kortirion breathes still ∆ though it be but in shallow waves pulled down through  uneroded sands / static filtering the gleaming lonley and untouched through its unknowable knowless pores

↗⤴⤵ out.

a fat clump of hair jabs at the left eye with the sharp wet tip of the curl as the head slides backwards and the neck, to the side

i receive the sticky bath of
new berlin.
its morning breath decays beside us in the black leather jackets
too small to do much warming

punkrock won't save us this
time

we
will be quaking
in our secondhand
boots

our antebellum is
ending.
go and repent to a human being instead

it's 2oclock in the morning on election night.i am driving over to the east end
projects with my mother in a blue minivan.

my nana
is having  another nervous breakdown. she's already called 911 twice about a rattle snake in her kitchen closet .
we get there to find a
peanutbutter-and-jelly sandwich cut into
three uneven peices
it's
wrapped in clear plastic,
set aside for a nonexistent maintenance man who fell out of the bathroom window
  while painting it.

we learn her very living daughter has died in a motor vehicle accident while in transit to see her husband, my grandfather- who died when i was in second grade.

she explains to me how she shut the closet door in such a fashion as to make the enclosed space entirely    airtight.
she
won't let us open the door.
she
laments the ****** of the snake by her
deeds.

the conversation turns to the positioning of
furniture.

we spend an hour and a half there.i
check the results on my
phone
i don't think i can go to thanksgiving
anymore.
a few neighborhoods away,my girlfriend is

crying
my nana        explains various recent births
in
the family that are untrue and
biologically
impossible.
most of the stories involve people  
supposedly
   next door.or in the basement

she talks about Elizabeth
who doesn't exist.

we go home after she finishes her peach
yogurt

i spend ten minutes outside my house , zigzagging around the block.

i catch my first snorlax
who
is my favorite pokemon.

it is a foolishly low cp

our bullet comes
propelled by the vengeful prayers of
innumerable
multitudes of living creatures contingent in
staying that way at great cost to us.
after all

might is right.

and
you
hold my head in your
arms

without fear     or a capacity to engage in complex love.
all emotions are to you,

like butter
on your

tongue



Evolution favors those that can't understand it

you have the personality of a typical youtube comment.
suicide
is going up

here,

this is the last Art
history forgets us.
as
years pass the word will be brought up from time to
time
but there will be no understanding of it

☆
against the ugly light of a brand new
day. we
take comfort in the bruises on our
future bellies
.
my youthquake comes to a theater near
you  
in whitebreakers of overeducated hooves blustering forward without pleasure

and.in recycled boyhoods bandaged together in
peanutbutterhaste

i can_


.
advocate for me on your sly plunge into
Helios
swanlike and stumbling.

solution is
calling


i am unmaker of your radiotheist fire.


wrapt  up in your eternal parka like fishing net for rare creatures.blushing


it brings peace as i eradicate all sense of fashion.pulling on the uneven strings of the hood like a
God
for better people (than you)

i discount you in this poem and amid other things where
1 1 7 55 47 40 30 10
.


i crack open the cocoons you retreat
to
for
respite
like a
pre-dinner platter.washing my hands
in the crumbs
of your
falling cornmeal
bones.

(as)you
get caught
in the depression left  in my wallet when i
get up

to walk away

trembling-
fabulous as
bowie
's
ghost


doing you the most glorious harm.

It* comes each time
a microbe dies.
every time a colony of mold is bleached out- at every whim of the
weekendwarrior that plucks
thedandelions.

mygenerational failure.loss of god_the next political disaster.
they get it out of their system like ****.in times of peace, etc.
the
end
of things will find us> and each consecutive *******-
around
ends a future that might have
been.each bite taken takes from something
else.
we think we are so different.we both deserve *end and deliverance
from it.

the end of all things happens in every hospital ward
every day.
every city.every cave. on every spoon in the restaurant.

It's
happening in your gut.

each time it's different. and still you worry about it like a
truth.
doom, you say.
well, it
is doom you want.
i could give it to you.              most
anyone could
if the conditions were
right
no.

not my style,
today.     you live.

somewhere in the universe (read:back
hallway) she covers her ****** and
pretends to be a brunette

that bird plays freejazz second only to ornette coleman
in the cool and dewy pre-dawn.
the wet, bounding notes
are
suspended from the hillside like -
flesh

i think future history will show PewdiePie as Marcel Duchamp
and the ideas curated will be
something.

.           , ...........                       .........
                          |                 |                  \
                           \                 /                      \    
                                                                ­      \
             /|      i need to make      |\             \
            / |   myself feel special  | \              \
.--------    |   regardless of the     |  \          ..,.      
               |   impact on others.  |
                |                                    |
                |                                   |
               |                                     |
               |                                   _.|

as i cast a spell into the gap between the
knucklebones of your toes.we
dangle before

fetishists like raptors

a little too costumey for you to hold me
well

******* ****** toothbrushes to encourage
their
*** of pink
foam into the basin of the sink.reaching
down
the gullet of the drain.my

eyes rinse  past you

in hopes that my blasphemy
will be
as beautiful as yours

though i sort each hair on your head one-
by-one.across my
satyr
lips

in
crepuscular finality


.

i crawl on my belly against the grain of your breath.fading into your occult
outpeopled
by that ******-axe-murderer stare

i watch you ponder trecherously through
the irregular curly hairs on the nape of my
breast. pilgrim to
this
thin dying forest.we crack shins and
bounce off of eachother
into a cool
madness

the back
of your neck
brings grace to the bus window.the
pink

clogged pores of bad conditioner not fully
rinsed out
do it


each turn
. each bump in the road
each heaving breath.teeming with

innocent life
radiating with static energy_like my fingers glowing against my jeans.your eyes ride the
node

of its wave as they search there.not wanting god
or
pity
not wasting a drop of
fluid
starving out the other animals in competition.blessing
the passing scenery with threats of
annihilation

i vandalize the space between peachfuzz
hairs.
you

render me worthless and.clean

You say my name the way a bullet pronounces syllables in other people's mouths-passing through them on the way to profound exit into the air.
My
thoughts turn to you in the same afterwardly accompanying mess,knowing  
what has been
done.

There will always be days where you are swimming in it. The air presses up against the undercooked  pancake of your ear with a pressure greater than air. Any of that ugly light that gets to your eyes is suspended in it
Like moths in cobwebs, and just as
happy
about it.

gooey paladin you in gun powder real.like bucket like helm.scooping into pieces i can be soup.i can loopdy-loop
lemme show you my favorite
piece
of
meat

chybby
chxbby
chvbby
    >

oh
sebum heart
you are more than the cells rotting in your
body
.than the hive mind of bacteria in your gut telling you to rip the
place to shreads


my love traces over
you
in shoals of sticky wet erasure

tonight, we could
tongue each other's wounds (if just for a moment). measure the grease in our hair. salt like motherly
precipitate
seeping out of the gamma-me .
we
look to the reflection of the ceiling fan in the window.
four moons beating each other senseless_ away from
everything.
all this
just for the right to hang there
shining dumbly for disinterested killers
of god

tonight is as we are
i can't wait to crumple to bits   ☆
                    
                                
                  .

The
weight of the world sitting dumbly on
those fructose eyelids.

They, in turn.      melt into the mummified  
morning.

laying in the corner forever like a
favorite-shirt
ruined in the wash.
Every other stripe on you is stained pink
from
some cheap volunteer tee that ******              up
The whole load.

Each ray from the blinds
Takes some life away.


Searing past you- into the floorboards
with
quiet fury.

Time passes_
It shoves us down into compact spaces.
(but)
I thought of you
In a shoplifter's prayer.

(There is something left that evaporates out in the form of you)

I imagined you
Still.
But growing
Like
Crystal salts
Crusting up the pores of the earth.

Vapors fumbling upwards to rehydrate
My dry fingers_


We make decisions . that stick around.

We break off blisters. Rip little things that hang off our lips.
We take breaks before we need them.
Take too long to say
**** this.

Thoughtlessness.



Somewhere out there, they are screaming loud.

Somebody either cares or
Doesn't.


The marks on the carpet know better than
us
How to last forever

i take my socks off.
i see
on her dusk
a crown of young birches rises up like spindled lines of pencil.
they don't prove their permanence to the old soil>
missing the big trees that used to grow
here.


her body,
like wet leaves burning. the paper bark peeled back from
her forehead
reveals the colony within the soft wood.
down where the air is
as
still as the inside of a halloween
mask,
the fingers of her evening clam up likewise-
and all that it touches
is damp again.

and as i lay my dead smile in her's
,our teeth rest together in
bliss

Amsterdamiss is
typing into an internet comment section:_

but she's gone.
by the look of her little square
picture.
Her blip in the fetish
It's a costume
leaking through the build up for it>gumming up each pixel> disappointing us.
and don't forget      
          to bite down
when you' chewing gum.
or just scraping something historic from the front of a nicely shaped
building

our fingers
are
red
as the blood flowing through the veins of our revisionist
history.america
can ******* babe.
we are exceptional.


and they're showing it on the disney channel  
and out in the street-like folds that peel out doing at least
45
without looking
on the places on my body.
if you
scroll down, some kid calls her a ******.
but i'll let you hate me
if you want to. as i correct the dead smile of the news reporter.as she
feeds some sort of loaded question into the
screen
like: "you just have to thank god at times like these, don't ya?"

.
"it really is a miracle, isn't it?"
as we stand
in front of the fire that's taking just about everything.
in front of the shot-up restaurant.
in front of my shaking hands.


******* savages
all of 'em

it's the middle of the night, babe.
don't you have anything better left to say to me?
at least
give me something to feel shame about.
it's coming
down
to you.

     -
I say something mean.


not yourbabe. might be your babe.
**** like a snapback-
Melfina tilts her head back
i'm garbage

with a fresh grasspour
fade to green,  as the sun beats us senseless .with shotgun shells from the center of orbit
to breathe as this. as the saltwater beads up around the
little wrinkle of her
nose.
she can save us.

but
there's nobody to hold your love for you, when you're too ****** to grip it.

  _/ _
\       /
/   ^  \here's a lucky star for you, babe- you're gunna need it, here at the center of it all.

the space between your eyes is a river of spoiled milk.
we check on it and promptly put it back in the fridge. we find it later, little
changed.
it is summer time in the dystopia.
lovers coddle each other inside the meniscus that grows tight around the dishes in the sink.
the trash doesn't get taken out for
days.

daddy loves you.

we want browner *******. set them back into the sun. the pink ones are still burning under the shirts.
nothing can stop the radiation
today
and the birds are resting awhile on the fence, with their mean, dinosaur eyes
-waiting to

scavenge our bodies.

her head wilted into the crook of his shoulder- waiting to be taken apart
for diagnostics.
the circuitry was buzzing quietly. only the blue lights
and one orange switch
were left blinking.
outside the window, things were trembling billions of years away.
outside the window- the vacuum drank slowly
from what was left inside.

they had arrived at destination.whatever that means.
she didn't look up.
he couldn't.

as the thighs above the knees burn through tears in the jeans. as the
belly
burns. as we think of something nice.
as jet trails droop like wet knives in a daylight shooting
.
we don't make wishes on them.
we just wish that the a/c will kick in when we
step through the door.

summer like chapters of mangled honey.
fingers like attitude problems.          she lept in front of the bus [and broke her
legs.]
i stutter for you.
here comes my:
fur lips.   storage bins.facilities.knuckle dragging. shouting lisp_
it's rough like
tweed-belly-hairs pushing up against soft earlobes resting on them

in the afternoon.

Hanna Montana is dead and we are happy now.

and
some call megod.          
my best fetishes are a housewife that wants you dead for wearing spaghetti straps
and a hairy chest.

she watches the news-
gets off to it.
as
her son and step-daughter **** in the basement.
they lean in place in nothing but those white cotton socks that get wet and sticky from the laundry detergent spilt across the rubber-
mat.

the *** stained push-up will get left down there.
the machine will tear it out of its wire armatures.

outside the sun is burning the lawn.

outside
the fat black flies are *******.
they drop, heavy- inside the windowsill
after 4 days of fury. the good fight
is lost.
their wings are sparkling


like gems.

tonight

is a ligature->the tap water in the glass full of tap water in the glass
in the glass

dawn is somewhere.                
here
our faces are snoring like a chihuahua gnawing at my ankles.     down
to the Achilles, babe-
inside the stringy things that are holding its throat to
mine.
i leaned back.
you crumpled.

i don't

the ground is littered with these little ugly stubs that
go
everywhere
when you rush a notebook. they're not even mine.

she doesn't stand a chance.

they are waiting to devour her.          all of them.
the ones with teethes like middle school dances. the ones with
gums.
the ones that chew trident while talking on their cellphones in line, in front of you.

it's where it's at.
it's where it breaks apart.

it's gunna hurt
us.

the elixir of daylight crime is sweating off the skin behind your elbows.
squeezing it from the things in the produce section.staining your sheets.
it's pushing together the plastic tablecloth- the settings are abandoned
as they are.we let them sit long into the summer neglect.we are still

eating off

of them with our eyes.   i am slim.i am throwing open the peep-hole of the world.       the voyeurs go running and screaming /fingeringthemselvesastheyflee.
she remained:
pressing the webbing of her toes up against her ****-
one leg
pulled in tight, one ear up against the wall.

we are banned from certain channels.  we are throwing-up in our
mouths.we are winking at each other.  we
are just
resting.

i want my phone to die. i want to scrape my knee.

HANK YOU*. the bag folded over on itself dangling from her arms
as she strut the sidewalk,
each ant below her: unaware of the things she's done and been through.
the two little boys she had killed only a few hours earlier-
found something to do with her time.

start the morning, glowing
that's a **** good cereal. don't ******* say suicide. because i know you don't mean it.
or you do.
i know you like this for all the wrong reasons i know i hate you more than you will get.i want you to get it- but you won't. it's a very narrow market,
it's a thin slippery window
and don't ******* center format
because it's time to grow up. you're not losing anything.children aren't
innocent.
just powerless.
the killing comes with experience.
*****-deep in the way you drown in it. it's better for both of us if you
figure it out.

modesty
is the ****-bait of the world.industry is booming. it's been a long day,
binders
break their spines for lovers.bent-
up. gas in the lawnmower. don't care about television. shredded antibiotics- fist full of antacids.  get
god
the **** out of here.
it's all we can do, to stay grounded.
it's
not meant to save anyone.it's not about moral superiority. its's not about being an ***.
immorality is an applied concept. amorality
is more like it.
because mother teresa was a *******.
if i had more time i'd write you a ******* song.
and the kid next to you in class was a *******.
and the killer was a *******.
and
it's all we can do, to get the hell out of here and
slide
into something a bit more comfortable.you
like
different music than i do.we
drown
in it together. like everyone else_let's hate things while i hate you.let's
plow through it all, willfully
and sensitive.

we ate the years.

i have your
twin wrists
to graze upon.   like the thin blonde hairs teasing the air- waiting to be
burnt up
in
the
over-strong sun. i'd like to polish you off, the way the splinters on the
porch
find my heels.

i'd like to get some feedback
here.

you know i can't ride a bike.

you bleed on the sidewalks for me.

my hand rests on the place where your sock had rollen down to slack around the ankle.
i'll find out real quick, where the story ends.
you've got
mr. lonesome. and the resin that oxidizes into
glue
that yellows in the UV damage
of each freckle
that might have
been.
ya?
ya.

my burden is the way you hold me harder than i, you.
and so it goes as
the big dumb line of the sun cradling the edge of your face turns red-

blushing
at the forgotten incantation.
it pauses there for a moment before flitting back into shadowy chasm of laughter- roaring deep with the bile saved up here and there, and collected from songs about the loveliness of
women
i'm thinking on this.
it moves.

slipping off of her like the arm of a relative at a funeral parlor.
sailing close to her body like the evaporated milk that comes stumbling out.
these years in retrograde lay waste to our whinings.
they place bets against us, odd-ball us out of the cafeteria line-up

with the styrofoam trays still clasped between our ******* and the rail. >>

we sink
like a trade-off of gestures inside a heavy winter
coat,      out of season
standing gawky
and graceful like little dancer, 14 yo
creeping along, cross-legged as a vampiress

they will be
wild-haired in well kept soil.
histories, cleaner than they should be-
still mourning our lost autumnal,
we
skulkfully, drear around corners, peering downwards at that
which we want to scare us back

there might be
          things
just below the top layer
with teeth
we just can't help running our fingers through-
gut, twisting- hoping not to get
that
text
message.
that phone call. we know might come at any time. any minute now. at any hour of the night



//

and every **** is a good thing because it means
something
is still going on in there. some might say: the works, are still working
to some degree.
it's good
to be hot and wet inside.
it's like those hideous rain boots that didn't quite bend at the ankles - the
ones you hate until you don't have them ten years later.
it's like that haircut you had in middle school,
-the face of an ugly friend
-a sunflower pattern
-a blister you like to pick.
it's wonderful out there.
(i can't believe all the things that are still waiting to be wonderful.)

it's ******* you over like the memory of a 7th grade dance.
lissome where it hurts.
dreaming like a hallway.running hot from throwing up over the railing.

chest-wet
and dripping into the ringing of my ears.
your slender limbs fold over themselves for convenient storage.
i'm
running out of options in the smooth outside of your fantasy
                                                                ­                                rings- many digits a-caged
i've fallen down before you.

stuck inside the wills before you touched your lips to my fingers.
i am repeating in your forests,
dark as they are.
before the world is lit,
i stumble, blind enough to the lake. and the
unshod calling that bids me
                                      to you.

and even now, as the grey waters wimp away into the other side of the opening - the frost that stays close to the dew          takes lives.

and everyone here wants to be a victim, wants to ****** themselves,
glorify their struggles- feel a hero in their own stories.
                                          but we are better off than that.
we give, take, ****, breathe life back into little girls drowned in the undertow of public pool drains.
we install washing machines into the room
with hoses 12" too short for a rational person to justify.
it is the art of necessity
not pride. or glimpses at judgement or relief
for which we do heroic things.

and so as the girl grows (to 16 or so), she murders her family on any tuesday night.
as the spin-cycle comes on,
as it rinses out the best artifacts of last sunday's diner from your best shirt.

i want fingers that trap you inside minuscule breaths.
the
shorter the better-

dragging down the seconds like shoes on in the lake water.
these
that threaten to tear off with each pump of the legs.
as the arms stay thrashing unawares, as they reach for a hand-hold that isn't.
as the ring around your mouth spits across the magazines on the coffee-
table, leaving marks.
as the pillows on the couch come misshapen to the point just outside of comfortable.
as the moisture gathers in the armpits.

dawn breaks.

heat rises from the roofs of automobiles.
eyes readjust to light that puts gunk back into them.
the city is like orange glass.
your hair
is hair.
i let drool slip across your ****.

[spf30] sludge sweats off down into crevasses i want to touch.
gods break apart
in the clammy skin under the folds in your side as
you
twisted back to me  .

you handed off a trinket.
i took it.


gold was the metal cast in stamen-shape to crown the tight halo around your breath.
monday's laundry becomes today's.

back into the tree-shade, where the pollen works its way down your throat-
you are wearing pink eyeliner (one way or another.)
as we take out our phones,
the green-
yellow film on everything shines against the backlit
paralyzer-
they are making artifacts:

like the inexpensive
pen> leaching into jeans pockets, down to the zipper.
somewhere they are creaking open, lunging at us with next decisions.
small,
between arm hairs pushed the wrong way-
hydrogen-peroxide teeth
take shallow indentations in an interrupted ring.


catching sight of this, someone relegates you to weird.

off-guard, you smiled-
thunder rang 3 towns over.
you fingered your palm where the pencil lead came through the translucent.

the soft of your father's breath decaying inside you has suffered through us
staying up at night-
trying to

long enough.

yet somewhere
in
the meat between your marrows and tomorrow: we were not good enough to
get it.
and all the vulgarity of every single tear shed in your name
failed to be censored.

you cared more for the ****** little
soccermoms
murmuring in the background to cement the violence of
their mediocrity. i stopped it there-
no one left to call me out, they found me.
but
i have eyelashes that walk across the sides of your face, better than anyone.
and
we held if off for just
one more
but- there will be other times
and they are waiting for you to drop your guard
and sail into them
with lids closed and
fluttering.

the shame sits on the belly like the opposite of adequacy. in the yard, shirt open and tanning,  the last few years have done poorly in this respect. down- hill since the incident with the knee
and the subsequent dormancy of the legs that used to go
everywhere.
i think
burning here feels right.

when you do it:
i will make a decision     between the button sleeves
and the shirt that needs cufflinks.
i will pick the the buttons
because i will be able to roll up the arms
if i want to.
i will pick the shoes                                      that shine.
i won't be guilted into praying at funerals anymore.

honeyfly.

you're my body
sticky with
tar like black rust-oleum
that won't dry in the cold sea air-
the pitch that the gulls drown in,
the way you part your hair.

and when i'm overconfident,      i give away things that i shouldn't
i will miss them someday when i'm in bed-
the nails still growing
no mater how short they get cut. keep cutting
them shorter and shorter

looking down at it.
hallway-stairling 
bleating,
unsated.
perambulating this



/

lay not in the grasses- for the listing of the world(s)


wash the backs of your knees

prethunderstorm, arm-deep into the buoyant ions
wet molars      slipping backwards         drying out
girls running track
(in and around buildings)
>throwing up everyday

acid backs of teeth decaying me.
like the mold on the white windowsill-
out in open airs
the film you think might be just
dirt.
like the unexplained black things under your fingernail anatomies

like grabbing the wrong towel

putting on a clean t-shirt
a necklace clasp caught in the back of your hair.      cutting it

gentle and godless
head-damp in the big nowhere
like an out-patient gun   waiting to send its children home





/

yours is the knife that
lies in bottles of pickled
berry fingers, the night
is is the way you move- groove:
how it stains them-
the sun that shines on the other side
of the
moon craze.
so shut up (and sit down)
with all the garden things crawling in your hair.
cut it short, babe.
end it
soon. but
gimme good-
eyes like stale jellybeans tumbling out
the bag, over-ripped-open.

he's still out there.

still coming for you.
don't tie your shoes.

don't love me well
don't find a way to
get away

we need these            and more.

and when the toes break
from kicking at
everything,

history will show us that there is no good and evil.
only
cruelty
and different directions in which it falls at certain times.

and when you are brought to tears
by an upload of an old toonami ad-
that ******* takes you there,

you will know about it.


and living,
you will fall into
the spaces
that
sleep
ever just out ofgrasp

churning like a bellow of
me

that which seeks to **** me
                                     is just,
and
those that live in the past,   die somewhere.
she cradled my head.