where is my matchbox
to set this oil spill
alight
who knew
only i
that consciousness
could destruct
its natural habitat
so very
very
quickly.

he lives in a house
that takes up the small corner
of the cul-de-sac
there are no windows
only a single frame
above the back porch
yet no one
ever dare to sneak a look
for fear they will
see the reason why there
aren't any
windows.

his wife
tossed her heart out
the top left
window
saying she'd rather
have it pump its
end
on the pavement below
than have something touched
by him
inside of her when she too
died.
after this, he promptly
took her
lungs
his were full of ashes
and he always felt,
he breathed better
with her.

his baby
his smiling, hauntingly joyful
infant boy
stopped too
only eight years
ago
when he wedged himself
between
the metal bed-cage
and went to sleep.
if you looked,
you could probably have seen
him
suffocating
through the bedroom
window.
as purple as
the day he was born.

this man tore out
the last window in his home.
he wanted nothing more
than to shut out the
night
and the day's harsh rise of
gold.
it hurts his eyes to see a welcoming world
just as much
as the dark.

man looks for ways
to disembowel fear
perhaps, to bring a knife-tip
right to the gut
ensure our terror and
sorrows
spill with all the blood.
unto the floor we put our knees
passionately bruised
and let our lips
hardened by elements
languish in red
and freedom,
like a well.

my eyes sink
my mouth is laden with tender flesh
my teeth are tired,
they aren't so geometric anymore.
i can feel the usually damp
pathways
that spark and tinder
but dry, and slow like
desert sand.
what tundra am i unaware of
that suffers under the sun
how could i not feel
myself wandering
into the infinite rise
and fall...
the dangerous
beautiful
desert of my madness.

he sees you
your godless
sinful body
sinks into your skin like a seed
into soil
brings his lips to what
he has secretly craved
he expects sweet
he is quick as a
flea
seeking “his”
instead
his tastes discover
that inconsistency
that ugliness
that disgusting
beautiful
proud
taste of
“mine”.

his body serves a vessel for a great voyage
to a new world.  and he is programmed to believe,
wholeheartedly,
fervently, this new world lies in
wait just for him, composed to hold him and
his aliveness like a bright,
pleasant fruit holds its acidity.
but the stomach churns upon arrival,
for the newness of this world proves all too ripe
for mans
infinite
rot.

many people i know
and i know myself
seek acceptance
love
compassion
from other people
and
admittedly
rarely seek it from themselves
it is a near impossible
yet impossible, simple thing
to love yourself without condition
yet most people
do not even
like themselves


we could start to.