Friday, August 31, 2012

Some Words Are Just Too Sacred


is never a good word to be used
in love.

do not reassure her with words interlaced with
‘always’. she will be soothed and appear to be assuaged but
it will be a word that would come back to haunt you
like a bloodhound. it will sniff you out years later,
aroused by the dwindling affection you feel for her, the
utter dissatisfaction and insipid detachment in your relationship.
and it will devour you.

i will always love you,
will become the most fearsome boogeyman
under your bed and in your closet.


is for the use of immortals.
there are people who understand love (these are the immortals)
and there are people who vaguely grasp it, but are
too afraid or too ignorant to penetrate it
further. to delve deep into its core, and yet
never lose sight of the starting point,
to never forget what your heart might have forgotten.

and even then,
it must be a word that can only be written; it must never be spoken,
for the spoken word, even when whispered, can be devastating.

Thursday, August 30, 2012


If you would love me, know first, that I'm a free verse. I am not a Shakespearean sonnet,  nor will I ever be the immaculate, rhythmic structure of Dickinson's meters. If you love me, it's because you understand the beauty of chaotic abyss, you appreciate the exactitude and veracity of each chosen word and you manage to find structure and cohesion under the epidermal pandemonium. You know that I will be mercurial and volatile - you will love me till your heart feels like breaking and you will hate me to my marrows. If you love me, you'll know that I love savagely and painfully, because I've never learned to love otherwise. If you love me, I will always be a part of you - at the fine line between sanity and insanity, in the darkest concourse of your mind.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

So If I Can Finish These By This Year I Would Be Satisfied:

1. The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka
2. The Sickness unto Death, Soren Kierkegaard
3. Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
4. The Plague, Albert Camus
5. Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre

And by the time I finish these I would be one of those people who stay up all night chain smoking and thinking about the complexities of the universe with a scotch in hand and I wouldn't be able to survive without coffee in the morning and actually coffee all day. I would write motherfucking god awesome books about things no one really understands save the people who osculate in this dreary and infinite field. I would zone out in the middle of a conversation for a long pause and proceed to say the most kooky, depressing things ever. People will start shunning me because I'm too creepy and too goddamn wretched for them. I would be the ominous, gloomy overcast that looms over their happy little cotton parade.

That actually sounds pretty fucking awesome.

P.S. I don't know why, but philosophy triggers my foul language button.