It’s time to say goodbye.

It’s time to say goodbye, and I’m unafraid. I’m actually quite giddy.

Excited.

For what, I’m sure you’ll be wondering, but I can’t really tell you what I’ll find.

Why?

Because I don’t know. But I’m going looking.
Looking for myself, looking inward by looking out.
Looking out for myself, looking out for my best friends,
Looking out for people I don’t even know, or know I’ll know.

It’s probably naive.
It’s probably just another echo.

But here it is.

I relinquish everything I have. Every regret, every sad moment. My whole past.
Who I was, before I started saying this.
I embrace the new, the changing, the future,
and I embrace it now.

I am working on a project,
maybe it will be a book, one that actually gets finished this time.
maybe it will be a collection of poems, no lame binding of glitter-bleeding eyes.
maybe it will be an escape from myself.

Whatever I find will be mine, because I can’t own it.
Because no one can possibly own it.

And Whatever comes looking, I’ll guide.
because it’s time.

It’s time to say goodbye.

One last time.

Murmurs of Semblance; Shadows.

This is in memory, for all those
forgotten;
for those who can’t cry
for those who have died.

This is for the hidden faces;
the disappeared and wandering.
For those who call home:
no voice, and no answer.

This is for those who remember,
who watch, and wait,
sitting up at night,
unable or unwilling to sleep.

Here’s to the people
who are going away,
those who look astray,
and like it that way.

Here’s to those
who can’t help but search;
for self definition, self recognition,
and destroy themselves in the process.

You will be remembered,
and you ARE loved.

This is for those who wish
they’d disappear;
they’d become the shadows,
they’d become the whispers.

Your echoes resound, late at night
in the rustling of leaves
and the far off howl
of dogs, the breaker of suburb silence.

We’ll hear them,
though not always understanding
or knowing they are you,
and we’ll say:

This is for you;
these moments alone and feeling unalone.
These haunting memories,
and anxious questions.

–is anyone there?
-hello?
-come on, stop playing games!
-come out!

Talking to the dark,
it’s talking to us,
you’re talking.
You are the shadows,

You are the whispers.
-I wish I could have loved you.
-I’ll never be good enough.
-I never got to say goodbye.

This is for you.
This is your prayer.
I love you so much,
and want to help;

Loneliness ends;
even when you least expect it.

Autumn’s Tangled Sheets.

Morning dew collects,
summoned like sweat,
a secret passion of night,
A secret it’ll never confess to;
something to make the leaves blush,
something to make the wind sigh.

Through the scratching leaves unseen,
marks are left on the backs of shadow lovers,
Animal cries in darkness mark orgasms;
Genderless intercourse,
erotic only to the perceiver.
The only clues are their smells.

The sweet fallen leaves
clash with the ripe country intoxicant,
a lustful, hungry mix.
A potion on an alter to love,
I inhale;
Sitting in my window, so does my cat,

we watch the hidden dance,
the scene lit by streetlights, golden,
leaves matching, but suddenly still,
the shadows gone,
we watch the heaving night recover
from his nightly climax.

When sun breaks, we emerge
to romp in the dew,
to embrace and imbibe fall;
walking in the tossed sheets of
nature’s lovers,
finding their tangles comforting.

A Darker Love.

Nights unsatisfied,
moans disappear as does
the sighing moon,
full, but unshaken.
The light is too bright,
and all is seen.
Nights of slow fucks,
tender words,
and perfect
Lifetime Movie Network moments.

Some of us are darker,
and need the new moon’s mystery;
need to feel the teeth through skin,
need to feel burning on ass, on cock,
from you.
Need to feel the cruelty unimagined,
the aggressor and his hands.
Need to feel him
degrade me,
punish, arouse, and ensnare me.

“You’re my whore, my little cock-rabbit.
Just my juicy piece of ass, isn’t that right,
slut?”
Echoes drone, ripple in well of psyche,
pierce, penetrate, spellbound.
The dark chant of his words elevate me
as does rhythmic slap,
slap, slap, slapping
of skin on his;
of hands meeting ass again and again.

“Yes, sir. Yes, Sir! Yes SIR!”
Screams and moans resound,
sweat and love make physical actions
as he coos to me of my hard work,
then caws at me commands.
Trance, filled with the best way
I know how to love;
with trust, with pain
–by giving him me,
at my most raw; primal and honest.

of Dismantling Puppets.

Hollowed out puppet,
no face, no brain.
Caught myself promising
won’t think again.

Can’t say, can’t speak,
you say.. you say…
But it hurts, blood leaks.
You say… You say:

Don’t cry my darling,
life is pain.
Don’t cry my darling,
or I’ll leave you again.

I say. I say…
Cut the strings.
Cut the strings!
Cut the strings!

Grow my face back.
Don’t know how to act.
Grow my heart back.

Miserable wretch.
I am no more.
Miserable…
No more.

Can’t face you, anymore.
No face… anymore.

of Antagony and its Proponents.

Utopia won’t be conceived,
struggle must exist;
what would we strive for
if our lives weren’t so broken,
if our hearts weren’t so broken?

What would we strive for,
if we had the perfect job
if we had the perfect situation?
What could be said?

What could be said
about the sparrows flying freely
or the cat torturing the mouse?
The prison camps all around the world?

What could be thought
about child abuse, rape, or religion?
Could gods exist, or demons?
Duality erased.

What could be thought of reality?
Polarity, erased, laws obsolete.
What could be made of reality?
No corporations, money, just resources.

If we were the Venus Project,
if we all watched the Zeitgeist.
If we all gave up our ghosts,
our gods, the things to which we cling…

What would we have?
What do we truly need?

What do you need?
Do you hear its whisper?
Do you feel it in the rain?
See it on the horizon?

Dystopia won’t be resolved,
because we need our little tragedies.
We need our stories,
which need our conflicts,

which need negativity,
which need imperfections,
that needs hate and anger,
that needs you and I.

We are the preservers;
the guardians of the world.
Balance, strife and joyfulness,
carnage and catharsis.

Without us, connotative wasteland,
with us, primordial turmoil.
This has, and will be our story,
of antagony and its proponents.

Ghosts.

I watched a season come and pass
between his legs;
I watched a reason come and go
laying beside him on the bed.

I only knew him for one night,
he said he wanted to talk.
Taller, bigger, heartier, and stubblier,
he gave me something new.

“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Why don’t you take your coat off?”
“I’m afraid.”

“Don’t, it’s not like I’m going to fuck you.”
“When you put it that way…”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. I just want to
talk.”

Hours passed unnoticed in minutes
sitting there, by his chair.
Starbucks never felt so busy
as this day he held my hand on his thigh.

He offered to buy me a drink;
refused,
and he offered to buy me a pastry;
refused.

“Why?”
“It’s not your place to buy me things.”
“Isn’t that for me to decide?”
“What’s your name?”

“D. My name is D.”
“Well, D., you don’t want to fuck me,
you don’t want to love me,
all you want is to feed me?”

“Yes.”
“You’re a strange individual,
but at least you don’t exhaust me
like most boring people do.”

I sat there with him for an hour,
talked about music and writing
and me.
He wanted me to talk about me.

He drilled me,
made me define, recite to him
my story.
“I don’t know where to begin.”

“With your strange smile,
and your strange dress,
your strange hopes
and even stranger fears.”

“So you want to know the gears,
that cogs that make me tick?”
“Yeah, I do.”
I kind of wish it’d been about his dick.

It’s easier, by far, to reveal your nudity
than to reveal your naked mind.
It’s easier by far to connect cock to mouth,
than heart to another.

And so my story began,
this man that only wanted to listen,
that only wanted to hear me speak;
“I was born in love.”

His deep frost eyes never faltered,
even as I looked away, speaking,
and continued to tell my tale.
My limbs shook, all of them.

“Calm down a moment,”
he said to me.
“You’re only saying what you need to.”
“And how is it you know what i need?”

“Because I used to be you.”
I closed my eyes and cried.
“I used to be defensive, hurt and
sexy.”

Eyes opened and enraged,
looked for some throat to rip out
to slash and some weak spot to attack
but seeing only myself.

“I know you,” I said.
I closed my eyes again.
I felt his hands on my thighs,
then holding my cheeks delicately.

I bit my lip and shook my head,
and spewed my story like hysteria.
I never felt him move, aside from thumbs
to clear the tears.

When the end to my story approached,
he hugged me tight and said
“It’s not over; it’s not even close.”
and planted a kiss on my head.

I felt him squeeze me tightly,
my eyes opened, I was alone.
Still sitting in Starbucks,
my ghost released.

in which his heart breaks;

Every time I open my heart,
it hurts.
Every time I let it breathe,
it coughs and wheezes and chokes.
Every time I hope,
I fall.
And every time I cry,
it closes a little tighter.

What used to be so hurtful,
doesn’t mean anything to me,
compressed painful diamond,
barely a thorn, a splinter anymore.

But sometimes, in my weakness,
I allow what has ended to be again,
what has hurt to hurt again,
what was taken to be forced again.
And in those moments of whispers,
the secret comes across…
Clear.

Oh, it’s clear.
The damages given me,
the ruined likelihood of letting go,
haunt me, and cling
like thousand year winter;
I’m growing bitter,
and my heart is growing
cold.

Living the Life Poetic & Hectic

Another “few” days, eh? I have a good reason, I promise.

After a few weeks at work of measly hours and not taking things seriously, I talked to my manager, and have nearly a full time schedule next week. Busy enough for most people, but as usual, I don’t settle for things like that. Wondering what I’m talking about? Here it is, my big news!

I got a freelance writing job! I was browsing, surprise, craigslist in the writing forum and came across an editing job. Thought it was worth a try, sent in a sample, and bam. Or boom? Whatever onomatopoeia fits into the sound of literary ass kicking, I suppose. Regardless, I’ve done half of my assignment for this week, and have been offered a writing position with double pay.

Fantastic or fantastic? Only drawback is the quantity of work I have to produce. Fifteen articles a week. Not too much, and certainly nothing to be taken lightly. I’m really grateful for the opportunity, as well as the extra cash, but what I really am getting out of this is the sense that… I am doing writing, professionally. This is it. I’ve made myself a writer.

With the increase in income, and the availability and disposability of my income (who thought anyone could dispose of income in this economic recession?), I have taken care of my responsibilities–Giovanni, my cat’s, health, birthday presents, and I still have to pay my phone bill, but… for the most part, that leaves a lot of money left over. First thing is first, and by first I mean second. Get a laptop. First thing was technically an ipod, because I can’t work without music. It drains me. And this way, walking home (yay exercise!) is more enjoyable.

I have a coffee date with Sunflower on Saturday (note to self, Sunflower on Saturday is either the title of a book I must write, or the name of a band I must create) and I really wish I could take my writing work with me, to finish and be in good company. It’s really exciting to me to do this. To be this person. Maybe it’s validating because I can claim to be a professional writer, not just a starving artist. In a strange way I feel like this is my first step, even though it’s closer to my ten thousandth. I like life when every step feels like the first. It’s exciting, and joyful, and I’m always learning something.

Maybe that’s what makes life in our head, what our archetype of life is; constantly growing and learning. That creates our connotation of the word Living, and abstracts it from the very concrete contrast of living/dead.

So how do I want to live? I want to stay in love. I want to travel and hunt gemstones, mine for them, buy them, get them cut, polished. I want to write. More than anything, I know that if I have my writing, I will be okay. I will be better than okay, I’ll be living. I want to take some photography courses, as well as some cinematography and filming courses. I am really interested in making that part of my website. Poetic observations and spoken word to cinematic oddities and peculiarities. I want to have my own online zine to work in tandem with my blog. The goal of that would be for the zine to publish new talent, and for me to take on an Editor’s role, whereas my own website, my blog, would be for my own works.

An important part of my life is stability, which is why it might be shocking for me to want a desk job, for me to want a boring, mundane, possibly soul-sucking day job to balance me out, and to give me something to disconnect from my writing and otherwise capricious mindset. Believe me, if you lived here, you’d want a break from it too.

I should also thoroughly introduce a character in my life; his name is Giovanni, or Gigi. He is my four month old kitten. He’s black with amber eyes and stray gray hairs. He’s here to stay, finally. It’s been two months since he entered my life, but I haven’t written anything about him yet. Sometimes having him is taken for granted, and then I dissociate and come to it in my mind; cats live for ten to fifteen years, and I’m twenty. Giovanni will be with me until I’m thirty to thirty five. He is going to be there for me, waiting in my room, in my apartment, in my house, in my life. With so much starting in my life–being accepted at Ohio University, having a writing job as well as a day job, it is suiting and cementing to me to have Gigi enter.

I was originally taking care of him for my little sister; she found him on August 29th, a day after my birthday, and took him in, an emaciated stray kitten. It developed into him being mine, as she’s still in High School and doesn’t have a lot of time. It had developed into a stressful, enriching, fascinating shared existence, which, especially, is something I’ve never done before. He’s definitely part of Living for me, and I’m sure there will be many blog posts here starring, or referencing the little guy.

Thanks for reading!

BR

He comes in night and only I see
the mysterious lens, green, sickly yellow
that fogs his eyes, his only weakness in stealth.
He stalks in shadows and creeps behind doors,
wanders and cries, happily wreaks havoc
on anything he can touch, on anyone he can touch.

He comes in day and the world can see
the elegant swift movement of his body and thoughts,
his charming affections doted upon any who come near.
He purrs in the lap of any visitor, basks in any sunlight,
he sleeps and wanders and sleeps and wanders,
saving himself for the witching hour, for transformation.

As Far as Time Goes.

I am sorry for my absense; this is quite the time frame to have written nothing. I just recently, and by that I mean a month ago, got a job, and said job has been especially straining on me.

Working, stressing about college and personal friendships. I haven’t been feeling well recently, and I can’t explain it. Numbness. I guess I can.

I’m trying so hard not to become it, not to allow myself to be absorbed in the unity of mediocrity and apathy and melancholy. I had a pick-me-up this morning from someone special to me, and it gave me energy enough to write this note to you all.

I was recently interviewed by Medicated Lady, aka mommy, and wrote poetry for the first time since the twenty-eighth of last month. It felt good this time, but it wasn’t my best.

I submitted poetry about a month ago, and am still waiting to hear back from a couple places. Hopefully one of them takes in a poem to showcase. It might give me more energy to do this.

Until lightning strikes,

B.R. Belletryst.