Dec 06

Tomorrow I'd like to live alone

I’d like to live alone some days –
picture window 
red mug
someone’s visiting tomorrow,
tomorrow I will live alone again
wait for the next tomorrow 
(I want it more)
stay a night,
stay an extra one;
go to sleep early to catch something
or go somewhere,
tomorrow stop for breakfast on our way 
(too early to cook)
coffee or hot chocolate?
paper cup 
outdoor breakfast 
three walls of snowflakes
(fourth is the building) 
it’s too early in the morning to not be in love
cold enough to feel calories do me good
(sometimes I forget this is life)
can we walk some more
just until springtime 
just until the snow melts
or just until tomorrow 
tomorrow I'd like to live alone
Aug 24

Candy Boy

Sometimes I can feel myself leaving this space 

Lifting to catch his summit

Listing hundreds of reasons that are pulled from my lips like man after man 

Candy is the word for it-

The candy your mother tells you not to take from strangers 

Only for you to grow up and find comfort in strangers

The same way you found comfort in her shadows, 

In strangers there is no memory, no friendship to tarnish with your touch. 

In strangers you find an absolute

An impersonal reassurance- 

There is no friend I can see as a man in the ways I need to see him; 

Detached from myself 

Incomprehensible to one who has come to learn of men through me

Instead of reflecting my hatred for myself in the ways his biology asks for me to touch him-

Can I unlearn all the ways to touch him?

If I asked him if he were an object 
Jun 13


I sigh for you when you look away
As if I wasn’t the one who set a fire to my mouth
In case you turned to kiss me- 
As if I wasn’t the one who offered to be your creation
Or to be your equal 
Or to be anything you needed me to be,
As long as it wasn’t in love, not with you-
For I am not the man who created my idea of self worth,
But a creature stuck between him and myself
Hinged on anything in place of what you offer

I sigh for the things that you enjoy 
As if I wasn’t the one who denied them for myself 
In case I fell for them like you did for me-
As if I wasn’t the one who spoke poison of the things you love 
Not from my own hate
But from the hate of another man,
Who holds his power through my guilt-
For I am not the man who created my idea of love,
But a loving man all the same
Even if all I can do is care for you 

I sigh for this
As if it were my own secrets,
Jul 31


My name is Phin.
Just Phin.
It wasn't always my name. 
But before it was, I didn't have one.
I didn't have a name, 
I had a time bomb tied to me at birth in the form of syllibals, of letters,
I had a personal slur in which I had to speak,
And hear, 
And bind to myself in the the form of writing 
And introduction. 
I didn't have a name,
But a barbed wire snake
Sleeping in the back of my throat, 
Awake at a young age
But growing with me,
Sparking more thorns and quicker to snap
The longer the word given to me was used.
The syllibals were feminine, a red flag to my differences when I spoke it,
Yet over the years it held with it
The pits of toxic masculinity,
The need to contrast and to contradict
The prison of letters 
That would become the definition
Of accidental abuse
To anything feminine,
In desperate attempts to be seen as anything but.
Jul 26

You say that you're ugly-

You say that you're ugly-
But have you ever seen yourself in a moment of happiness,
Instead of a dissatisfied one in front of a mirror?
Would you glare at someone
The same way you glare at your reflection?
Have you ever seen yourself laugh,
Not through the angle of a friend's camera,
But from the same spacious, pixel-free world
You draw your breaths from?

You say that you're ugly,
And you claim proof of that from pictures-
But have you considered
That the pixels on the screen
Don't compare to the living, breathing, moving life that you are?

If you hate yourself you will always see
A hateful person in the mirror-
But have you ever looked lovingly into your own eyes,
Have you ever noticed the way your face brightens when you smile,
Have you ever truly looked at yourself
The way the world does?

You see potential beauty as a standalone image,
Jun 21

Mea Culpas

 The man gazes out and past the extensive glass window that shows off to him an endless sliver of outer space, daydreaming about Earth while fermenting away in the multi-trillion dollar New Old-World resort -no, prison- of his own design. The vast, unimaginable plane of space prematurely greys his hair, and deepens the aging creases in his face like a much-walked path. A cigar is pinched tightly between two fingers, burning off to the point of almost reaching his hand, a faint smell of liquor circling around him when he exhales, almost as if it's his shadow's breath that reeks of alcohol. His eyes burn as he sits there, but he cannot blink, or look away from the endless lover's pupil of outer space, in fear that his world will end of he does so. Media-fed emotions expand and contort within his crackling being, attempting to create something human, but instead creating something that is both more and less then emotion.
May 22

désir de mort

We are those who find love
In the muffled click of men's black shoes,
Scandal in the satin of an undercoat
Whispering across the hanger
From fingers of condemned footmen

We find ballrooms as traps
Glittering with breathtaking death sentences, 
Pouring glasses and standing still
As lovers dance with woman

Graveyard weddings 
Whispered vows
Necklace of rope in place of a ring-
Celebrated for the death of a man,
Yet dead for the love of one;
Moth-eaten dinner jackets rot like bodies

We are those who find love
In the darkened shadows of a quiet room,
Cascading into history
As friendship in the whispers of scandal
Is taken as freedoms from the dead

'Til death do us part,
'Til shame finds us dead,
'Til the dance ends, my love... 
Apr 08

Walk the Bone

Apr 01

The Smell of a Street

   Feet rasp reluctantly on the pavement, the soles of shoes long-ago neglected slowly wearing down at the dragging steps; melancholy often takes a toll on ones footwear.

   Breath becomes visible in the cold morning air, swirling out like a snake. Lungs ache. Feet hurt. Hands shake. Head throbs. It becomes apparent to the universe that there is but a lone man walking on the side of the empty street. Not a car passes by, not a person spies him from a window, not even the birds take notice of him. And yet the world knows his dull pain, his lonely stroll. The world knows his life, his death, and the hitchhiking madness that stretches out his metaphors in the roads between.

   His feet move him slowly forward, each step awakening blisters. Time trickles past his mind and through the cracks in his fingers. Time floods, time clogs, time heals no wounds, yet wounds the man's heals as he trudges along. Time has no end, yet ends everything.
Mar 18


As you fall into the tides of her sleeping
You play out the slices of pen on paper-
To kiss the scars beneath her hands
Is to put lips to ink
Ink to sheets
Sheets and scars to blend alike
And curve into letters
That you would send to her through her trance-
But she doesn't dream;
Rather, she traces her fingers through stars,
Her feet dipped in galaxies
As she drinks from the planets and moons around her head
In her celestial rest.