chalky bendy bits
all wrapped in
fleshy leather
sagging loosely/
stretched tightly.

popped out of place
back in with a snap
curving our arms
twisting our noses
around our oblong faces.

but we die and
our favorite parts
dissipate and decay
and all that’s left:
our wilted skeleton.

we fold our hands
around each other
following our spines
with slivers of
fragile, ivory cartilage.

we are our bones
when we lay together
when we embrace
the cages that hold
our hearts and minds.

Bones - BM (via beardedmusing)

chalky bendy bits
all wrapped in
fleshy leather
sagging loosely/
stretched tightly.

popped out of place
back in with a snap
curving our arms
twisting our noses
around our oblong faces.

but we die and
our favorite parts
dissipate and decay
and all that’s left:
our wilted skeleton.

we fold our hands
around each other
following our spines
with slivers of
fragile, ivory cartilage.

we are our bones
when we lay together
when we embrace
the cages that hold
our hearts and minds.

Bones - BM

There was an acre of land
That I bought for $300,000
4 years ago to the day.
That is what I remember.

We had 2 horses, Rich and Poor
And they were inseparable.
A typical barn of red with big doors
That opened to bales of hay.

The lot was squared off with pine
That leaked sap onto the driveway.
It stuck to the bottoms of our shoes
And sounded like duct tape being removed.

It’s been 4 years now since
We gave it all up and moved up north,
Away from the damned rat race
And the traffic and the bourgeoisie.

It was rough at first.
To keep the chickens happy
As well as the fig trees,
We were always chasing the clock.

But it became sweetly routine.
Our bodies adjusting to the
Bending and shoveling, the shaking,
We fell in love again during harvests.

I bought her denim suspenders.
We would’ve laughed at this sight
Mere years ago but then,
She was the land and I tilled her heart.

We knew water wouldn’t last forever.
It is Northern California, with an
Impending dust bowl.
Our dream would vanish someday.

The chickens were sold
And so was the barn, and the acre.
We bought a modest place
Packed away in the wood.

We still talk about Rich and Poor.
We argue over our favorites.
She loved Rich, big and strong,
A face of white snowy blotches.

Poor had a gimp leg, always in pain.
It broke her heart.
It would whimper in the morning
While she sipped her tea.

We put it to sleep before the winter.
Rich was alone with all his muscle
And no one to flex for.
He refused to eat and later passed.

We seemed to be losing so much.
But in that moment we grasped
Our hands together like we were
Holding on to the steering wheel of life.

Land is land, squared and measured,
Sold in bundles, exchanged.
We watched the sun setting
With our lips wet with wine.

We lost only space, and filled it
With all that we had left.
Our hearts beating into the night
Waking to a new silence.

The One Acre - BM

I couldn’t love her.

Not a second went by without

A darkness fogging her eyes,

Sweeping her away to some place

Far, where I had no license to be.

Damn, we could’ve held everything.

I could’ve even been the sun

To make her shadows bearable.

But not today. Not any day, it seems,

I thought.

A whole lot of nothing wrapped together,

But doesn’t that make you something?

If you lack all the things I love,

Does that just make you a vessel

For my forthcoming letdown?

I blamed you for years,

For your darkness blossoming into my skin

Like a tea bag in hot water.

But little did I know, just like

Roaches and bats and rats and the like

Who seek the blackness for comfort,

You were happy all along.

Just not my kind of happy.

I’ve gathered my sorries

In a bouquet of apologies

And dropped it at your feet.

Because darling, it seems as I cannot be

The dimming moon in your charcoal sky.

The Dimming Moon - BM

I’m an old man, babe.

I can’t keep up with you
like I used to.

How do you keep your beauty?
I’m holding on
to the hairs I’ve got left,
fumbling to catch pedals flitting
off my flowering head.

Look at all those men.
Throwing glances like frisbees
your way, courting and hoping.

Look at what I’m up against, babe.

Look at their swimmer bodies.
If I wake without pain,
it’s a good day indeed.

"You’re graying, darling."

You say things like that and laugh,
reassuringly, saying it looks good.
That it gives off an air of intrigue,
worldliness and wisdom.

I’m alive inside my aging container.
I could throw weights across
a high school football field
if my soul had hands.

But instead I’m left with
a beer gut to toss around,
trying to avoid looking disgusting
when I climb on top of you,
and not like some bear
looking for a tree to mount.

We men are trouble.
Burly, surly, overgrown baby monsters.
But women, we love you to death.
Hell, we would probably drink less
if you asked us to.

M Is For Masculinity - BM

thelostfantasistsdiscovery asked:

How do you get past writers block? I don't write poems, I'm working on a book but I'm finding a real struggle. Also, do you take a long time deciding over your clever phrasing, metaphors and things, or does it all just come to you? I feel you have a rather blunt and raw style sometimes, smart and witty writing with unusual imagery, something I try to achieve myself but am only successful in on occasion. Your poems have a similar feel to the style of my book. Basically, how do you do it?

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t believe in writer’s block. To me it is just something that happens when we get self-conscious about our work and that it isn’t “creative” enough. That being said…

Read interviews by writers and you’ll see that they are never happy with their finished product. Don’t be hard on yourself. Write what comes naturally, and it will come off as natural. Don’t work too hard on being clever, or even metaphors. Truthfully, I don’t like metaphors. I don’t enjoy comparing things to things, but it an easy way to describe the senses of the world around us. Imagine explaining things to a child, or a blind person, a deaf person.. anything to make yourself look at things differently.

I’m a raw and blunt person, so I write rawly and bluntly. If you aren’t this way yourself, and you are trying to grasp that writing style, let someone you know who is that way read it in their tone. I hope this helps.

I just want to break through this misconception of writer’s block. We make excuses for the things we write, when we don’t need to. Sometimes we aren’t motivated or inspired. That’s okay. It is always okay. The block is merely a snag, so work through it and push yourself. Act as though you are a paid writer with a deadline and force yourself to work.

We had just got done fucking
And she was flicking my cock
Like it was some fleshy cylindrical
Blowup toy.

After sex, all was clockwork.
Her eyes would go dim, and she’d exclaim
How it’s been over 10 years
Since she was praised for anything.

Every time after coming,
She’d hold on like the white hot release
Would send her flying into an
Unknown she wasn’t ready for.

She would cry without tearing up,
Tremble and cover her languid eyes
Inside the palms of her hands
Which always signaled my departure.

But this time,
With jeans and belt in my hands,
I exposed what became unbridled,
Wall-shaking laughter.

Her hands leaping from her face
As if to swat the threat of flies,
Her bare breasts all asway as she screamed,
“Get the fuck out of my house, you son of a bitch!”

Well, she was right about that.

Thinking of how many times I entered her,
Knowing exactly how it all would end,
I couldn’t help but laugh at how mundane
It all seemed. How silly life can truly be.

The Loud Exuding Sounds Of The Humdrum - BM