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The Suicide SummitThere is a dead energy,The Suicide Summit by ~allofmyconfusion
a fog over the shore
when the loom of the light
house was more from me
than any dead object;
and that dead object,
and the summit
where the sun was born
and the ocean where
no one was born.
I rush into the muse
– a water star,
seraph reincarnation.
The Lighthouse
and I were lovers
before he fell in love
with the language,
and I too star infused,
we were both
too similar to be anything
extraordinary.
There is a dead energy,
a sigh of the once love,
or regard let die;
and that regard
was between the ocean
and I. I want more
of the salt.
I want more of nothing,
the Light
house crumbles.
Not
Lichtenberg FigurePastel lace set on fire,Lichtenberg Figure by ~allofmyconfusion
tattooed onto the skin
with god light.
Hawthorne buds bloom
in full sun, a swallowed
seed from the pit
of her chest,
but the branches
were bare, and nothing
beautiful flourished.
Honeyed hollow of her neck
and coast across the
collar bones,
vein mountain ridges,
angrily pale,
aged in a blink
or a swig of firewater.
She calls herself light
because that’s all she wears,
the scars of its attack.
The god light,
the stain,
the lightning
flower.
This Poem Is Not For YouOrwell never returns my calls.This Poem Is Not For You by ~allofmyconfusion
I think he owes me that much at least
and when he stood me up in Berkshire,
the groundskeeper told me he’s been
dead for years, but I’m sure he paid
him off. The grave face had no face,
and spoke no words of his actual own.
He was tattooed.
“Eric Blair”
was not a man but a low doorway,
one of too much metal and stone.
My Alice hands couldn’t manage
the doorknob, so I slipped my letter
under the crack. The groundskeeper
read it after I left I saw; it probably
just sounded like madness to him.
Nonsense poetry is the language
I am most articulate in. George
would understand I&rsquo
Fragment 1She was one of those poemsFragment 1 by ~allofmyconfusion
and I was one of those writers.
I.
Her religion is hers alone,
but she shares it with heaven.
A gust rushes up to her
from the grave face and
bathes her in some divinity
that looks like saturated
starlight. Heaven died
in 2005, but she still reads
to her on the anniversary
of her last journey home.
She has been to too many funerals
and not enough birthdays;
her eyes are huddled
and wary of people now,
maybe not of people,
but of how quickly they go away
and don’t return.
She wore black too many times,
and things like that just
sort of stick.
That’s the nice thing about
loving heaven though:
Artistic 
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