A Newtorn Mr Hyde

Pregnant with fetus lunacies.
I sing lullabies to them to keep
Them awake.

Asleep in delusional bliss they call me
Mad.

Hyperactive chaos nesting
In a mind’s bed insomniac—
When all of ‘em
Sane tame vain— same

Like you
And the yachts in
Filthy dreams
Wet. Dry I cry

Tears thunderous— deaf to my
Bass clef my winging melodies otherwise

Mad
With all the vicissitudes of faith

Born out of a bipolar
Mind— we shared a turbulent heart.

Karma;

My dog obedient until he loses all his
Teeth dog until we all decay as your parts

Reborn

As soup beans in memories and/or
Fantasies of sin.

Shall I compare thee to an American
Psycho or a summer’s day-night

In some American deli, “take-away, please” so you may become
My juicy leftover slowly losing flavor and color in the fridge

Otherwise empty. Except other healthy snacks
I hear your screams swimming within; put in some salt

Some spice when I could inject some
Life into your dead goldfish eyes with a

Lethal syringe I discard, nonchalant—
I could grow heartless over antidepressants

Wars with no winners all suckers,
So I bleed in words hurt with

Games burnt to the ground to the
Clouds of smoke above us adorned with

The ashes of my dreams, dust from
Bodies in previous lives

Turned me into a walking— no,
Limping, no, crawling contradicting

Zombie so I would like you to join me

So I may star in your nightmares
As a newtorn:

A rose all-thorn-no-rose adorns our

Days valentine: pretty enough but with
Hearts like blackjacks / panic attacks in

Your rib cage blossoming in thunders in
The dark mess like lock ness,

My rotten half
My handsome Hyde — I am highly educated

By videos on Tiktok saying I loved a narcissist
Because of the mirror you were holding but

But as Mr Hyde how did I see a narcissus evil
A vain conundrum, a character medieval and modern,

Bleeding non-periodic yet incessant, alongside my
Gentle, your diabolical—

Hurt is a
Lost heaven in some wicked heart-mirror.

My Forever 23 Birdblue

To see me sing the songs I wrote
For/to/with/without/despite
You,
Sing, for she is winged, wounded,
King king. I’ve birthed calamities instead of
Babies; acting out like
Bratty entities gorgeous and
Grotesque, “have my babies” you
Once said so I kept my renaissance
In a waveform file high-quality,
Screaming—

In elegant, mezzo-soprano, my birdblue
Where I birth new versions of
Myself for you’ve killed— you’ve
Killed many past selves,

Trapped in age 23, I look 23 feel
23 but I’m the numbers reversed
Like my world collapsed frozen
In (y)our upside down
Am I holding onto a slow death
Of love torturous
So I can evade the monotonous
Flow of a world
With no masochistic magic blooming
Thorny within but it’s all roses and
Orchids— charming edgy.

I'm afraid the year I invented this
Magical thinking, growing blindspots
Nurturing them & endless stupidity
Will end me fierce & fast so I can relax
Chanting tracks yours
Off the rail, off the record, off the—
The night of—

No reward for foolish commitment
For I attach myself to impossibilities
Screaming: “I’m possible”, like in the old screenings
Fooling me once twice thrice with lovely lies,
A metamorphosis my hope— lethal until
Revival arises from ashy dusty stars—

Nothing cerebral in me; I am all dumb heart
Even my birdblue eye’s view proves right.
Oxytocin level your duality tides
Abysmal I long for a mask unreal
& invented by the psycho you hide within
Forever frozen at 23 for I’ve suffered
From a mild death then— my ghost
For the past decade stays
Alive in dreams as consolations;
Psychology books as tools for self-

Examination;
Fantasies of innocuous revenge in my
Present and future successes
As reciprocation—
Gotten rid of all of the cheap

Roses for their pungent smell disturbed
My home my peace my syndrome lucky, with
Your stinky audacity; I love/hate so hard
I can see no distinction in between denial &
The rivers I carry within like a loaded
Gun/sun resting in peace in my pocket, reminding
Me of her icy,

Rocky, metallic presence pointed at
My stomach (the house of
Stupid butterflies immortal
Until rotten six feet under with soul in
The ashes in the air
You breathe deep and deeper)
Threatening
To take away my vibrant chronic sadness
With one imaginary
Bullet & your face
I don’t want to see appears as the
Gun holder every time I want to
Unsee you in my heart’s eye—

Blue— please, don’t
Take away this pain for I don’t
Recognize myself without your love-polluted
Hate, your hate-infested love etched
In my brain decorating my body
My soul with marks, with rocks benign
& gray in my breasts.

I let it rain. I led it: rain.
I let I.T. Reign. I lead it reign,
Reign. My king, Stephen inspiring
The spooky clown within. Do
You recognize yourself in
My mirror/poem? Do you smile
Through your crimson vampire
Teeth my joker so I can take a
Mental picture of your demons
Revealing themselves in fire-eyes
Insatiable? I ask once more; do
You recognize yourself in
My mirror?

References

The poem “Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski.
Psychological trauma: the concept of "Developmental fixation" (Freud) or "Arrested development" (Erikson) describes how the psyche can become frozen at the age of significant trauma, leaving part of the self forever suspended in that moment.
Chekhov's gun: in dramatic theory, if a weapon appears in a scene, it must eventually be used—all elements introduced must serve a purpose.
I.T. by Stephen King.