Living Dead 

You still ask for
your feelings to
be molded like 
bone for a cast. 

You are in need
of a doctor and
I am in need of
a pint of peace
in the morgue. 

I keep repeating 
this hymn from
the crows lined
in threes on the
trees outside my
barren backyard
blue-tarp blues. 

You’re digging your
fingers into the 
coffin of a corpse. 
You may find a 
trinket or two, 
but the rest will
lead you nowhere. 

– B. 


What if we knew which 
ones were our soulmate?
What if it was indefinite?
Hidden truths tattooed to
your wrist or written in 
a pitch black sky with a
single star, a clear guide. 

We’d all know so early,
or perhaps that would
be part of the journey. 
I feel as though earth 
still has her methods,
with the unfamiliar 
pool in your lungs,
drowning the wind out
with the echo of a dive. 

– B. 


Your embrace was akin to a serpent
strung about my shoulders. 
Charcoal scales gliding
over bleached bones, 
Tongue dripping in
that venom only
the undead
would be 
able to 



I’m always the most affectionate come fall.
Perhaps it’s the bite of the weather,
Perhaps it’s the memory.
It doesn’t matter.

The way in which the leaves break off,
seems to remind me of a phoenix
rising back up from the ashes.

Sometimes it just makes me
want to crawl up in
someone else’s

Burn for a


A Simple Truth

Everyone is their own kind
of monster,
and monsters always 
split in two. 

A yin and a yang. 

The bitter irony of it
is that
they usually never
find each other. 

Amongst all of the
ironing out

We’ve got to remain
hopeful and only
to ourselves. 

That’s where your 
other half lies. 

The rest is just a 
burst of