2 Poems
The Roommate
all the calls bounce off the unemptied inbox stacked sallow yellow papers creep in sheafs beneath the door undivided attention absolute solitude are of utmost import at this stage much maintenance is needed to sustain this stasis this routine is demanding of my steadfastness of devoting time that i plait your matted hair to bind the slipping strands in place scraping behind your molars with this brittle copper screw the swapping of your shirt at intermittent intervals replacing the towels below the mattress catching seeping sap and greywater pooling stagnant amongst the recalcitrant box springs whimpering i no longer smell our room as much as i feel it worming underneath my collar viscous congealing beneath my nails for sustenance stale bread ground daily through your calcifying jaw an endless intravenous drip of sprite and battery acid blistering light may touch but a sliver of marred hardwood should the rays consume your skin gaunt flesh swelling requiring your careful rotation an inch counterclockwise every sixteen hours then entertainment consisting of your decomposing sweat soaked mid aughts skinemax podcasts about love island considering this diligence inherently necessary means within your end begging eventual resurrection by this severe enough prompting sufficient pressing prodding a birdcage a fishhook an amputation a deadline there’s been enough lying prone already you were supposed to win the emmy by now the group chat is waiting and they’re livid
ludwig ii
i thought to paint him
back—at neuschwanstein, his crown
limestone, prussian blue
solvent coaxing starnberg from
his lungs, the hilltops verdant
impression revives
the fairytale, drawing him
new breath, old lovers
opera, the stablehand,
the prince of thurn and taxis
returned affections
not predicated upon
plain conformity
reconstituting the man,
his eternal enigma
and yet, they still look
upon the swan only through
the rifle’s harsh scope
these brutal inclinations
towards what they cannot know
an intolerance
to the ink in the water,
the obscured keyhole
his pursuit of seclusion
is not one to be trusted
demanding answers
of each who would imagine
an alternative
for still this is a world of
dreams made inhospitable
architecture fails
the theatre’s barred the entrance
tristan dies once more
pigments are muddied by dust;
i cannot reach the canvas