Black Tumblr Themes

Skin confines precious liquid
As it reaches a boil
With longing
On the verge of being dismantled
Composure shatters with a gasp
For precious gases
But not her own
The deteriorating air sacks
Beneath her breasts
Are run by gears and pulleys
That only his recycled life
Will push forward
these fragments of existence
are worth eternity in hell

Should Be Spring

Stomping feet with holey socks
Stretched atop
Sent unstructured songs
Through the pavement
(the place still reeked of snow)
We were bathed in pale gray
When the robin arrived
It had been watching the sky
Days unfolded slowly
The sun refused to set
All the clocks were broken
And now the robin arrived
My toes
With their skimpy socks
Stopped tapping
As he descended
He pecked at the ground
As if he had fallen asleep
And woken up
In a different room
(this I understood)
The trees were rusted pipes
Wearing necklaces
Of skeleton hands
And the rigid corpses of grass
Huddled in tangled piles
The robin
Took note
His staccato cry of self doubt
Dominated the yard
He woke me from
A broken record
Of the seasons
The robin
And I
Felt yearning for life
In the Earth below us

It’s all in our heads, in the end
Just us
The poets
And the birds
Taking the weather so personally

a shifty friend in black
said i smelled like heroine
and grunge
my hands were shaking
not from craving
but from shock at being touched
i know every threat
proximity can present
(i can’t stop looking for the ways I could be hurt)
have you ever realized how solitary
safety can be
the static between two beings
pricks dead skin
with bristled quills
i myself
wish i could detach
but i long to be understood
and to connect
or at least pretend
(and all the no-longer-children will pledge
to their good intentions
to never break a promise
or sculpt another regret



Even though
every word in this
poem is, in a
sense, abstract and
unspecific, you cannot
help but notice your mind’s futile
efforts to create images. But

they are in
vain, and you are

left looking through a foggy
lense at an all-white sky

and, sometimes, you
see a black smudge fly by.

Tyler Graham


graze the dead with maggots in your craw
gray is the den with mayflies in the straw

keep warm the disease suckling teats

give it time to rot you out
growing flowers
feeding bees

Icicles loom after
Black rubber
As it stamps the virgin snow
With impurity
Splattered mud on the door
Claws up with smeared hand prints
And spells out

The eyes of prematurely bitter anarchists
Still twinkle
As the pendulum winds
Around our neck
Dwindling embers
Under an ebony cloak
We draw our lips
To the elixir of youth
In a goblet
Encrusted with rhinestones
We are drunk on apathy
And the deserts in our mouth
Endures monsoons of deprivation
Our clammy back is chiseled
By hollow bones of
Rapturous grey wings
Each furrowed feather
Surely veiled with asphalt and rust
Threatening to emerge from under our skin
But we never fly
We desecrate every dictionary
And volume of the DSM
Our manifesto:
“We are an individual
We are not a box set
Of oddities
For every collector
To let collect dust”
Is printed on the last pages
Of local history
And submerged
In the final notes
Of an orchestra

I am made mostly
of writhing raw nerves
Twitching in a scratchy, sewn, skin sack
strangling each other
For fear of touching the tangled
web of wicked
And loom of lies

"i’m made up entirely of
almosts and should-have-beens
and a mouth painted in
poorly written poetry

- a self portrait (via twohousesoftheholy)