and say no

  but my insides feel

  like burning scriptures

  in the trashcan

  but that’s infringing

  on their rights

  and i’m not human

  enough to protest their faith

  i bounce poems off skulls

  at the poetry show

  but poetry isn’t strong enough

  to keep the audience awake

  they’re fading in the seats,

  i tell myself social media is an outlet

  until i see the thick skin devils inking

  facebook with misguided hatred

  towards immigrants and other beliefs

  “pray for america because she needs it”

  splattered all across the blue and white screen,

  but prayers eventually fall through,

  the country’s backbone is giving out,

  i am tired of religions and your preaching

  i can’t look at other people

  they’ll pray for me,

  the bondage that rages my madness

  how many of them h
ave a bullet to give away

  before they grow tired of the conversion process?

  my boyfriend tells me i should find a god

  all i can think of is reimagining myself

  there’s beauty in destruction

  before you’re reborn

  he rests easily nowadays

  i’ve forgotten where he mails his prayers

  i often dream of what it is like

  to simply live without spirits

  tagging alongside you

  the heavens are not yet full

  i slid the ring across your finger the day love was free

  held your hand because i knew it was no longer a dream

  i remember the woman

  who spat on us for holding hands

  terror drove her lips

  some folks do not understand

  what it is to really love

  they only speak angel to their wives and husbands

  so that you and i can suffer

  for the good of our society

  the heavens are not yet full

  god is not littered with misinterpretations

  he is waiting for us to find joy

  as we live our vows

  gifting ourselves to each other

  it will be our hour of god

  the hour we say i do, i do, i do...

  we wore our affection to dinner

  when i came out as gay

  i didn’t hang my human self

  in the closet

  i opened the door

  hoping to be normal

  you told me—mothers know their children

  said you were happy to see the costume

  peeled off my skin

  i thought for a moment

  happiness exists

  i felt it

  there is a liminality to cracking yourself open—

  a brief pause in the mundane cycle

  where all our wrongs come back

  skies hauled your grief

  as i told you

  i was marrying a man

  you stood in the driveway

  a woman of god—reborn

  sorrow falling with the rain

  when you got in your car

  i could see your mask crack

  your emotions too provoked

  to keep from throbbing

  as you left

  the weight of a comet

  i see you falling from

  the stars, affection

  incurable, but i could

  never hold the weight

  of your heart

  docile creature, i

  look to you, bones

  dissolving to dust,

  but i am simply

  a masochist in

  love with sacrifice

  you were the affliction

  i could not pull out of me

  we will grow empty

  poison growing inside you

  entangling your bones

  shooting pain through the weeds

  that are cemented to your insides

  i want to rip it all from you

  but healing is an art

  and i am unskilled

  when i go to work

  i think of how the roads make oceans between us

  of how quiet your voice will be

  if you shut down

  if you dissolve

  at night i listen to you sleep

  whispers of air tumble from your lips—

  the music that breaks the stillness

  of early morning hours

  i am addicted to your warmth

  placing my hand on your shoulder

  letting it ride the ebb of your breath

  i fear the day it leaves you

  the day these whispers stop

  while i sleep i call

  child of mercy

  drip my prayers on your forehead

  like ashes

  i pull you close to me

  we both grasp the abyss—

  we both grasp the weakness

  of our hearts

  ordinary madness

  i drink my coffee on saturday mornings

  with a new pack of cigs

  before the stars fade in the blue

  the art of survival is staying intact

  while searching for answers

  among rubble

  these folks will wake soon

  walls will bounce

  groggy hurricane voices

  on top of playfully untrained animals

  while the sun rises

  i don't want to self-destruct

  but i'm teetering the line of stability

  my home is built on bitterness

  a vigorous taste

  that tempts my fingers

  into clawing the tastebuds

  off my tongue

  i am a soul entangled in simple desires

  fiddling with resentment

  that haunts me

  while my past due notices

  stack high in the garbage

  i want to run

  to find shelter

  but there's delicacy in breathing

  my hands are bound

  to ordinary madness

  watching the collapse of silence

  pile under morning pandemonium

  not the only jackal

  crawling through i-10 towards alabama

  houston rain disturbs the stillness of early morning

  needles jab over my arms

  we grow constricted

  cars forming single lines

  ascending with the street lights

  you are huddled in the passenger seat

  low murmurs of drowsiness escaping

  while your mouth sits ajar

  they say we are all angels when we sleep

  though your halo has never drifted far from your head

  i doubt i am that sacred

  vaping nicotine to sooth

  the tightness of bumpers connecting

  using whatever caution

  one can have while driving blind

  this storm cannot be exorcised

  our roads have been destined

  to feel her hanger this morning

  but this storm is not the only jackal awake

  holding your hand

  i think of the storms i have created between us

  yet the ring on your finger has never wavered

  you have always been forgiving of my indiscretions

  i wonder if you ever realized you were in love with a demon

  or that you would have to live

  worrying if there is food in our fridge

  i am grief

  the cool smoke hanging between us

  when the pay is gone and we’re thirsty

  how i wish we had months without suffering

  but those mistakes are embedded in our past

  we are leaving texas

  for a few small moments

  leaving the past in its place

  we will return soon after

  maybe we can see the light

  on our way back

 

  the stove is going senile—or maybe i am

  i set the burner to low

  but the stove feels

  that cooking with sunshine

  will taste better

  it fires up bright

  in solidarity of the brother

  it never knew

  and can’t see

  under the rain

  a low southern thunder crackles

  while eggs sizzle

  and bacon pops

  from the window i watch boulders

  floating through water

  mind slipping out of sync with time

  my husband rattles in the background

  but ears grow cotton

  as i think of how it would feel

  if i swam under the storm

  my heart hammers against my flesh

  my lungs h
ave forgotten how to take in air

  while i walk with dreams

  the kitchen has grown a beard of smoke

  as i shut the power off the stove

  everything charred

  you can’t swim with rain

  it takes more than a waterfall

  to drown successfully

  eggs cool

  while water

  drips through the ceiling

  Acknowledgements

  a dog from hell was published in the June 2016 edition of Silence is Not an Option by Wicked Banshee Press

  afflictions was published in the June 2016 edition of Sick Lit Magazine

  bouncing prayers off the living was published in the 2016 Atheist Issue of Crab Fat Magazine

  fire was published in the 2016 edition of Boundless by the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Fest

  the heavens are not yet full was published in the September 2015 edition of Intertwined, published by Inspirity and the June 2016 edition of Silence is Not an Option by Wicked Banshee Press

  heroin was published in the June 2016 edition of Sick Lit Magazine

  holy was published in the 2016 edition of Boundless by the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Fest

  how the stars say fall was published in the October 2015 edition of Syzygy Poetry Journal

  how light tastes without direction was published in the May 2016 edition of Nowhere Poetry and Fiction

  i still dream of you when the stars are gone was published in the June 2016 edition of Sick Lit Magazine

  i think of you in terms of hysteria was published in the June 2016 edition of Sick Lit Magazine

  interlude was published in the 2016 edition of Boundless by the Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Fest

  midnight’s starving was published in the March 2016 edition of the Yellow Chair Review

  purgatory has been published in the 2016 edition of Opus Journal

  reaching for the embers was published in the January 2016 edition of Lost in Orange by Earl of Plaid

  our last days was published in the 2015 edition of Thirteen Poets, A Poetry Works Anthology

  she hung half full above us was published in the Love and Ensuing Madness edition of the Rat’s Ass Review 2016

  somewhere was published in the 2015 edition of Thirteen Poets, A Poetry Works Anthology

  we are all holy was published in the June 2016 edition of Silence is Not an Option by Wicked Banshee Press

  we think we know what snow looks like when it falls was published in the June 2016 edition of Sick Lit Magazine

  we will grow empty was published in the April 2016 edition of Di-Verse-City by the Austin International Poetry Fest

  the weight of a comet was published in the October 2015 edition of Syzygy Poetry Journal and the 2015 edition of Thirteen Poets, A Poetry Works Anthology

  Weasel is a degenerate writer who received his Bachelor of Arts in Literature at the University of Houston-Clear Lake. He currently uses it as scrap paper to fuel his two publishing imprints Weasel Press and Red Ferret Press. Combined they release 10-15 books a year. Weasel has been featured several times on Living Art with Dr. Michael Woodson, 90.1 KPFT, and has made an appearance in a documentary titled Something Out Of Nothing (S.O.O.N.) by Mitchell Dudely. Weasel’s writing has appeared in several online and print journals and anthologies. In September of 2014, he released his first collection of poetry, Ashes to Burn, through Transcendent Zero Press. In April of 2015 he released a novella, Cigarette Burns (Out of Print), through Kool Kids Press, and in May of 2015 Weasel released a poetry collection, The Hell Inside Us (Out of Print), with Earl of Plaid. He is expecting a new novella out through Thurston Howl Publications in 2016. It is titled We Live for Half Moons.

  www.poetweasel.com

  www.facebook.com/poetweasel

  www.twitter.com/systmaticweasel