Inside of the room where we smoke and draw pretty things in ink
I wrap my arm under your arm, and call our bodies into hug
I put my neck over your neck, you are the cheetah cub I am the fawn
How many rains old are you? No, how many droughts old are you?
I carry spirit sharks I've never seen inside my skinny legs. My hide is
Built of rhinoceros hearts and truth.

I have lived in webs, lived in dens, lived in bars and you. Your hair smells
Like freedom, marriage, and youth. I want to be osmosis where the cells Collide and contribute, even the physicist's are confused. What kind of Bird are you? I said what kind of bird are you?

I've been in the room with the garbage bags for a roof, dried berry bushes That Ed has eaten bare of fruit.
I want to hear you sing, the stories you carry with you from your youth. My trauma card is punched now, are you carrying the blues.

I have shuffled up, inside the Hebrew dragon gods I have never Understood, how the corduroy grows weary from the use, the cotton Threads they made are sewn and stitched well, so why do they tear on The legs I put them on, my legs are skinless, my pockets worn from Carrying things like a child whose curiosity is overused. I'm free for use, I'm yours for use.

nothing is trite, nothing is optional
waited and waited and to the heavens
no prying notion, not even a fear escapes
the mind's tricks or worry that phrases
could be repetitive-

exuding the forces of the world
legs and arms and eyes and mind
there are not dactyls to measure
such words, when the words do not
yet exist.

There is no unfinished ends that need soldering,
I sent the letters in my last life. The one where upon me
You crept up and looked at the chasm and held the rocks
From my pockets in your hands, and took off my robe.
I don't even know how long I'd been staring into the deep
Insanities of The Plateau, counting sheep, and hedging bets,
Slowly going completely into the Pacific, rising and bowing
Inside the blooming ripples of those fourteen foot waves that
Never made the break wall. Maybe it was I colliding with
Those enormous ships of victory I envied that bore the flags of
China and tore away from the coastline.

I don't care what you say, I believe it was you calling.
Beethoven could have heard the call.
In fact, he did. It's the odes of joy.
Don't get hung up on improper word use,
There will be time for us to write each other's sentences,
Build one another's dictionaries, and bend who's and what's, where's,
How's, and why's.

What azurean universe lives in the cornucopia of pulchritudinous lumens
That shape your eyes? What language is it that spoke its creation? Teach Me the languages that breed the shaky and vibrant voices of rock and roll.
The ridges inside the tide that bring the sea life to live. I will, I will hunt Dinosaurs and Guitarasaurus Rex will hang its Ray Ban wearing head of Enormous proportions out of the deciduous treeline to dazzle us with
The gorgeousness of delta blues rock and pre-Cretaceous 50s icon pop
While we slide on the wooden floors having our sock hop.

Seussing us up into a pinwheel of onomatopoeia
And nightscape of stardust, song, and merriment.
The beginning of a memoir, the counting back of hours like
Driving with the Ferrari California's gears in reverse to shed
Off the extra mileage, or swim in salt water pools, and drink
Pink and orange aeviternal eves and the groves of lavender, lilac, and Streaming cerise bands of light entomb these two lovers in the Mesmerizing drove of morning, upon some moon-draped porch
Some Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday in
Satirical snow-covered and 50º Chicago.

Say I can play guitar and I can play guitar
But only when we're teaching we,
Sunday thru the ends of years
And the offspring of those years.
Back from the hours, unlocked by the tides, and
Hemmed to the interstices of fingertips and
Internal yearnings for olives and olive juices.
Eves, morns, and the 33 hour day.
Where in your enchanting cadence of life
All is well, extending beyond good and beyond okay:
excelsior. Since our bonds coalesced just this past Sunday.

For Saranell

the fames of dysentery and the funeral it takes
you don't want to know it when it knows you
your skin can bleed with boils you'll scream
when it takes you alive, will you know if it's time to fight or die?
The most important thing in this life is to know where to put your feet
and when not to move them, one day you'll wish for your bathroom mirror. Inside the dell and simplicity,

I woke up in the afternoon
Missed myself the morning train
It's the second one that I've missed
Since I tried to get going around 6am

I can't keep my eyes from tearing
My hands from doing their not-so-cool shakes
I reach into my pockets for something
That just feels a little bit like yesterday

I can hear the whistle blowing
From outside my apartment door
I believe for the first time
Maybe I should drive to work

We missed each other's calls from last night
I counted the minutes that passed,
I drank myself a thirty-three year old brandy
I stole from my parent's liquor cabinet.

The 10:00am buzz to get me right
Started for, is it Saturday?
I don't drink but to remember
I drink to remember the pain.

A .44 at close range
My heart skips with great excite,
The bullet-proof vest I wear when I'm shot
May barely not save my life.

I've grown tired off waiting for the beach
I swim with sharks blacked out in the dark
Playing dares with Sarah Marie.
Until the wild Pacific digs its first row of teeth into me.

I'm a ***** for your lips and drunk off your touch
I'm the biggest dork when I'm wet with your love
I just want to drink you, I've never had enough
The poison's in me thick and I know soon death will come

Me, I'm a raving lunatic, I'm mad
Crazier than Carroll's hatter and his Cheshire Cat
I'd put three red hotels on the top of your head
Collect all of Free Parking then crawl into our bed

I am the venom if you are the pain
I just want a thousand years to revel in your name
I can count my true loves on one single hand,
But you I can only count one of because that's all that I've had.

I'm a cylinder of evil, wrought with torturous pain
Dizzied by the spinning of my circuitous brain
I'm needy for your antidote before blackness courses through my veins
And the moon hits its fifth phase and I turn into a werewolf again

I've never wanted to **** around or catch a second look
Now I've been on a carousel of women, full of hookers and crooks
My wheels are thrown sideways, my skin's full of threat
I'm sick with the tantrum, The Fever that missing you gives

I'm weaponized and viral, cursing but still in command
My flags in the ground and I'm taking over this land
I've written a new bible about blood and rock 'n roll
Surrender your body, because I've eaten your soul
I am the poison if you are the watch
I just want to be drunk off your breath and live inside your touch

so I guess this is it, the summit
not very impressing.
I thought at the least I'd see over the tops of skies
you should know I hid cigarette butts under the stone patio
off the guest wing. now I wish I could just lay on those rocks or at the base of your bed, vanity wore us down like shotgun rounds in the face of our masquerade ballet. I drank the bloods from your fountains of paradise: 19, 20, 21, 22, and 23

then found you in our bed with your fingers in your ***
to make sure we'd fit together more aptly, and now my skin
burns in its own rash of obsessive unforgetfulness, I make my own
******* future with you innit,

***** or no *****
I know nectars better than the Georgians
worship better than Mohammad
skin better than Buffalo Bill
and your name better than my own

Penguin.

we are not human
we are                     beyond
all that fits into strands of dna
we are a phone call away and just at the beginning
writhing with excitement that plays like anxiety. we are the nervousness
that turns the body right left and left right left before introducing us to becoming asleep. we are the narrative to the lives of others. our passwords don't match but I refuse to let popular radio dictate our lives. we've ****** ourselves red and sweet, cauterizing our moral wounds with *** and sensuality. we scuba dove in the bedlam of ***** intrigue where I drank the pulse of your fingertips into mid-morning blackouts.

I don't know what you do, but I bleed foreign tongues. I mince words and reconnect them, the Swedes would be proud. Inside the ribs, beyond our teenage skin, between us we are always something better going unchecked but never unnoticed. we have been enlightened, summoned, and have three unchecked voicemails that we will lie about listening to should we ever be confronted about it. I don't ever want to be readdressed by consciousness, I am unhappy there and here

                 the Power lines
Under

unto us both
we may never meet those quondam girl and boy bent by prurient looks

pick your master under the cover of snow
bends of darkness hemmed to the tops of conifers
Soon I will visit to move you. Three appended signatures,
Three thousand miles of telephone wire.

This is the one letter I cannot send
for there is no address for where you are,
The one I wish to call upon has no receiver to respond.
And now all my teeth begin to fall out
Like excess light bleeding from your moons.

I know the sound of Glass when I hear it.
You have made weapons out of my junk and
Then gone to war without me, I see you
Against the whistling stars and overseers,
Anxiety makes this heart grow fungus
These fingertips weary, and I pull out my eyelashes
As if trying to see you better through this impenetrable
black nightness I lead myself into, until all that
were corners and crests become the precipice.

Insecurity turns to rooks, hatred turns to Jays
Until the weeping have wept and I visit to stay.

shrug it off and be a boss
the best is yet to come
don't get stuck on 'falling back'
so fall forward if you would

I feel the call from the oceans,
the voices whisper from its breeze.
Snow and satire can't label the mindfulness of
memories slowly coming back to me.
My mountains have missed you so much,
my legs miss the warmth of your thermos,
I miss your gentleness and subtlety.

Priority one. If you don't think you will make it by Tuesday,
I'll travel back in time before we were forty degrees,
you can read the seraphs on my signature
if I can lay in your sheets for a week.

Chrysanthemums all over the hallways, Irises in azurean hues.
The charter won't take us all the way to the break wall,
I'm at the airport trying to reach you by phone.
I'd take the flavor of your spirit,
over the sweet coolness of truth,
Slide my fingers into the holes in the jeans you always wear for me when I come home.

The only thing I write off are pages,
Tables marked with the ends of so many words.
Who are you to know what you can do without
The more I've learned, I realize I'm happier with the less I know.

count the ewes and the yaffing
leftover aoudads  discarded
at the beginning of combat step
the radical isn't that radical, anymore
pritchett curiosities amidst the syphons war
the drum of chaos rattles the pinfold
circling the leftist right

what're you doing with those faces
I don't even want to talk about it
our bed fare has gotten exciting
it's interesting they say it takes a village
but Sunday it'll have taken just a year

the landslide is down to its knees
I don't want it to leave I don't write letters anymore
this city is cold now and it's time to go
when will I catch a break or even just a drift
the coastline is calling, the water is coming after me

from your elbows I draw strings to the back of your arms
little spiderwebs and chills to the top of your back
I can climb highways and descend from the stars
but I don't drink deserts and I certainly don't write letters anymore

she's a cocktail of pride, stirring anger and envy into a crowd
avoid her like a power line downed on the ground
dropping off bed linens covered with blood
I know where the going gets going and knowing implodes
inside the brain and sweats off the brow
there are only so many shapes we can try to ignore
can I just show you pictures of when you were happy before

she drank from god's fountain
tore the rake and the peasant's plead
as the chariots blew across this storms foundry
new black ashes, soot stained faces

a gall from the mercurian lee
hunts dark places and wild dogs fear him
the forest is his legion but he shakes from this poison
there is no sky and the trees don't hide him

there is no universe unplugged
neither a human too forgone
to wrestle every inch of skin and sleep
to fight towards her against the leaves

there's a place for this- this blood
this place where the skin can be pulled right from the lip
a gun pulled from the glove compartment
in warm December this private affair
traveling with passenger zero
into the title of a love song or
narrowing into the wet corners of the mouths
softened annunciations over an early sixties recording

her song brings shakes to legs and swiveling snakelike movements
this Spanish river goddess I do not even know by name who settles the wars of babes and covers the infinite dust of infinite children

there are places like this:
still and magical and pleasantly mute

where she stares back to me returning
the years of eye mail exchanged between us
as if returning a floral arrangement that lost its scent
or a novel that lost its story
and a passenger writhing with envy

with a back turned she moseys
along the dirt path of the arboretum
a small dance in the bowels of her step

somewhere we blend the stories of each other’s pockets
mending the balance of need
hands surfacing in weathered bluejeans

I've waited so long, I'm walking to you
If you'll walk to me by dawn.
I'll give you red diamonds and the black pearls
Give you something for your finger to have on
I'm standing in the street waiting for crunch time to calm me,
I thought I knew you better than this, I know you knew me better
Than you would ever let on.

The way you wore your father's Captain's uniform,
You are the stewardess and pilot both,
I'm the admiral of this flotilla racing across the Aegean to meet your coast,
But often it seems I'm rowing a dinghy into the arms of the storm of your ghost.

Meet me in Palo Alto
Where the devil's giving me dollar for dollar on my soul.
Three thousand miles of traveling the brainwaves
To California, to San Francisco I go.

Some women wait, others they lie, some they hate just for sport
Some men find it troubling to live in their sins while the rest of us
Weather the storm.

Brown paper poetry scribbled on bags,
cut throat couplets, haikus and prose
Drinking and tripping and looking for junk
Just a collection of madness in its throes.
The petals have draped themselves over your body,
Can you taste God in your foils?

I'm just waiting to collide into the skin
My fortune said you'd bring
I can do without the tertiary friends like that red-headed *****
Megan whose company you keep.
When it comes to taking every piece of treason don't underestimate
Their thievery. They'll drink from your fountain of abuse, until their
Goblets sear their lips and burn away their tongues.
The universal language of O- blood lust, is just beginning to be enough.

Doctors say you've died, but your heart's on fire
I'm just a conflagration where there used to be a man
My veins sweat the poisons of quiet disease,
They can crash while we burn alive,
Sitting quietly together in Dolores Park,
While our toxicity kills us inside.
Let's just wait here and burn alive.

Come to me great entangler of speech, until the mouth
is a thicket of word mash, you
who rakes strain out of the day to day visions.

Four nights last week you came in the dream-sweeps
flying at forty-one thousand feet. Encrusting this crimson suitcase of blood production with aurulent Trojan footstep rumbles in the hundreds of thousands.

Are you the new blues guitar, the trill bliss in satirical Dutch painting;
you who wrestles the languages of sleep. To get to keep you we'd **** all mystical beasts, sew treason, and wait naked for the dead things to come.

Remoteness in the time of the lonely.
Where you shed shivers of  sharks
In wild dance and wicked tantrum, lilting
Beside the androgyny of days and Time.
You the dashboard Jesus of sin and canter.
No scurrying footsteps to barge the heavy moods of ****** or abscess.

In half breaths you weaponize yourself,
A take of drink and then with the rest of the aves,
Swallowed by the colossus of entanglement,
Taken beneath the blue awning amidst the company of the sea.

There's no news of this spider
But it's poison rings this dinner bell.
Inside the crater of a dimple
Where the temple inside your collarbone
Holds fresh and newish gods.

While the supper tongues are out
It's best to eat the living before the dead are all died out.
This isn't a vampire factory w/ere running after all,
It's the hot new comas of afternoon laboratory parties,
synchronized swimming in a bedroom on top of the covers
but under the softest comforter. She swims sweet laps to the strokes
Of every keystroke and every vowel undone, and every finger unglued.

where do you go when you lay your head to rest;
upon the laurels in the canopy of breath,
or to wildwood thickets and entangled pure excrement of excite;
your supine tenderness blurs the lines of tremendousness
into the minds' concupiscent forlorn worlds,
Worlds for new Words, and tinders beautiful blues while
the light's hum their tremulous cries, and the majesty of woman
reigns hero and heroine, mused and amused, in the qu'ues of real crimes

what all makes us feel so alive

and the shores turn to fruit roll ups
the ashes of vibrant colors explode into the eyes
over long legs and arms, longer than psalms

until pleasure undoes every bad thing that's ever been done

And no one else. Not a touch.
All the girls say they want to be you but you.
It feels like you're here. Like you're face is here.
I love all your smells. From the neck up and
The neck down. There are no outer limits,
Nothing too much, no one that could ever
Come between, or say words that could trump
The sounds of you that still linger in me.

I have bread and time for you always.

Tomorrow is your birthday, her birthday, his birthday.
It's thinning this suit of reddened skin. Boy-nails are never
As sharp as they need to be. Toxins don't work fast enough either.
5:00a.m. stop for premium unleaded just outside of Big Sur. Once you were in the devil in a Jaguar, leather biker jacket and a crown of gold.
Mused to be. The insides of the stomach must have claw marks by now.
Panting, misstepping, riddled with whys and whens.

Time is critical, yellow or black nail polish; signature colors. May minutes be returned and reused where aching poison ails but does not deliver. Tomorrow is your birthday and maybe you'll allow for the cleaning of ***** from your hair and the body crooked, lingering over your night-terrors with cool and wet cloths.

This is some tremendous furnace of unrecoverable agony. There is no use chasing the wheat. Into a bunker or hurrying the footsteps into the sea. Ghosts of humans trawl the flesh entombed in permanent suffering. And the men and women glue themselves to its familiarity and melancholy.
So many great hopes were **** into one hand and ******* into a folded over pillow. We are too old to have Fraggles living in our ears.
May my chest explode before tomorrow unless you would unvex the curse who devours language and desire and all these hours.

there's not a place like this around
where i don't want myself around
dirt, hair, and soot inside the air purifier
so many orange and white bottles on the ground

dollars, masking tape, and cologne
Dior, Hermes, and Altoids upon Altoids tins
cigarettes and hand-rolled goods,
Vice magazines and fashion too

The things I keep in my bed are worse off
Than halves of horses heads that
Even Hollywood couldn't direct.
Until I set fire to the oil paintings and the books

At morning I'll count my rock collection of ****** conquests
And bury them like dead birds in shallow graves in the neighbor's yard

There is no dust to settle,
Two days from land and we are not ready,
The whole year to prepare- poppy seed afternoons
6:00p.m. morning drunks to corroborate nightmare memories.

Where are the aches and the sick bending bone-like threads of
This corpse who romances sallow and pallid warlocks.
Interior flesh ministries unveil festering ****** horrors.
To not go out means chain smoking reds inside.

Plaster the monster over my face so I cannot breathe.
Then the unabashed words can take to the road with pitch forks and
Long, drawn-out misunderstanding. I eat salmonella for preference.
Ashes and soot and dirt and history sew its film atop every surface.

This is not what I thought they meant by life on a deserted island.
There is only me and I am still curious to see if I am advantageous.
Finally they do not wont of me. This is the sorcery I have been executing
In poor forms until this precise moment of lascivious loathe.

If you cannot understand this I am serving the greater good. It is worse to
Misunderstand than not know at all. Let your small hands to the sides of My face and your eyelashes rest atop my head. Lips inside hair.
With precision I extract pearls from your saltwater tomb.
I set the peas to our bed.

She gives us fevers and wraps us in time. She is the newlywed- our metamorphosis. Death clings to her open grave. Her movements are the executions of precarious and docile prejudice, ganged upon, and drenched in oblique misunderstanding and very indirect confusion.

We are all grocery shopping now. Your weapons of delivery are broadcast in takeout, Chinese or Szechuan Broccoli Scenario #96:

Where your mother finds I have taken the Mercedes for morning lemonade stand gallivanting, early Beach Boys mixtape scenarios fulfilled.

There are some pronouns we cannot uncompose. Yellow leathers, blue April tides, and red licorice red, unconsolidated red and blue and yellow first person pronouns. Can it not be favorite contact season again, with the lips touching too. I am evil's ruthless seismatic trepidation.

The body of a woman's neutral fineness embraces the chords of my steel guitar; laughing about all the points that I've been chasing after. Or just running away- no more for today. Christ, you slipped but lied too many times before, and while you plunge your wrists into your knives, I thought we had a second chance. But that was before, you throw sticks and stones and store your anger in the three fingers of the drink that clinks against our first date when I bought you a 25¢ ring. It was a children's vending machine, that brought me three years of happy things.

I don't want to be fake with you anymore. So go and find your Milky Way. I'm staying dumb, Britni I'm in trouble. All the stakes are different when you are chasing yesterday's killing.

And even the sound of the gunshots don't overcome the voice of the human tongue, in violence and war and all that's abhorred, even the smallest vesper or prayer a whisper of three little words can always be heard, even the faintest whisper can always be heard, as long as the voice that says it is honest and pure.

I was too tight to drive with your hands over my eyes, even in Inverness valley and South Santa Cruz, the wheelbarrow of berries I brought home for supper, ingested in each little bite we cut in half, was the best of the worst time that we ever had. And always we were. In love. In parking lots, playgrounds, at concerts, on airplanes, in bedrooms, custodian closets, laundry mats, and carrying our nap sacks, while we attempted to sleep and hide all night in the Shedd Aquarium. I just should have known better, it'd wouldn't be easy, with you I'm always wrestling sharks with a mirror, your pink sugar perfume from the chains on my wrists ******* across the room. While you didn't trust me I was always at home. Trust isn't love  unless it's enough, unless it's enough to quit drugs. It's symptoms are the same as that of great madnesses.

****.

The poison's me the choice is up to you. Good lord, if they take away all the fashion houses, the rain men won't have anything to wear.

Naked armies, fighting the stories that just someone's grandfather wrote. Is it even real if it goes to sleep at night? Does it wake up to address the evening sky? I don't know....three heroic words the human race can barely say. Isn't the want for pizza an international religion, can we agree on that?

What mind of man gets it in his head that it's his hand that receives death to choose? In what nowhereness did these lonely princes lose everything they knew? Did they hear that killing isn't cool like it was in the 11th Empire- to make light of a situation or just a few lumens too, is pretty rad for any human to do. I may be a vampire but I need a bit of daytime if I want to continue to worship the dark.

It's been 4000 years, and I'm still looking for her, the way she talked to us after the sea we crossed through. The poison is me but the choice to take it is up to you. The rain men may come, but the water dance's for a seldom few. We could starve just for the thrill of wrapping ourselves in pieces of the moon.

Ne me quitte pas. Ne pas passer la lumière. Je vous attends ici, tout comme je le fais toujours. Il est dommage, je suis passé par là avec vous attends.

What if you were poison. This room was a gurney. My parents garage was a time machine. My drawers were a piece of unwritten elementary homework. My bed was a stalemated chess game. Every pair of shoes I've ever worn is one of the beaches I never went swimming at. My laundry were soldier's garbs. I'm living in four minute increments. Two yellow chairs are an empty wine cellar. Two doorknobs an ancient battle field. I have green pants and they might be the entire state of Florida. My book shelf is a poem by Keats, and the books on it are The Village Green. This printer is actually an English love affair. The paper inside of it a pasture, a meadow, and even parts of a rill but not the water in it. I see words scribbled in notebooks and they don't produce melodies. This is a heavy place to use candles. These are the trousers I wear when no one is watching me. Three DVD's tell a story, but no one listens to stories anymore. A carton of cigarettes is a hospital full of people working, a metaphor that doesn't need to be made but should instead be written down. Chocolate bars are all around us, better to keep them quiet. My childhood is drifting off to sleep in a pair of gray sweatpants and a white crew neck t-shirt. Hush Hush. A god hidden inside a scrap of prose that always wanted to hide away but never could. Here are the limbs I'm beating myself to death with. Here are the headaches that I rubbed from your neck; the apple juice and animal crackers that brought both of us back to life, the Wichita suitcase filled with field grains and soy that only made your Grandfather rich. I'm bruise-bent on discussing the never ending. I've filled my head with the status of ritual, I've crossed my legs and enriched my mind with dozens of proverbs, adverbs, and ad lib; nothing that ever once was could be, and nothing that has been could ever be as easy again. Each hill top is a summit worth standing upon. Every picture is a place worth returning to. If every sentence structure and bomb of the mouth was the furnace heating an article at the end of a sentence, or the sentiment with which to generate a sonnet, then mornings could be the clusters to every ache and evolving vowel. Each and every worry would be a giant and the juggernaut which knocked him down. Maybe your ****** is a tooth brush. Maybe mine is just ******. Maybe every inch of my body is made up of locks and caveats. I could retreat to the wilderness, a place where the trees are ornaments to the sky, and the stars are just the songs we don't hear. Heat is a conundrum, the water and the air too. We're longing our way to infinity, chancing ourselves by adhering to dross and sinching our hearts of blood. What if Chicago was the biggest love story of all and I was just not observant enough to notice. I've gone down in three hundred airplanes. What if worry was the tea I declined, heartache the questions I didn't ask and the wishes I never answered. What if your mother was also poison, your sister the true love I unrequitted, your brothers the Roman soldiers which saved us all. I long to be close to the ocean, I retch and thrash, drawing shivers up and down my spine. Here are the shadows aplenty. The heaviest of the hours that save on us like we were up from zero, still and counting on ourselves. These are the lines that I'm petting heavily, washing up and down, left to right, horrific nightmares that come and go as they please. All is left to be said again. Castes are bids meant to be said again. I've been taught to live well even as a quiet mess, to be white while the day's break is still to come. What if leather was the only way I knew how to fly. Bubblebaths the only luxuries I never settled. Your kitchen the last place I felt fully loved. Here is where I reappear. Countries that I've traveled to in languages I taught myself to speak. Wit the wild bunch of berries I crushed into my own craft cocktails. I'm quaffing and I'm trapping. I'm riddled with night and I still can't stand up straight. This is the last place I remember being. Turning over in my gravest stare, and gazing long into the never ending stereotype of my merchant birth and stately hide. This may be the song that sets my tone. This might be the song that describes me best. Never published or punctuated. Always thriving in bated breaths. Always living just an inch from the soon. Here where the moon men trip and fall. Here where the pronouns leave every thing left unsaid.

Backwards, like a sign that's hard to read. Like a leather jacket that's too stiff in the arms but 2 years off the rack. And then the heart explodes in the esophagus. Pieces of young trust comes out all over what the eyes can see, and each body part wants to go back to their respective bed nestling areas. Sometimes, even this little me gets nervous about being vulnerable. You can only burn the velveteen rabbit once.

These are the monkeys of my throat and the dinosaurs that tend to my fingertips. My skin gets leathery before it feels like silk. I don't smell like a motorcycle or sound like the fast lane but I'm not sure if I want to yet. I'm happier not waiting to randomly be reminded of the pain, it's much better to chase down those hydrogen bombs while the cattle **** is still hot and fire-red. Two served and five Peanuts left for playtime. I rather enjoy being a vampire.

Body

I'm standing at the seashore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets and two lines left in the letter. I'm standing at the seashore, bench facing the Squat & Gobble, the tin weir and we're near the roadside. The sky opened wide, this skin drawn with threat, Rhinoceroses, bruise bending the sweet ships of victory backwards into the backwaters of mislead moonlight. Guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos sweeping, the hum of percolated coffee on smoke stained night club walls. I'm standing at the seashore, my mouth is a ghost, I've seen nothing but death, I'm name-dropping God and there's nobody there.

I'm sitting in my room with my hands on my keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock. Riding horseback into candlelight on a wicked wedding of teary-eyed geysers and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder, I'm all alone but it feels like you're here.

I keep her clothing in the bed,
Fresh wet daggers of this concupiscent World. That is the standard. Don't you Hear it?
I watch the lamps and blankets singe
Cigarettes and Heineken
Nevermind, With the Lights Out
Everything is 'About A Girl',
And faking for no one.
'm too fuxked to know the difference
Stress is a knot that kills the young
I don't care about the other's wasting Their time isn't my business.

My sick is so short sighted. It carries a Black lighter inside its Gareth Pugh jeans.
Ann Demeulemeester top, Rick Owens Boots, an Obscur coat, Rad Hourani shirt
Henrik Vibskov socks, an MB999 tee.
Color is language for the body to read.
Inertia and energy protect me. I am the Opposite of a black hole. This vessel governs its own space, but I don't attempt To understand anything or any one thing.

This lizard brain keeps its ward and Wielding the almighty power of its Nightness, cosy's up near the Community of Death, Magic, and Numinous winter dirges, huffing Parfumes from her death-covered clothes.

You're back and I've only been asking four years and two days. My passion never left, it only paved your way. Outside it's gotten colder than the weatherman will even say. The skies may stay clear but everything is gray. I wait for you on the tarmac with bouquets, four years yesterday it was to be my grave.

Everything and its nothingnesses made me black and blue, I was just ink blotter on a finger's noose, nonsense and writer's gloom. Some of me was hexed by my work, some of my flesh became unglued. My eyes may have resurrected a figure, but I can't be sure it's you. I'm at the Bay Bridge with weights tied to my shoes, where even the water can't judge my moves.

People lie to keep themselves as far away from their truth. Many can't even talk to you unless they have a drink or two. ****** and benzos too. Skinny vexed spirits accrue, walking into the waves until their skins turn blue.

weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew

and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls

This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;

beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding

Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song

Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles

A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.

And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring

Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.

Some say that I'm wielding the powers,
That I believe in a wood stick I found on the ground, I make magic.
Attractive or not it's all that I got, barely holds me together, with all of my might I'm not sure I can still hold on when the sun goes home for the night, will I wake up and lose my mind or go back to the nightmares I've been trying to let go for so long I can hear my own voice in the back of my head like the shadows I wear across my back, it's sacred but I wouldn't lie about it now, could it be the time, can you say it's the time, I'd move my hand but then I'd start to speak, the kinds of things I've been keeping you from, not because you're dumb I just want to ignore me for a few minutes longer, you're much better off with only my good half, I'd try to unwind within your eyesight but I'm sure I would crumble into the dust. You are the magic, I'm just a kind of catastrophe carrying this story about a boy and the girl who drew star maps on her arms, like wings made to uplift him until they could both fly away, yesterday she put a stone on top of his grave

if you ever want to come over and be sick and use my body like a doll-rod
I invite you to do so.
if you ever want to throw the rings and earn no points just to throw something
I invite you to do so.
if your pictures turn moldy and you can't face the mirrors, neither can I.

it's been three hundred seconds and I'm wondering if I should be listening for alphabet city or the sound of the Wilson's razor, if I should be curt or vowelless, glib and just a big sickening consonant or Occam's tired and infinite inner gesticulations- calculated but fleeting.

if you ever want to be you in front of that cemetery wall covered in the haze of eggy moonlight
I'd like to take pictures of the alms on your arms.

This earthquake is spicy and I am thrilled to feel some of the momentum coming back to my chest. I'm wishing for art too and believing in faeries and mid standing-ovation bringing my ears forward by cupping my hands, and holding ceramic mugs to the side of my head, listening for a dial tone or the tones of the dying.

you don't even know you make me write
into a black book or the white box, into the notes
onto the arms, scribbling while driving myself crazy at three-hundred and eighty seconds. Is this recording? I can turn it up.

what does it mean if I want to hang doors and patch holes, make locks and wear capes? It's been such a long lawn time, since I first got high on myself, met a new person and didn't want to drown or for them to drown.
Is this when I take the rocks out of my pockets and stop lingering by the water? Please let me know. You'll let me know, right?

If you ever want to talk serial killers over Apple Jacks or Corn Pops
I invite you to do so.
If you ever want to skip rocks or run from the cops with a second skin
I invite you to do so.

I like to dangle my feet over edges, while wearing floor-length gowns, while wearing ebony feathers, and avoiding being arrested. It's 26 minutes into tomorrow and we didn't give each other permission to die yet, so please don't go down without me. You're supposed to tell me when it's time to wear my rocks in the river, even if I never mentioned the plateau or the room where I heard the women crying.

Keep my secrets in your open-handed notebook
I invite you to do so.
Pencil new eyebrows for me to don, draw new shoes on my feet to wear
I invite you to do so.

Lock me in a box until I'm calling for the horrors, in a light-absent four-sided trap in the fetal position, I could be in a basement or on the 7 and a half floor of the Mertin-Flemmer building, but hum to me please.

I've asked you to set me on fire twice and you haven't,
does that make us best friends? I hope.

tonight i woke up a man
covered in a thin film of
your magical black dust

and then I'm thinking
how long I can breathe in fire,
if I can I touch your face with my face
and we can still be friends

I see the sick with their broken jaws
what if I purposely picked the shortest straw
I can carry heavy things
and see them too, hold this face until my lips turn blue
All of these pachyderms and lies,
is worth this new motet

from far beyond the catalog
of outward facing eyes
have you tried this heaven
on for size?

deliveries to the ancient gods
chilling tales siphoned from crimson fingers bring
invite the tearlet hydrangeas in blackwater morning

pilgrim verbed and possum-eyed upon the beady flesh
aches upon this figure draped in moonskin

the mystic sewn in lightning wands
yields powers too great to speak upon
it gleams across the emptiness
but drowns the sorrow and suffering
brings the venom to the bite
where zebras yaff and witches cry

each tremendousness too great to let the words pass by;
under veteran protest guard, blank canvases persecute
the artist for the crime they could commit
******* every noun of every subject

black succubus startled from eating the fetid meat
where robin hens reveal their sighs
inviting the trembling glitter to linger deep upon the doorstep

brief yet over simplified
explained under duress
alone the student begins to profess

come on darling take a chance with us
our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral
a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh

the thumbs shake
as the fingers dance
makes the rain pull its roots on
for the showcase the generic plants
will perform a feral routine

every **** a command-stop forwarded
the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon
and if they shiver they will find their saw
tailored to the head of that aurulent god

a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist
he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm
they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines
he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms

gold minarets in the distance
serpents living under man-made rocks
counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock

a lion counts his livestock
he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress
in the shape of a flame

just outside the shadows of an autumn day

Alice is alive and breathing in the resin gilded air. Inside the dream canopy. Fresh ears crafting **** melodies, ripe and crimsony.

Sound will not be my weapon. Mathematics will not be my disclaimer. Open me into the politics of your bathroom monologue, until the numbness of this methodical dialtone unravels the second heart and your tongue wraps the minutes on the bridge of your heaving vowels.

Class undoes no misery. Desperate limited eyes grabbing for other desperate imitating eyes. Sand undoes the fingertips, soldering one insanity to the next.

human mouths have wept
before the hour, crowding gazers in the streets

news of creation

streaming red blue green
metres undoing the rite of bliss

until yesterday today had been the same

peach skin worn to a sinister shrill
while sound makes the meadow the people hear

and some were unkempt
new tidy purplish stones
new dust collecting time

not all their faces were built for fright

it drips from lips too hot to touch
the sound remains but the words have left
his eye's sweat their egg yellow cries
the water sways while the lyrics go

hair that is an explosion
into her blue puddly stare
all that is gravity keeps it there

when your weekend grows
from black to black
marble casts its outlines
and the eyes roll back
she calls to the sapphires
in the moon draped night
where the weekend rolls
turn back time
where silvery milk thistle blossoms coat the sky
are you bad as night?
have you ever tried?
throw yourself on the wheel
then give yourself a real ride
until temptation's gone
you've never really tried
let your guard down girl
then give yourself a real ride

some survive dusk
others they hustle
black and white tv screens
bleed out the american icon

this is where our adventures begin to warm up, they burst diagonally, stretched seams. Opened wide, blistering under this caustic and virile heat. The epicenter of someone's bi-polar anomaly-

swarms of words and their words
people coming and parting,
coliseums and amphitheaters in spectacle
garnet, draped in praise

as upsetting and down-troche of what those blue sapphire lumens grew
against the pale and sinewy shadow of shape flickering,
violet cartoon faces bruising up their faces in the pulp and pulchritude
where two separate identities meet and coerce the familiar into seeing

at what it conceives. The diplopic opera and didactic vapidness in
the horrendous aperture of the inexhaustible and mercurial sport.
Then to see as the other half lives, compartmentalized in the
curious cabinetries of disorder

Thank you
Please

I love you sometimes
I don't want to.
I want to
I'd **** to
I'm going to **** you
I'd love to be killed by
Knowing you
To be known by you
I'd know we'd do
Love like I never
Knew. And you
Wouldn't creep my dreams as much.

the falsetto letters

Under the legs of giraffes falling in love by being licked to buy a deer deer licking giraffes Gareth Pugh transforming signs pigs that can't **** but **** bricks in the tea cups personal Hispanic designers transforming into anorexic girls tornadoes in Pennees that buildings can't stop where pro-skateboarders take millions of dollars of drugs that are crystals and mugs and improve haircuts to make mugshots better who go to bathroom the stress says this transvestites in British airways first class airplane ride bathrooms **** **** ******* ******* **** in and list ***** used who's spending money and and aunt uncle and uncle gay and lesbian **** show putting faces in the toilets and wedding the water stopping at rest stops work carnival junkies pay tolls and gas station attendants charge super fees going to grocery stores to buy cream soda likes Sprite flavored train send peanut butter cup chocolate **** sores and send aunts uncles and uncles undulates and pigs passing by signs changing words miss read words changing over and over again passing through Stardome popularity celebrity. Rachel Lynch by skinny victory over and over groups of people lost in bathrooms starting outs in the story telling each other being wet by Harry Potter. In the beginning their hair was wet eyeballs were sore they took drugs text transform them into night sweats and their minds ate breakfast as they arrived at the circus storytelling they wore black costumes and shrunk like Alice in Wonderland having to **** and **** and eat but they were silent until the drugs came back into their systems and then they remembered each other. My father's brother Jim's son was lost abandoned me inside a marketplace in Colorado roadrunner was treated having a disease rather than being a drunk and given medication while lost in the end of the world's apocalypse. Symphony after symphony lost and returned and lost an overturned enveloped in the mall or people in different sections provided different offerings like curiosity giving oral *** or rubbing ankles or kissing on heads or **** ******* each other to death. Moving through security checkpoints falsifying drugs by providing sticky chewing gum pulling it from their mouths while Hispanics were extradited to other South and Central American countries. Oh my God insanity bliss favoritism chocolate peanut butter cup Carnival riding red neck necking car crash crashing insanity. Goblins introduces lighting fuses of other uses oxymoronic hyperbole of onomatopoeia and sounds raking the ears, breaking Pap smears in the vaginas of men with penises of early surgeries. Michael Gottlieb as a hog, tigers and dynosaurs, Jim Morrison poisoned, Transformers rising to the Chicago skyline TIE interceptors of cellular structures musing youths. Hallucinations of blasphemous miniature creatures giving faith to words transforming to the name of this movement this movie: The Shīt Shūw.

The grand, Dutch doors inside your eyes
slammed themselves shut
and this time was different because
I knew you would not be letting me back in.

I knew there would be no espresso
or red, Spanish lace stockings or you
forgiving me before *******
the breath out of me.

I knew on the nights I was a ghost
you would no longer visit my cemetery.

I knew when the old heart jar
began swimming frantic laps within my stomach
you would no longer burn lavender incense
or tuck me into bed.

I knew there were goodbye's
that felt like black, hot concrete
on bare feet.

Origins of these golden hairs
My confidence hasn't died with you
Picture frames, store bought frames
With families already inside of them.

Glowing lights, described
Inside a children's book.
Riddled with sexuality and cruelty-
Golden lions abate them.
The standard has now been risen, keep up while you can

Short legs dragging through airport
Corridors so many businessmen
Envy-driven and greed-streaked
Cannibals in arm's reach.

My furry caterpillar claws
Your bite-sized lips, bright red
From kisses past tense. Storm fires Pouring igneous dark matter and gold
Into a deep mystery, well mostly just a mystery to me.