My father’s eye quivers
like a fish before a shark’s mouth
as I answer him truthfully
about faith.

I tell him that lately,
my Sundays are in
a chapel of my own creation,
a room with a typewriter
and a clinking glass
of Cutty Sark.
Instead of candlelight,
a barely hanging cigarette
that ashes my legs
and lights my cheeks.

He tells me things like,
“you’ll never find peace
until you lift your hands up
above your head,
apologize for
85% of all you’ve done.”
But even while listening
I thought of fucking.
I thought of sinning.
I thought of death.

"Son,
your mother raised you right.”
“Son,
you need saving and you
need it now.”
And yes, that is the scripture,
the gospel according to
Christian fathers everywhere.

With my back against forever
and my eyes in my hands,

"Father,
while some kneel
in the shadows of
hundreds of bodies
looking for meaning,
for safety among
the constant crow caw of death,
I find comfort in
my comfy cocoon of doubt.
Me and all my ghosts,
the remainders,
when all believers
are carried away.”

The Remainders - BM (via beardedmusing)

My father’s eye quivers
like a fish before a shark’s mouth
as I answer him truthfully
about faith.

I tell him that lately,
my Sundays are in
a chapel of my own creation,
a room with a typewriter
and a clinking glass
of Cutty Sark.
Instead of candlelight,
a barely hanging cigarette
that ashes my legs
and lights my cheeks.

He tells me things like,
“you’ll never find peace
until you lift your hands up
above your head,
apologize for
85% of all you’ve done.”
But even while listening
I thought of fucking.
I thought of sinning.
I thought of death.

"Son,
your mother raised you right.”
“Son,
you need saving and you
need it now.”
And yes, that is the scripture,
the gospel according to
Christian fathers everywhere.

With my back against forever
and my eyes in my hands,

"Father,
while some kneel
in the shadows of
hundreds of bodies
looking for meaning,
for safety among
the constant crow caw of death,
I find comfort in
my comfy cocoon of doubt.
Me and all my ghosts,
the remainders,
when all believers
are carried away.”

The Remainders - BM

Anonymous asked:

How do you get over unrequited love

Some don’t.

Love fucking hurts, man. But I’d like to think you have to prime yourself.

If you find yourself falling in love often and fast, it could be you’re giving yourself away too quickly.

Learn to be able to sit in a room with yourself. Alone. For months on end.

If you can learn to be comfortable with yourself alone, you can learn to live after heartache.

Love shouldn’t be a one way street. It should be a chaos of traffic between two people, who sometimes collide, and in the mess there are flashes of beauty. It takes two people to keep those flashes alive.

fallingorchid asked:

What is your least favorite thing to write about?do you read lots of fiction? What's your favorite book? Worst movie ever? Least favorite house chore? Who was your first kiss? Do you regret it?

Great questions.

Well, I’d say one of my least favorite things to write about is death, because I’m honestly terrified of it. Yet, writing about it makes me face it. The inevitability of it. I try and make death sound silly and subtle so I can deal with it better.

I love fiction. I read a lot of Japanese authors since I steer towards the surreal and mystical. Yet, my favorite book is by a Brit. Raw Shark Texts by Steven Hall. He needs to write another damn book already.

Worst movie ever? If you knew me, you’d know how I don’t like action movies. Or most comedies. I’m a drama junkie. Hopefully this won’t make me lose followers, but if Jack Black is in it, I’ll probably hate the movie. I hated School of Rock. (I’m a musician.)

My favorite chore is vacuuming. My least is polishing wood. Fucking polish yourself, wood.

And now I need to take a serious tone.

My first kiss was my best friend, Alyssa. She was the love of my life, and I dreamed of just standing next to her. She was murdered when I was in high school. I will never forget her and the time we shared. We share the same birthday.

We both sucked the fumes
From the mouths of ceramic mugs
Your tea tag saying things like
“Today will be the best day of your life”
Something that I would mumble back
Into my own cup of Ethiopia
The strength of the brew
Reminding me of how the
Blood rushed through my veins
As my hands searched your neck
Before we both fell victim to sleep
Now, your open white chocolate skin
Pink and whispering
Beneath a sheer cotton tanktop
Embossed in slept-in wrinkles
Crackled polished toes
That drag to the breakfast table
Like leaves across a parking lot
I wish to have a day
Made up of compounded mornings
So I can keep waking up
And drinking hot liquids
With you
And I know
You aren’t a morning person,
But maybe if I beautify
The quiet, dazzling moments
Just after waking,
I could change your mind

Quiet, Dazzling Moments Just After Waking - BM

I’m the California soil
Thirsting, coughing with
Chapped lips, hidden
Amongst tree stumps
Reaching up to you as
Tilting stalks of
Dried weeds through
The cracks in the concrete.

Sometimes you float above
Tired and lonely with
Your fluffy stomach filled
To the brim with
Country-wide heartache
And it’s times like these
That I hope you’d cry,
Pour out your soul
Onto me
Quence me
In your sadness.

Rain
over
me

Rain Over Me - BM

You know, it’s sad,”
She said,
“How Death is just
A fucking period
In the middle of
Our life’s worth
Of run-on sentences.
We could be
Breathing
And in the next moment
Only attempting.
How fucked up is that?
That even our breath
Gets taken from us.
What do we have
Control over
In this world?”

“Well, we can choose
To be flowing,”
I said, treading lightly,
“That whatever may happen
To our lungs
Our fingers, toes,
Carpal bones,
Was always going to happen.
An acceptance,
Not a giving up.”

“What does that mean?”

“It isn’t breath
Being ripped
From our lungs.
We are born
With a secret
Expiration date.
We only have
Enough breath
To last us so long.
But live well enough
That people will still
Want a taste of you
Even after
You’ve expired.

Expiration - BM

"No one uses their words
Like you do.”

So that’s how
They can sleep at night..

They are able
To find silence
And not wake
With contractions
By their bathtub
And
“What ifs” in their
Morning cereal.

"I wish I could say
What I need to say
So easily
Like you do.”

Just because I’m not ashamed
To use the shovel of truth
And dig into my soul,
Hoping to find diamonds
In a sea of dust and dirt..

Have you ever
Felt a bomb blast?
Open heart surgery
With no anesthetic?

They say
Words will never hurt you
But every writer
Can tell you otherwise.

untitled - BM

How can you not believe in aliens when there are shows like the Real Housewives

Plucking your pedals
One by precious one
They spread you out,
Leaving you
A stem,
As a leaf or two
Covered your
Bare feet.
You never learned
To love yourself
In its nakedness,
As if you were intended
To always be
Flourishing,
Flowering,
Formally fashioned.
You laid down
Green and straight,
Giving in,
Grasping onto
One last petal
As the breeze
Blew you aside
Like a plastic bag.

Baby, Even As A Rock Garden You Are Beautiful - BM

Beneath my clothes
I’m a confident-enough noodle
With shrubbery tuffs of hair,
Struggling to keep
Weight
Under my skin.
Bones that clink louder
Than my lips, wagging
When I fail to produce the
Words to keep them
Tightly together.
Don’t go mistaking
My footsteps as
Roads traveled
Because the miles
I’ve clocked
Have only led
To the front doors
Of a nonexistent norm,
Like soft girls
And buckets of dollars,
Corners and alleyways
Of the dirtiest places
In my mind
Where I’ve seen you
Panhandling on the
Edges of my memory
And if I think hard enough,
I could probably produce
Enough energy
To kiss the mist
From your forehead
And fuck you
Out of existence

Half-Priced Thrift Store Of Thoughts - BM