Cut a blade with my fingers crossed,
I sip your lips with my blood
Mine yours & what’s mine isn’t mine
Mine; my consent my body not mine
Mine, so I fantasize, already sized you
Up—

Mad I dream about being
Awake until undead or
Not lucid— so I can have
A feast on lips yours & merge
& share one monstrous like a
Rafflesia arnoldi.

Gorgeous body with us/you/we
I— have a blind spot
A nocturnal amicable detestation
Infested with the love like
The dawn breaking / fading night
Welcoming, a morning with
Possibilities of mourning:
I carry my spine
Full of knives invisible,
Sorrowful for
You have been
Plaguing mind/heart/soul
For eternities. My love
Has its roots in some
Rotten old story, now
Worse for wear. I wear my
Heart on my sleeve, but your
Tiger still mauls my affection
Deeming it an unacceptable
Weakness, so I grow heartless,
Curious: dream of cutting you
Open like a frog for research,
For experimentation, for the
Sake of science. If I could
Pick you apart & put you
Back together, with the help of
A lab in a thunderous dark
Castle, to see if you are a mutant
Or another version of Frankenstein
Awakened.

Scissor-hands
Foxes axes leading to ashes my cracks
Are already open ready for the
Inner turmoil, disturbance;
Moving in the right direction

Only in imagination I turn
Ultra-violent, electra—
The only way is up as is
My salvation heaven—

An escape— I build my own ladder,
A cosmic Tarantino-sequel, or a
Tarantula-adorned contest of
A contented self I had to contend with.

Been a dormant monster.
Someone must have said freeze—

Your insults felt like
A breeze— a walk
In the park, dark, misty:

I mistook erupting
Volcanoes fireworks & lava snaking
Its way through the cracks—

For warmth & light— I am a mouthful
Aren’t I, in your fangs your jaw clenched tight
Like my jeans blue, right?..

I dreamt of unbecoming a victim,
Grew hands like scissors, words with
Edges, so I could cut your voice off,
Out of my mind my damaged heart, but

My scissor-hands remained idle as
Tongue twisted into knives.
Could never touch your blood with
Hands but only your bruises & regrets—

Maybe I trap my villain in rhymes
Build harmonies without chimes,
For they are my children,
Forget that I

Ever dreamt of any ultra-violence—
Let it remain a pink elephant in the
Room, bury the gloom & let my roses
Bloom like a baby in the womb—

This poem is inspired by Arisa White’s poetry collection, “You’re the Most Beautiful Thing that Happened”— the line;

Your hands crave to cut— my fingers with
The blade.

In celebration of my frogs

Lab frogs lying on their backs,
Exposing their insides all out &
About—

My words like a lab frog resting in a
Dead state: I dread as words only appear
In head before I drown them
In delete eat vomit—
Make them new

Make them breathe anew de novo
Novo has a ring to it like merry-go-round
Round— making me nauseous my
Space inner disguised as a disposable,

Flaw,
Craving invisibility— you’re counting
Sheep to sleep one two three, I’m counting
Words to kill my asleep one
Two many— like the frogs & other
Animals you kill for the sake of
Arts & sciences—

The title is inspired by the poem of Anne Sexton ”In Celebration Of My Uterus“

My version of Mulholland Drive

No, I wasn’t supposed to stop here,
Sir, linger here, & be haunted by a
Masterpiece sir,
I have no addition; I feel more mortal
Than ever— someone lynched my
Dream Hollywood, dream Nobel,
By raising the bar so high up to the
Clouds

Sunset boulevard,—
To a perfect amalgamation — Mulholland Drive—
Of a dream about a
Hollywood dream about a
Dream/nightmare—

No, I wasn’t supposed to stop here,
Sir, but I did & when they point
A gun to hunt me down, I also go
Silent, whether in a dream or in The
Dream. Capital D. Like money or Money,

Making all the difference there is. But
I’ve been fooled & doomed too many
Times, by object relations— Hollywood’s
Brainwashing masterful, that dream is
Erect; running only for those who
Are making those pictures moving (!)

No, I wasn’t supposed to stop here, but
Call me Betty, call me Camilla. I am
Bitter either way, I currently to
Not have the funds to have any fun,
Or a bag of cash to get you to crash,

I am just a passenger for now, in
Two different bodies, playing the same
Scene I’ve been meaning to drown—
Does it hurt less when you suppress
All that guilt & regret is all the
Body gets immersed in, for truth is
Always set to speak— would Lynch
Like this piece or pieces? I will never
Know the answer so I use my imagination
I know I wasn’t supposed to stop here,
But—