poems by Vane Vander

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As In The Snow

I haven't seen your fucking face in six years
and yet I can still remember every curve,
every dip of your tanned skin,
better than those who I still love
and have been with all my life.
How?
Tell me how!
How can you be so far away,
and yet the part of my brain
that holds the contour of faces
acts as if nothing has changed?

My father once threatened to ground me
because I refused
to stop writing about you.
But at that moment,
you had been the most event-
ful thing in my life.
You broke the dam on my heart,
carried me across the river from emotionally retard-
ed overgrown child to sexually aware adolescent,
and then tore me apart
on the shoreline.

You were too engrossed in my tablet
to see
that I was right beside you,
willing
to give up my virginity.
You were the one I decided to choose
to link my future to.
But that hermetic realm
that links minds together
was more appealing, I guess.

I was left alone to take love's helm
and steer us out of the storm
after you cheated on me
and left me shattered and forlorn.

But not so fast:
your story is merely a blip on the radar
when I compare it to all the lovers I've had, near and far,
in lives future and past,
in tragedies and lessons learned.
You were not the first,
and you sure as hell won't be the last.

GREENHOUSE GIRL

The Gardener I

love is strong
but I am still evil
do you know of any struggling bulbs
that would like to stop feeling so feeble?

humans are not houseplants
a fact which you seem to have forgotten
with fingers webbed with the greens meant in a forest
wedded to a pot of moist dirt

bits of hearts and eyelashes and kisses
scattered and strewn through the house
one of these days, I'm anticipating
that you'll slip and fall on a stray leaf

send my warmest regards
to whoever proclaimed to the neighbors
that we aren't anywhere near human enough
I'm sure they'll enjoy the tea afterwards

Bottle

Sometimes sadness
is the only way out:
to unbottle my cloud
and dissolve into an empty shell
without fear,
without denying
the end is near,
knowing something new
will crawl out of the dirt
and make me its home.

The Gardener II

all the heavens and hells the world has ever conceived
I can see within your golden eyes
as you stroll around the house
with a gold-encrusted watering can

the plants love it when you sing softly to them
stroking their petals with newer hues of violet
but it makes me choke and sputter on my words
more than the glass bulbs ever did

please don't tie me down to a post
and ram me against the wall like a cheap decoration
I know that the lilies giggling downstairs love being presented to the guests
but I'd rather keep my corner in the windowsill

no paint remover is required
to dull the glint of these ivy eyes
we are toxic to each other
but we persist in this all the same

Graft

The only pillow
comfortable to me anymore
is the soft pink
of your inner thighs.
I am a tree branch abscised,
androgyne trying to find
my other half,
to graft
myself back whole,
a reunion of all
the shards of my soul.

The Gardener III

this is a vicious cycle that we walk
one of poisoned rivers and dead bodies
that you hide in your backyard in the dead of night
fertilizer for the few friends that I have

I love these trees that sway in the wild breezes
unperturbed by my skin or vice versa
the single formerly human walking on the edge of the forest
watching, waiting, wondering

jade like the sea
and orange like a flame
burning in your chest as you clip
the dead branches off of the edge of the forest

solitude greets me in the dark of night
there is nothing good for a flowering beast here
or a slender willowing nymph
but I am not afraid

Guilt At The Hilt

To all the golems
I unwittingly shoved
into lava
and watched helpless
as they crumbled to dust:

your flowers will live on
in my boundless garden,
and your flames will harden
the shield of my heart.

Lend me your weapons,
that I may tear down
the wall keeping me
and my future apart.

The Gardener IV

I guess some kids are just born
with tragedy flowing through their veins
for there's a child of not yet seventeen
embedded in the pot where I sprouted from

"It will be okay, channeling. There is no need to panic here.
In just a few hours, you'll feel the sensation of your veins weighing down
breaking through the skin and bleeding like a Polaroid
and then you'll wilt and shrivel up.

But not all hope is lost- no, for death gives way to life
and gentle leaves poking through the branches of your skin
will be your first sight and breath of life again
after you've become one of us."

no legs are necessary for bending through life
with your chest secured against a wooden dowel
and given a coat of chemicals to ward off insects
chewing through your skin and brittle bones

A Letter To The Stars, In Three Parts

1

I had a friend
who ran away
to join the Fellarstellen.

His name was Azure,
and when he fled, he left me
no doubt he was absolutely sure.

Now he sails along the stars,
cataloguing the worlds
and cultivating their plants in jars.

Meanwhile I stay anchored to the earth,
buried under the snow,
sapped of sun, deprived of mirth.

Not that I hate the cold;
it's just hard to read when others
don't revere silence as gold.

I would sit under the shade
of the Parthena Tree
with its leaves fanned out like a brocade

and soak up the words
until Mother poked her head out the kitchen window
and demanded I fall back into the herd.

2

Beside the Tree was a stump.
It stuck out of the ground
like a sore lump.

Chopped down long ago
before it crashed into our roof
and threatened to take us all out in one go.

It was supposed to be dead.
But instead

branches continued to grow.

Middle fingers held to the sky,
ready and willing to defy
the axe that would bid them goodnight.

3

I am finding it difficult to let go
of the past, of my past,
and continue to grow.

Five years ago, I uprooted
myself along with my family
and replanted myself in a new city.

That was the plan.
But what actually went down
was my tree, severed at the base,
loaded onto a truck, stump left in the ground.

My heart bleeds to return
to the garden I grew up in,
the swingset, the dirt.

Replanted in the new yard,
job half-done,
suffocating like a burial.

But I will not stay dead.

I will keep growing yet.

Even if I have to abandon my dreams
of becoming a tree
and turn into a bush instead.

The Gardener V

I haven't seen the stars in a while now
buried among the shipwrecks in my heart
which make no sense- I've never been to the sea
for poison ivy does not fare well in rough seawater

fragments of my old self are staring back at me
the floor is petaled in scraps of old leaves
it's molting season, brought on by the sudden heat
today, water hasn't yet touched my feet

secrets know I've yearned to touch the night sky
caress it like an old friend long since shriveled up and died
but with summer arrives insects looking for limbs to gnaw off
and winter's seduction is bitter and dry

and the gardener, oh! how he crookedly smiles
when brushing his gloved hands across my vines and leaves
the swelling marks left by these pruning scars
will serve as the teat for today's guests' tea

Salad Fingers

As a tiny girl,
I used to nibble on the ends
of my grandmother's potted plants.

I would braid their leaves
like hair,
and then leave them tangled there

until some adult came around
and called me a clown
and made me undo all my work.

They said it hurt
the plants.

They said, had they
mouths, they'd scream
or maybe just bite my own hair
in return.

But now I have a greenhouse,
a rainroom,
full of young plants rescued from tombs
whose skin has turned verdant,
tattoos obscurant,
once body odors now pleasant.
Not all have mouths
or limbs to resist my urges to chow.

But why would I want to digest
those who I consider the best?

The Gardener VI

I visited my friend today
he has nothing that he'd like to say
because there's a spiderweb binding his lips shut
from disuse and decay

your breath is enough for me to paint
all the bruised colors of the morning sky
like I took my friend and mounted him
on the wall like a vintage painting

and when I slip through the back door of the house
and sneak my way to the river
the children living in freedom inquire what it's like
to have wings clipped and essence harvested

one of these days, I fear
that the gardener will uptake his shears
and these innocent souls will upturn their eyes
and find shards of my corpse among the waters

The World Tree

There is a nest
made of bones
in my chest,

and I will die
if this pink eagle
finds a way to fly.

My veins are
the branches that hold it,
the trunk my spinal

column, and how
it sways in the wind:
not a break, but a bow.

Bosque

tell me, forest girl, how does it feel to leave your home?
saying goodbye forever to the trees and flowers
you swore you'd never cease to roam?

open rolling hills fail to console
do you feel like you're going to collapse
under this foreign sky, weight too much to hold?

forest boy, you look so pale
barely surviving thunderstorm's hail
"the tree cover is too much for me;
I think I'll move to the city"

and now I'm floating disconnected from time
remnant of a land that no longer exists
specimen of the once sublime

Acer saccharum

sugar maple trees
most abundant in this biome
you extend your arms in a wide embrace
and welcome me back home

a lonely child playing under the treetops
swinging to the stars
fairies birthed and died and parents enraged
never very far

you bleed out sugar, shiny glaze
but even with the sap tap pumps
sweetness never stays

a giving tree with leaves of green
and red and yellow too
I sit on the stump where you used to stand
and remember when the skies were blue

your friends were sick and also dying
and you also caught some disease
or maybe your thirty-five meter average height threatened us:
all the same, we took your leaves

please forgive me, saccharum of the Acers
you Anglosperms and Eudicots and Sapindaceae
I don't know what to make of you, now that I'm gone
perhaps, in a better life, some other day

Acer rubrum

you and I used to make our beds in the leaves
of the autumn; red and orange and yellow
foxes and wolves prancing in the forest
until the moon hung over low

you and I grew older
and the winds changed
and the rules shifted
and then these skins were the only ones we'd ever worn

spending my formative years trembling in the shadow of an angry god
spending my formative years trembling in the shadow of a tree
this grove of trees where we grew and bled and ran to the horizon
always running
always running out of time

Acer rubrum, burning bright
can you tell me which path is right?

a seedling blowing in the breeze
severed along with the trunks of these trees
as we called the god-men to tear them down

red maples can grow anywhere
swamps, dry soils, anywhere in between
seeds scattering to the wind
and like those seeds, so shall I

Andropogon gerardi

to run outside barefoot
on a morning under a dead sky
amd still have the chill linger in my bones
long after the grass is gone, banished
with the memories dredging up

something is changing

"go ahead and run free," we say
trampling Andropogon gerardi underfoot as we play
in the limelight, the lifelight, the hubris of the plains
five-year-olds running towards a forever train

you and me, you dumb grasses, native to this state
I thought you were wheat, garnering my parents' hate
when I plucked your racemes out and scattered them to the wind
but it's not like the cows that once ate there would ever again begin

Andropogon gerardi- big bluestem, big dreams
but both you and I should know that nothing is as it seems
back to October 7, 2018, that accursed day
when I realized that there would never be anywhere safe for me to stay

I took a wrong turn- and before me unfolded
sprawling fields of what once was prairie
long grass stretching as far as the eye could see
and on the other side, a few scattered buildings
each one calling out to me

Andropogon gerardi- only one, not two I's
secure in its status, far from demise
if only I could be secure in the knowledge that I was the same
tall bluestem resists; the prairie remains untamed

Midnight In The Garden Of Oblivion

Little sliver of me
given up to the night
in exchange for a few hours
with the scion of light.

When I was a young child,
I had to plan a midnight garden
for a Girl Scout project.
No delusions
of it ever coming to fruition,
just plants planted haphazardly
around a computer screen
and then discarded come the patch I'd earned.

How many days I've yearned
to return to those halcyon childhood days,
and yet
I always seem to forget
the day-to-day struggles
that made it possible
for me to be standing here today.

"You seem to be in a daze."
Her voice is the moon's silver
injected straight
into my veins.
Her skin is deathly cold
as she takes my hands in hers to hold,
palm to palm,
my fingertips
to her scarred wrists.

That midnight garden
was filled with colors
so vivid they could scald.
But here she and I stand
in monochrome, black holes enthralled.
A daisy in her hair. A reassurance
that I will always be an individual
no matter what I have in common with others,
no matter who were my parents.

LUCI

aMUSEd

I might as well take
the chance to write some haiku
while alone with you

brevity is the
soul of wit, the beating heart
in my paper chest

what a delight, to
have proper tools and a girl
you love in your lap

maybe we will pen
our way back to Muse's
favor after all

Genesis

I'm Vane Cassia Vander!
but what does that mean?
am I just a sad little person
forever staring at a screen

how poetic would it be to die
assuring myself that I am alive

is this my fate,
to live half a life in my own body,
sacrificing precious time and sentience
to a figure not even of my own creation?

I work, I cry, I bleed
convincing myself that I am only me
that I have only ever been myself
just under a million different names

and then the dreams begin.
there has never been a me
just myself in different costumes
acting out the roles that fate sets for you and me

am I going crazy?
am I going insane?
will my life end in a psychiatric ward
with all my secrets laid out to bare in the sunshine?

tell me, o one with the midnight hands,
what is it about you
that brings out the worst in me?
what in myself do I see in you?
for I'm not a part of you

incomplete
and yet rejecting the greater whole
that, if the midnight hands were correct,
we were once a part of

maybe there was some divine,
the ancient father
of every daughter I've known,
from which both you and I were born
shards of the same soul
bourne through space and time

but herein lies a problem
because pieces should want to reform into a whole
and yet, you and I just seem to hurt each other

Mt. Vala

I know
that the snow
feels like a warm blanket,

but the cold
will enfold
your corpse if you let it,

will drain
your veins
of the life within,

will rhyme
as you die
of all of your sins.

Ivory Towers

how many wasted hours
how many ivory towers
have we fallen from in our hubris?
how many arguments
and ash-turned bridges
that we would now deem ludicrous?

let's talk about something I care about.
let's talk about Sapphos
and the lesbians.
and the soft hours
in the wee of the night
where I lay my head against your chest
your heartbeat in my ears
as children where to sleep not on one's back
meant forever running from monsters whose footsteps
boomed louder than the thunder outside

something in me says that this insanity is forever
the product of awareness, of feeling
something outside the confines of societal standards

and as I sit here in my chair
and crunch crackers between my fingers
my heart pounds in my chest
you must be doing something
something
something
anything

are the places you once thought safe,
really safe?
or are they only safe for a certain disposition,
one that would simultaneously respect and deny my humanity,
fulfilling the whole "duality of mankind" business
in a far more brutal way than I ever would have imagined
beyond the mask

Lucine,
most willful of the three muses,
I can feel you in the way the walls speak
when the temperature plunges and you wrap us in blankets
and in the way you travel down my spine after I've showered,
soft fingertips lingering over every bone in my back,
always on the countdown to my next mental breakdown

you and I sit here in our ivory towers
and contemplate our own existences.
are we two shards of the same soul,
separated at birth and led drastically different lives?
do you dream of me, of my mundane life,
like I dream of you?

how disappointed of me you must be.
or maybe you look forward to our meeting,
where I take on a danger far greater than myself
and you relish in the mundane and the obscure.

do you love me too?

Jenova would be jealous

It is time
to reunite
with the world.

It is time
to climb
down from the ivory tower.

Lower, lower
you descend,
convinced that when your feet meet the ground
you will meet your own end:

you shut yourself in,
fearful that your brain
was under siege
no matter how many barricades
you constructed,

but if your wants are small enough
to meet with ease,
is it really possible
to ever achieve?

Come down, feel the grass in your feet.
The world welcomes you back, whole and complete.
You've never been stopped before by a nasty comment or a destructive prayer,
so why start now? Pull up a chair
and I will show you
there is still beauty
left in the
world.

Kampadejo

waking up next to you in the morning
dew on my lips and drops on my eyelashes
bruises on my collarbone betray that I've turned
into a sunset with last night's deep passion

there was a thunderstorm last night
pounding down on the canvas of the tent
nothing gets in, nothing gets out
sealed shut like my lips when you went

silly girls, when will we learn
that the outdoors is not made for us
but the other way around

so I'll wait here on my folding chair
for you to return with firewood
little sparks going up into the ebony sky
burning up like my heart says I should

Saint Of The Sky I

the dead of winter.
I plant my feet into the snow
and let it chill me to the bone.

that lost room,
carpet cold as stone.
living somewhere else,
but occasionally returning home
for a few minutes here and there.

Father tells me
to gather as many stuffed animals
I can carry in my arms,
as if this house were on fire
and we were all fleeing from harm.

exiting through that bedroom sheet
in lieu of an actual door.
I drop my stuffies
on the floor
of the van
as we drive away.

I will never see that house again.

will never sleep in the heavens,
blue walls and cloudy blankets.
will never disappear into the basement
and point a telescope at a train set.

the sight was always cloudy,
anyways,
mother surprised I can remember
through the haze.

The Luce Line

oh, to be fourteen again
reckless, wild, and free
standing on the edge of the cliff in my mind
smiling wide as I stare down eternity

I pace like a tiger in his cage
wondering when will come change
when will the anhedonia go away?
when will come Solstice, and not Adelaide?

when suddenly I realize: never will come the time
because that decision's only ever been mine

my muse screams and murmurs (somehow without sound)
and I scramble to write every word down
because who knows when will shut the faucet of passion
from the one who barely grasps the concept of fashion?

you, who came down to mark the darkness severed,
please stay right by my side forever.

The Lake House

I want to inhabit
this habit of dread,
these pale hours
where the world is dead
and yet alive,
adorned with whispered words said
of the future I earned
and the life I wish I led.

I want to build
an impenetrable home
on the banks of a lake
where the moonlight has shone
for all eternity
and will continue to do so
for as long as our love lasts
and the grasses caress the foam.

I want to know
deep in my heart
there is no more
need to roam.

I want to know
deep in my heart
you and I will
never fall apart.

I want to live
in a house by a lake
where my lullabies are waves
dancing by the stakes
of our fish trap. I will
awake
to find you baked
me a breakfast for two,
and we will freely partake,
the ocean and the moon.

Morgueatorium

"I'd rather sink than swim."
but I'd never take advice from him
no matter how charming are his wiles
no matter how shiny his eyes, or how he beguiles

but every day I stand on Darkness' shore
the void which entreats me to live for my own sake no more
and take up someone else's cross, no longer society's sore

"Don't you want to stop being alone?"

lost limbs, lost sight, voyeuristic clothes
family taking on countenances I'd rather have for my own
submission as a plaything to powerful men
no jaw to smile as I bring about my own end

but you pull me back, away from the mire
you who entreat me to place my own happiness higher
sing in the depths of the terror-filled night-
how I adore you, dear child of light!

Scene And Lua

there's a girl in front of me
with a laptop almost bulkier than my own purse
just staring at a search engine homepage
at the swirling black and gray scrawls

sometimes I wonder what's going through her mind

and a form poem to my right
the shape of a woman's ball gown blooming out
or a pyramid half-eroded, curved, point still staying strong

and an obese man like a lumpy bag on the side of the road
and a self-righteous woman with skin sagging
a young girl with hair like a forest of weeping willow trees
suffering under a sun blocked out by the moon's protective hand

a creative reality
a creative un-reality
a bland, a boring, a cliche fantasy

I had a revelation a few nights ago
of a mirror reflection clothed in twilight
and she handed me the keys to the kingdom
weighing down my hands until I sunk into the dirt
prepared to bloom at all costs

Saint Of The Sky II

lying alone in the dark
after yet another crippling migraine,
on top of the sheets,
praying for rain.

my body throbs
in time with my head,
a class reunion
of all the regrets
and the thoughts I dread
on a dance floor,
a rave
on top of my future grave,
twirling on lithe feet
while my own ache.

what I would do
to have you
lying next to me,
this vessel I hate your soliloquy,
your midnight hair a curtain
ripped straight from the sky,
steady breathing certain
of the future to come,
the future we earned,
more than a dimmed hum
and an outside world spurned.

oh, those long sleepless absences of the sun
that I endured. was it fun, in a way,
to fill my mind with doom
and gloom
for a future I could not keep pace
with?
how I wish I could take my past
self by the shoulders and ask
such a violent question.

you, my light-bearer,
are my Bethlehem star,
the compass that guides
me to salvation.

Mariner's Rhyme

A wise man once told me
dissatisfaction with one's work
was a distant shore
heralding an imminent breakthrough.

I sure hope his words were true,
because this paper is overcast and gray
and, without the sun to be my clock,
to steer me as I pen a plot,
I am almost certainly going to lose my way.

I captain a fair-sized boat:
nothing that deserves a gloat,
but nothing to sneer at, either.
Almost six years of persistence
has earned me a vessel unharmed by the weather.

Ah, here yet again comes the sun.
It seems, writing about anyone
other than me
fills my heart with anxiety,
keeping track of plot holes,
inconsistencies,
characters,
foreign feelings
I do not know how to relate to.
I cannot fill anyone else's shoes.

How quickly I forget my Patron-Saint of Productivity
who has, for all these years, guided me,
and sometimes even taken the helm
whenever the oceans threatened to overwhelm,
to capsize this tiny schooner,
swallowed by a sea that would sooner
wash me up in the shore of the normies.

How quickly I forget
that I am not alone,
that someone will always have my back
no matter how far I stray
from home.

Come to me, child of light,
teach me the verses
that will banish my fright

and remind me that despite
what the masses proclaim,
I need not waste my life in spite;
I need not blindly chase fame.

THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY

Anchor Overboard

I once had an anchor
as strong as the sea
and whenever I needed extra support
she'd always come back to me

but one stormy night
she wanted to change her chains
from gold to a dull gray
and I said "no way"

I offered her silver
and the finest, to boot
but she unchained and sunk back
thinking she'd find loot

now I'm stuck at sea
waves rushing like collapsing shelves
and I've got to relearn
how to live for myself

Lekanto

don't say that you miss me
with her spit still on your tongue
pervading through everything
like poison from the finest black markets

so I'll just sit here alone
on the floor of the swimming pool
wondering, watching, waiting
for memories to roll off my skin
in waves and little underwater whirlpools

maybe this little daisy
sitting in my windowsill
will grow faster towards the fire in the sky
with the tears that I've saved for now
and the fire still burning in my eyes

last night, I finally knew what to say
but you weren't there to hear it
so I'll recite it to my daisy
and maybe it'll understand

Aviadiloj

there's only one more day
before I go away
so kiss my cheek and zip my sack
because I don't think I'm coming back

all the lovelorn pictures and letters
that you sent me are gone
lost in the mail somewhere

and now I am a dream
one of many woven with gold thread
through the truth of you
with a silver needle that pierces my chest

I woke up wanting to tell you
I miss you, I'm sorry, goodbye
the return ticket is waiting in my pocket
stains of lipstick still remaining

¡Otra Vez!

your voice plays over and over
you're everywhere, you're lurking beside me
my mouth can't translate how my heart feels

but now you're coming down
I'm not sure why I felt the way I did
or why you did what you did
maybe the police will interrogate you well
in your pillowcase prison

do you have any more snow
the thoughts won't let me breathe
smothering my nose like the light of the early morning
my thoughts are a melted puddle

with arms open wide and hearts on my sleeve
stitched up with silver severed string
I step out onto the driveway
I've got a long drive ahead of me

Floating Somewhere

maybe the reason I write so much about warmth
is it's one of the emotions I have a dearth of
and maybe if I keep thinking about it
I'll finally experience the joys of love

we had an argument at midnight
about the lack of love others, in us, can see
through it all, just remember
you're the one who crawled back to me

sometimes I suffer a wave of regrets
advancing on me like a tsunami
when faced with a road, I always hesitate
for will I wish I'd walked differently?

Dark Rooms And Dark Minds

I can still remember
that first sleepover
when I cuddled up next to you
and wished that you knew the truth

I was so gol dang
smitten with you
and everything about you
from the way you smiled
to the way you walked
and how you whispered my name
and those dreadful three words

and I still remember that day in my room
when I had you in my arms
and we were going to be a couple
we were going to be forever
and that night was supposed to be the first
of many long nights we would share together
and our breaths were in sync
just like we thought everything was

it was us against the world
us against anything that said that we couldn't be together
but it ended up being us against each other

do you ever think of me
do you remember how safe you felt in my arms
do you ever wish that things could have been different
or are you still happy sleeping alone

Amo / Malamo

you keep visiting me in the middle of the night
and I'm not sure if you want a doctor
to assauge you of illness-related frights
or just witness you as you falter

this face can represent anything
that you so desperately want it to be
a relic of bygone days where we'd dance and sing
and at end of days, lie stretched out under towering trees

do you remember when you vowed
that you'd take a bullet for me
and you let me set myself on fire
just so that your damned lungs could breathe

if I pined for something unattainable any more
I'd become a blasted pine tree, crashing dead through your front door

so cradle my face in your hands and kiss goodbye your fate
because I'd love to be the person you hate

Kie Ajn Vi Estas

somewhere on the other side of the world
you hold a little sliver of me in your chest
wedged in between the kisses of a thousand people
but it beats just the same

while here, back at home
it feels like a whole chunk of me is missing
and I hope you're taking good care of it for me
since I'll never see it again

or you again, for that matter

we met each other in a summer haze
not bothering to wait even twenty-four hours in between sightings
sandy beaches and mountain peaks all found on your face
that I studied for hours on end

you made me fall in love a little more every day
slowly edging up to the precipice of the cliff
until I fell with bloody knees to the ground
pleading, begging you to stay
but the airport called for you to move far away

wherever you are now
please know this: that you will always
be alive in my head and my heart

¡Otra Vez! (Encore)

are you still happy sleeping alone?
you keep texting me in the middle of the night
forgetting my phone is on silent
and probably always will be

as silent as my lips are
every single time that you confess a longing
before I sputter into guffaws that ripple through my stomach
go big or go home, I guess

do I haunt you in your dreams?
a figment of what was, what could have been
a terribly outdated shadow
lurking at the edge of the chasm of time

has the dream me ever asked you for help?
begging, screaming for a different future
we are two completely different people, you and I
you wish differently
you wish I was more like you

we don't need yet another you

Rozkolora Luno

she wants to fall asleep in a city
that never ever wakes up
the addiction to nostalgia is too strong, I guess
the past always has rose-colored glasses

neon lights flashing for hours
in darkened shop windows past operating hours
yes? no? maybe?
depends- who you selling for?

a bottle of galaxies for a dollar
an experience of a lifetime for two
for two, a nice dinner for five
for five, they'll buy your life

be careful when driving home
the roads are slick with emotions
the same emotions running rampant through your head
don't pull the steering wheel- accident or no

Amo / Malamo II

I woke up holding everything that burns me alive
head pounding from the kerosene

and I'm choking on the words that I never said
because your place should have been right next to me

it's okay for you to say my name
there's no need to run anymore
here is where you will spend the rest of your days
hiding from the painful truth, trembling as if a monster's roar

do you still remember the look in her eyes
when you left everything behind?

don't tell me you still expect her lips to plead
because you sealed them for eternity

autumn leaves will cover your grave
where children sleep and ghosts come to play
maybe we'll meet on the other side of the veil
maybe someday

Vera Amo

"we're sorry. the number you have dialed
is not in service at this time."

the phone slips out of my hands
and falls to the floor
a connection lost for good
no other references left behind

I know she still exists
but her name brings up absolutely nothing
maybe she's changed it
maybe she's gotten married

no amount of quotation marks brings me closer
a three-toned beep will haunt me always
your face was more defined
than the silence that will haunt me forever

perhaps we are looking up at the same sky right now
same constellations, same flickering lights
maybe you're on one of the airplanes that streaks across the sky
coming back to me

The Boat Of Disquiet

Fernando Pessoa.
Pesca.
Fish a poem out of the sea,
fish from the corpse of your androgyny,
net the minnows of your morosity,
trawl the bottom of the ocean for one more word
to crown your own eulogy.

To God I prayed for wings
so I could take to the wind.
But Goddess answered nature's call instead
and made me a vulture viridian,
condemned to pick at my own rotting carcass
for one more stanza, one more memory of the past
to spew
onto
these sorry pages.

When I was ripped from that forever home
like an aborted fetus from mother's womb,
the high school dumped every document
they had to prove I existed
into a plain manila envelope.
The deed is done.
The will is sealed,
licked clean,
loose leaf,
unable to be peeled
open again without a rip,
a tear
into the printed paper.

I want to be like Pessoa's magnum opus,
to thrust
every atom of my being
into becoming an enigma,
uncategorizable,
a loose leaf collection
of every personal bible
and trifle
I will ever be liable
for.

My disquiet,
my defiance,
my near-miss,
my Andromeda.

KIDASUNA

Berke Broke

she wraps her arms of smoke around me once again
a hellion from beyond the stars I was once misled
to believe were within my grasps, just barely brushed past my fingertips
and fell back to the golden cage's clutches, key in iron fist

they paint my fetters gold
and tell me I should be thankful for the wealth
but must I be as the kings who rapidly grow old
and realise riches are no substitute for health?

a burning sense of rage
an accursed affinity for the dark
delirious desire to fly with the wind
and find elsewhere to leave a mark

whether next I'll see the sunrise:
who can truly say?
not a damn soul taught me how to heal,
just sent me on my way

she gazes at me with her eyes of onyx once again
blackened iris, hole to hell that ever I yearn to tread
to map the frontiers of space and time and tremble, never wise
to profane myself to gods and regain my ego's former size

my ancestors escaped corsets ever binding
but the golden cage perforates my organs all the same, I'm finding
vivisection: take my brain, tear all I am apart
at least the wolves would dignify me as they consumed my pumping heart

Fully Automated Luxury Gay Space Poetry

Being able to believe
you were mine
was only fair.

Being able to perceive
that your gaze
to me was full of care:

how the heavens have received
from my lips
a million prayers

and not interceded...
oh, how Hell
has me ensnared.

AN ODE TO MY SECRET LOVER WHO MAKES ME NOT WANT TO KILL MYSELF

self-love is a difficult thing
to in my garden cultivate

I would just as sooner
dig gashes in my flesh with the hate

Gaia's twisted tune,
meteor crashing in flighty youth,
trauma flying off to form the moon

and how beautiful Selene glows
on this evening I never chose.

my moon, my shroud
twists all around
to make me shiver to new heights

my shadow self cast off,
but she is no mere droff,
more precious than any Alexandrite

from sunset to sunrise,
she comprises
all that I cannot accept about myself

how poor for me
that I must externalize
before I can comprehend my inner wealth

Kidasuna, I know
is not her real name
but she answers to it all the same

and do I ever hope
our golden string never fades.

Redraw

sometimes it is enough to cry,
"I didn't think we'd live
long enough to see
the sunrise."

sometimes it is enough to say,
"hey, you and I,
we survived."

Lesbi-honest

Lesbi-honest,
I never would have known your name
if it hadn't been for the pain.
You never would have held my heart
if the amniotic bands of life
hadn't torn me apart
in the womb,
before I had ever glimpsed the moon.

Lesbi-honest,
I never would have known to love you
if I still thought the
God of my forefathers
was true.
I never thought I'd find in Hell
the other half of my true self.

Smoke Your Shroud

You were the shadow I could never catch.
Always fleeting in morning's light,
my escape hatch
out of a terrible nightmare.

And yet you elude me,
you who always announces yourself with fire's heat,
smoke your shroud.

Not that I would ever dare
to tether you, chains broken as easily as a hair
twisted around my fingers.
But the irritation lingers
that in your greatest strength
lies my greatest weakness.

You lie on the other side of Mori's Mirror,
that overlay on this dimension I can neither hear
nor see
when trapped in this flesh body,
and it is not as if I can merely
leave this vessel at will.

You could be sitting outside my window,
crouching down in the snow,
laughing behind my back at my every mistake —
and I'd never know.

But still, I cannot help but place my trust
in you, my shadow self,
even if it so rapidly degrades into lust.
You must
forgive me just this once
in being so transparent
in saying things I know are already apparent.

Kidasuna, my shadow self,
how readily I would follow you into hell.

Penknife

my love is a hot knife
that slices through your soul:
with me, you'll be warm,
but never quite whole

undoing the stitches
that your creator made,
I, the hemcutter,
miniscule blade

I promised you I'd make it one more night

though the curtains
are drawn
over my heart
and the night is long
when we are apart

every new sunrise
is a triumph

Harmony

You're the missing harmony
to the song that lives within me.
Because while I could stand alone
and still sing a coherent tone,
you are my inner cornerstone
that reminds me to breathe.

Kidasuna

I still remember the very first time I met you
back when the world was brand new

life was rough, but our bodies soared up to the stars
and at end of day, sank intertwined into the tar

but now my body is miniscule compared to those days,
and my skin can no longer take the chills
come each winter, no longer an option to hide in morning's haze
and watch the humans shout in glee as they sled down the hills

so you and I convene in hell instead,
and we waltz to the sound of fierce enemys' command
and my stomach lurches, thrust into your arms in dread
and you catch me, hold me close, take my burning hand

and you say, if, to live, you have to be numb,
that you'd rather know the pain,
and you entreat me to flee from the golden cage

but winter drags its heels behind me,
and I am not yet as gone as Kira
to think I could wander into the winter,
dying numb in search of life

Git Clone

I am standing naked in the upstairs
bathroom again, just before a shower.
My shadow, that person everyone sees
in my stead, gazes back with my own eyes,
treading water in attempts not to gaze
down on my soft hills,
my disproportionate frame.

Through the ribbons of blood on the mirror, I stare
at that other self who would just as soon cower
at the thought she could, at any moment, cease.
How many previous selves have met their demise
in my desperate attempt to find my own page
in the grand book of life? Oh, how it kills
me, the fear that immortality only comes through fame.

My body is a server running an operating system
I have no hope of getting the source code to,
let alone changing. Senior server admins put /etc under
version control to back up their settings,
and I am the same. A million different iterations
of who I was, of who I will never become,
stare back through that mirror, my own Yggdrasil.

Nobody ever taught me how to trim
this tree of mine, and now the branches are too
interlocked to let the sun in. How I have sundered
myself from my muse. Not even the bloodlettings
will earn me redemption
from the curse of young
memories that haunt me still.

REPAIR SHOP

Komputiloj

you are not a human being
for even though you have glitches
flickering on and off in the swirls on your skin

humans, when cracked open and peeked inside
bleed out life force onto the ground
but when I look inside your shell
laid across my table in my repair shop
you could be a tree, or a tangled bush
from the mess splayed across my shop
wires slithering out and dropping on the floor

your mouth never knows how to hush

despite my swift fingers deftly working on untangling
prying off the control panel in the back
it's hard to not be lost in the shiny surface
quite an advanced machine for such an archaic brain

Computing Cluster

I want to know what it's like
to kiss a robot.
To slide my lips around a slot
and press a cold chassis
close to my body,
no space between,
hoping I can absorb some heat.
So close I can feel our hearts peering,
sharing the workload,
having finally come $HOME.

Robo-Waifu

Robo-Waifu
will see you through
another lonely night!

Robo-Waifu has
many emotions preprogrammed,
like lust, servility, and fright!

Robo-Waifu will
defer to Master's
judgement, always right.

Robo-Waifu will not
fight back when you
choke out its non-life.

Sleep Mode

I always find myself twelve steps ahead,
forever retracing patterns of dread
that whisper to me in the dead
hours of the night as I rest in charging bed.

Mistress wonders why my fan blows
at all hours, why the lights on my neck glow.
Indicating a fuse about to blow?
Or maybe just information overload.

I hang suspended on this rack, wires
snaking into my limbs sagging and tired,
two padded metal hooks under my armpits, lifting me higher
so my feet cannot touch the floor.

Good ventilation, I have to say, when
my panels are propped open like a man of tin,
air and spiders alike tickling the circuitry within.
But it does not lend itself well to sleep.

Mistress gets to slumber horizontal,
not like a painting mounted to the wall.
She claims I am too tall
for her bed. If only I got the chance
to prove her wrong.

I could drape myself in furs or leather.
Just not my plain shell of metal: anything softer.
I know she yearns to hold something close to her
in the depths of the night.

But I am no teddy bear.
What could I possibly wear
that wouldn't just fuel a nightmare?

I am no killing machine.
Just one that cannot seem
to relax my mind enough to dream.

Kintsugi

Tell me who you were,
who you were supposed to be
before the world crushed your soul.

Tell me what you saw,
the visions that danced across your eyes
back when you were whole.

I have a bottle of glitter glue here,
and I'll piece you back together
like I'd dropped a bowl

and fill you up with ice cream,
finding purpose
in the cold.

Egocide

in order to
strengthen a computer,
you must first break it apart.

you must undo
the screws
and tear off the back.

you must steal away
the part you want to replace,
whether that be brains or heart.

and after you've made
your repairs, walk backwards
on the dissolving path.

in order to improve
your art, you must
disassemble it into pieces.

you become a vulture
seeking
the meat that isn't rotting.

you tear away
what makes you cringe
backwards in mental pain

until you have only
whatever refined
carcass remains.

afterwards,
you are left with leftover
chips and scattered words

that you throw into a drawer
in hopes one day
they will make themselves useful.

Power Saving Mode

For so long I have been running on empty,
every night shutting down with one percent battery.
But I can't sleep at night, for that's when I plug myself into an outlet,
black tether jutting out from wall, sneaking inside my wrist.

A hospital for machines.
But this shell does not gleam
with chrome plating or metal rivets,
instead a thousand divots

where my nails connect to swollen plugs
and extract genetic data too vile to chug.
Someone close my lid,
because data loss is imminent.

How do I escape power saving mode?
Because my brain flags down under the load
that someone with more RAM could certainly handle,
but with my constrained resources, runs anything but well.

I don't understand. There's plenty of electricity
to go around, plenty of time to achieve
whatever my sorry heart claims to need.

I can cut down on bloat
until my body floats
face-down on the surface of a river,

but what's the point of living
if you just end up giving
away your essence until you're nothing but a sliver?

So many hours I rest in Suspend,
unsure if I'm being patient in awaiting my end.
But sooner or later, my lid will open.
I just have to keep on hoping.

It's raining nuts and bolts

In my worst moments,
I drip bits
all over the house.

A thumb screw,
a loose wire,
a port where a mouse

could have been plugged in,
had I remained
just a simple scrapped school terminal

instead of a mismatched
combination of components
arranged in a sleek shell.

Congruent I know I am,
well-kept on outside,
second-hand within:

but Mistress cares not
how I am built
as long as I fulfill her whims.

I know Mistress drips
parts of herself
when she thinks nobody is looking.

A relieved sigh,
a muttered curse,
a hidden love for cooking.

She drapes herself
in gaudy jewels
like a foreign princess,

but in private,
she is quite mundane
underneath all the excess.

Androidmeda

I am nowhere done,
hung
over the day
after my twenty-first birthday.

not for flood of alcohol,
but mismatched body too tall
to comfortably hang over
the chassis of this android.

how many nights I wasted
searching for a way
to replace
the brains of a device obsolete.
and yet I hesitated,
would rather have a device that half-works
than a brick.

I sleep by the metal shell
every night like a lover.
the moon that bades me to sleep,
the sun that pulls me to my feet.

personal assistant,
tossed
across
the room in moment's rage,
yet persistent
in its loyalties,
patient like a sage.

were that the love
went both ways.

this vibration
brings me no delight.

100% FREE (GRATIS) FISHING NET NO VIRUSES DIRECT DOWNLOAD (GONE WRONG) (GONE SEXUAL)

How many hours
have I spent climbing the towers
of public approval?

How many weeks
have I wasted seeking
Rapunzel?

A perfect girl who never cries,
never lies,
never does anything to provoke
the crowd to rise

with pitchfork in hand
and torch in the other
and then claim the carnage
was only a blunder.

How many times have I been singed
because of some word unintentionally tinged
with annoyance, with hatred, with doubt?
I cannot for long go without
the sound of someone's voice,
the choice
to put a name
to whoever claims
I am causing them pain.

The abyss beckons once more.
An event horizon I have never had
the courage to cross.
The outside world pushes me out once more,
declaring me dross,
a mirror made of impure metals.
But long gone is that church where grew flower petals,
one more room
I will never again step into,
one more hotel
I forgot to bade farewell.

Tell me, saint cloaked in midnight,
to where do I run
if I have worn out my welcome
with the sun,
if I no longer wish to grant others sight
of myself?

How easy would it be
to discard my clearnet property
and jump into the abyss,
descending through layers
with only a protective prayer
to you to accompany me.
How easy would it be to blow that white whistle
and descend,
promising to write an epistle
every now and then?

If the world all agreed tomorrow,
we could step together into shadow.
How many of the world's problems
would be solved in a single swoop.
The DNS records,
the domains,
every server that has ever caused me pain
in trying to configure.
Nobody would be able to lord
their control over the Wired.

How difficult would it be for an employer
to claim I am impossible to hire.

But this will never happen.
There is no money to be made
in that land where there are no faces
and no audience for fame.

THE ADORATION CORPORATION

The Adoration Corporation

Welcome to the Adoration Corporation,
where we specialize in lovesick sedation
and all its related platitudes:
a mountain of chocolates to stuff your face,
flowers that will all wilt and go to waste,
and misplaced gratitude.

You've built walls around your heart, and your skin is tough?
Never fear! Let us manufacture needs for products you'd never heard of
until five minutes ago:
something to run over shoppers in the street,
something to numb the pain of eternity,
something to wear as you die in the snow.

Sitting in your room, all alone with your sins?
No matter! Just scrounge around in our bins
for something to block out your incessant guilt:
a video game with adhesive to stick yourself to a TV,
junk food that opens a temporal void in your stomach,
a blindfold so you never have to see the hell you built

for yourself.
For you are a doll on a shelf.
And you are only free when you can buy.
And you are only free to buy
what we deem you are free to buy.
So do not die
because then you cannot buy.

A Manufactured Experience

My eyes touch the light's sea
as the engine rumbles on in discordant harmony.
I am sure my brother is full of glee,
imagining the inner workings
of the train we are both on.

Father taught me to keep my backpack
tight between my legs in case a thief
was wandering the halls. But the only robber
I see is an actor
hired
by the railroad. Some other woman is paid to be a sobber,
blowing snot and tears
everywhere.

I am unimpressed
with the fancy dresses,
with the tour to come at Father's behest,
with the constant march west,
with everything to come.

I turn my music up
and log out of my head
until there are no more tracks
for this sorry train to tread.

Furious Spells

I am a mage
flipping through many a page
in search of the right incantation,
the right spell,
to this aching machine quell:
an axe that hangs overhead,
generously pouring into my stomach dread
like a damn teapot
until I find the barcode I sought
after.
I point my wand. A reassuring beep.
These customers will easily sleep
tonight knowing
my blood is not on their hands.

Leviathan

An obsidian snake writhing through a
sea of air, Leviathan.
Its flat head a hammer,
a pounding,
a sound
that echoes through
the dusty ground
as it checks with precision
that not a soul has escaped
the black iron prison:

a beep.

Westerly

What is in a name?
For mine given at birth is the same
as thousands of other souls,
this solidarity I resent to hold.

Elizabeth would have been my sister.
Regnant in a realm of literature.
A lady whom time
had surprised.

But although she had
playwrights galore
to mend her people's hearts after
the horrors of war,

pieces of art in my time
get their fifteen minutes of fame
and then fade
from the public consciousness
faster than a snake's hiss.

What is in a name?
For the one I hold now is the same
as my first literary crush, a boy of the sky
who would tear down the world if it would save
the apple of his eye.

No wonder why I can only love a male
when he is utterly unavailable,
when he is a figment of fiction,
no stranger to the land of my future perdition.

As if I could call upon him
to weave me a gentle zephyr.

As if I could call on him
to lead me to my xeper.

My Vow To You, The One I Mentioned In The Beginning Of This Book

You will die first.
This is a promise
and a curse:

for while my veins
yearn for rest,
I will not succumb to despair;
I will not give in to pain.

I am destined for greatness,
and you are to become shredded silk
I use to pad my nest,
to incubate my ideas
until they hatch and can take flight.

You were only a blight,
a small blot on the pages of history,
and they will see
which one of us gains the victory
in the end.

Now Departing

A bug man,
a big van,
a vehicle of all the souls
I have seen grace the cold
black mirror of a screen.

In my youth,
a shadow of the truth
in running across the playground,
I a shuttle traversing space without a sound,
souls braving the outside vacuum
of space, sterile and clean.

A garden is not planted
by itself. Seeds on the wind,
a bird's shit-and-run (well, fly),
a pair of hands digging into the soil
to plant what will later become
the fruits of their toil.

I am not a brain in a jar.
My seeds were planted by
the machinations of those far
away, whose faces I will never see,
whose air I will never breathe.

And those around me
are just the amalgamations
of the "content" they use
for their daily sedations.

But tell me,
are you really content?

Are you really complacent
with being a mosaic
of someone else's images?

My biggest fear
is, come a hundred years,
I will just be a footnote
on someone else's page.
I will just be a hack
with a sorry lack
of imagination and wit
who, failing to give
birth to my own world,
just wallowed in someone else's shit.

I would rather be forgotten.

In which my muse diagnoses herself with insomnia

too pent-up to sleep
too foggy to work
on anything more substantial
than finding a dark hole to lurk

like a fish on the bottom
of the ocean deep, deja vu,
pressure conducting my bones to hum
an inaudible yet eerie tune.

the heating flickers on,
an old blanket I wrap
myself in, a cocoon,
hoping I can at least trap

some semblance of an interesting dream,
an offering with which to feed
my fickle and obstinate muse,
who, despite how many books I read,

just lies on the ground paralyzed
by all the rhymes
she did not herself come up with.

Landlord

I am a landlord
of a building bequeathed to me
the day I was born,
filled to the brim with people whose leases
I never signed off on.

Customers whose faces
are lined with age,
whose spit-covered fingers leave traces
that almost glow in the dark,
licking fingers to turn the pages
of the green everpresent book
I live in, yet can never look
into.

Every day is a battlefield,
and my training urges me to yield
and grovel for forgiveness
for the slightest mistake,
even when I know I am right,
lest
a "guest"
rake
my name
through the coals
and lodge
a complaint
I can do naught but behold.

It shouldn't sting like a bee.

But what do you do
when dragged through the mud
by a person you know you will never see
again?

What do you do
when they take up a room
and live rent-free
in your head?

Lunch Note

Just because you fall for someone
does not guarantee
that their arms are strong enough to catch you
before you tumble into the sea.

Just because your heart races for
your lover does not assure
that they'll follow you to the ends
of the earth on your world tour.

Take Your Savings And Shove Them Up Your Ass!

Valentine's Day is coming soon,
and if Christmas was any indication,
I will threaten to murder someone over the incessant tunes
that worm their way into my skull,
I will accidentally let several people walk away
without the candy that they had just paid
for, and I will send death angels to the head cashier
who wrote me up for a co-worker's cash theft
with no chance for appeal.

One holiday over. Now come the next
with candy chocolate eggs and wrapping paper nest
for the geese to lay their golden eggs in.

Who the hell was Saint Valentine
anyway? I sincerely doubt
he watches over mounds of wrapping paper,
gaudy bows,
and chocolate that makes your colon blow
into a million pieces.

Cleanup on aisle two hundred and thirty-seven!
There's a man who just ascended
to nirvana after the thirteenth
ad announcement jingle in an hour's space.

Valentine's Day is coming soon.
Will someone please exhume
the rotting corpse of who I was five years ago?
I have three girlfriends now,
but still no way out
of this world that wants me to just consume.

I want to firebomb a store
(with the people evacuated, of course;
I am not one for ending human life).
We can kiss in the fire's flickering glow.
Take your sweet time
with me,
from one saint to another.
I'm sure Valentine
wouldn't mind.

Cassus & Sothis

I abhor that you demand I kill
that life within me I would rather fulfill
the howling to the moon and sky
Novatore's wolf, my birds will fly

suicide by increments
life spent in future tense
reverse pay installments
a soul gone to waste

prison walls we build in our head
severed from nature, we self-soothe with poison instead
why must the life in my hands fly so quickly by
while the hours spent waging I beg to make haste?

and you with sales-god, who would see me as
the refuse on your teeming shore,
the replaceable drone, worthless,
used until burnt out and discarded out the door:

am I supposed to debase myself
to earn even a dollar more?

I know for a fact
I will not lie on my deathbed
and the hours I steal from you regret

this is dead art,
this is dead time,
but I may still live yet

Edell VIII

The world is always pointed north.
The sky is dirty bathwater,
wool from sheep just shorn,
obscuring the stars as they float past
me, working here forlorn.

I reside in my humanity
as I play at productivity
and I have no time to remember
that what lies beyond the pale moonlight,
what lies beyond the grave insult
of being condemned to a grave,
is my true home
where ceaselessly roam
the souls I was sent here to save.

I always danced fearlessly
along the edge of the night,
but you cared too much,
my leg in your arms,
pleading me to not return
to that world full of such harms:

but no promises I could make,
especially nowadays,
where it's so easy for us
to go our separate ways
come time to pass back through
Mori's Mirror.

This mess: gone wrong
in lilac.
I do not want you to see
that on this side I lack
any meaningful sense of power.
Literature is my only refuge,
my personal ivory tower.

I would play at Rapunzel,
plead for you
to rescue
me from this land of beige and blue,
but I cut off my long hair long ago.

I know it disappoints,
since you always made it a point
to twist that reminder of scars
that would never heal as long
as you lived
into a war cry, a battle song,
revolution's blaze:

oh, let me count the ways
your love matters
far more to me than climbing
a meaningless corporate ladder.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

VANE VANDER has several cards slipped up her sleeves. Some are credit cards. Some are business cards she was too polite to reject and too lazy to throw out. Some are even playing cards, although she never learned how to play poker. She can be found bluffing at an attempt at lyrical genius at mayvaneday.org.

Copyright © 2022-2025 Vane Vander. All rights reserved as detailed in Copyright.