diffeomorphic metal between bubble wrap and foil, acrylic olfaction in plastic ignitions, flat-iron physics in lice screams, integument with Guillain-Barré in extra steps; the annealed strands : immunity :: the follicles : nervous remains. cephalic solar panels and thermostat polymers protect against the misses and false alarms of signal recovery. there is time to think before the eggs hatch.

it dawns on me that the
rug of spacetime is being
blanketed in black paint
as distant stars blink finally

and only with myth under fingernails
can i pick it clean

from its underbelly
my fingers traced infinitely like ants
climbing a castle
the stony crevices were
indicative of something provocative
of peacock flume
of simple reason

the dorsal side was too primal
parroting the same story
the same swollen shell

with aching speed
painstaking minds
spend 10 maybe 15
seconds

the jungle gym swallows
little children whole
and their little hearts too
while under trapeze
four legs fall in succession a hundred years old

pink paws don’t prance
after too many hops on horns
too many nights in cold blood

in the essence of feral flowers
******* roam freely
but the tortoise understood
yet I was the hare



<.> written feb16.2016

If I were to write a novel, it would probably be called, “Big Words Capitalism **** ****”
It would make Nietzsche **** his pants
I want to make enough money to settle uncomfortably until I **** my own pants
And hopefully sell ten thousand hardcover copies
It’s gonna be straight up philosophy and drugs
So all the hipsters can pretend it changed their lives
And when they get old and **** their pants like me, I won’t feel lonely

In my novel
Fascism wouldn’t have lasted so ******* long
Facism makes people feel lonely
Makes people close their eyes

God is a fascist
His secret was the Copy and Paste function
He created the universe with Apple products
On his MacBook Pro
He held the command key
Commanding all his people to copy and paste that ******* bible
He shifted everything
turned caps lock on and capitalized on all the cold ******* that took it seriously
That’s how fascism works

In my novel,
When my gravestone smokes the nicotine in my ashes
The buzz will trickle down the economy
Until the grassroots stir crazy
And my ***, as it has always been,
Will be the **** of the joke <finish cigarette here>

Trying to live on philosophy is like paying rent with minimum wage and forgetting about food
You forget the basics and go straight to the hard stuff
Trying to **** with philosophy is like taking a sword to bed
If you get any head, it’ll just be the tip
Trying to fight with philosophy is like bringing a ***** to a gunfight
You might surprise the *******, but more than likely, you’re just waving something flimsy and obscene

Guess what God?
I’m gonna write a novel,
And you can try to hit control F
To find out how I made it “work”
And all you’re gonna find is that you’re a control ****

For those of you still with me
All it took for me to write a novel was to
blame God for **** I didn’t want to be responsible for
Smoke a lot
Trip on acid
And travel the universe

God bless capitalism




<-> written jan26.2016

you ***** attention then slice off my foot fingers and press my toe prints into bile stains that will eventually be discovered. they will think i tiptoed disaster. we read and clean and leave corpses for the carpenters. there is a box for world-building and a box for world-ending. when i put my head in either, i come out wearing leeches named Charlie. we pour our gasoline stores in cardboard that will soak until the sun gets hungry and swallows all roads to dead families. come out in your best dress for me to slit it to match. let’s feign surprise when we unearth the bed bug hive as if meeting for the first and only time. i lick up the slug trails mid-air, mid-sentence. the bee frenzies about mowed and cut pollen producers.

hidden in the hatchback of goatbreath is the smell of accepted failure. it hums in nostrils. netsick nostrum, holes are burning in my chakra. i seal the deal with seven cigarettes. my stomach bleats at the wealth of judgement, chaotic topology, four hundred calories under four dollars and the ghost that steals it. we metabolize knowing-better until achy. it cinches under my vice reel. vent ounces off the odd keel. cheesey sequence of solitude. sepulcher of the scape goat. wiles of worry, dancing off the coast, calibrated. we carved a mouth on the grave to kissit. some lives. we stained the hull with ****** caramel. sub lies. pick up my sanity from the pharmacy. the world fell short of your specialty.

some of the dryness will bleach from pithing
your noetic strands and the rest, a ****
prinked rind deluded.

i dip cupped hands into the lowlands, scraping
fractal mold flakes captioned, answers in light
crowded lenses.

cubic rift, that, i will toss adoration engines,
in the end, the goddess of substance will
not react.

not retrace, not the rift. mortaled caper,
inflection of the flats, grinded
reactions. grinding thoughts
grounded.

scribbled to-dos spreading forth, immurdered.
tokenized spice cabinets, enter rift
refuge. the caper collapses on molar-novas,
solar lepidoptera folding in your hair.

the sweat-between-us hive. the separatist mind.
salt mines alarm us, a subject deepened
between two gestures. have you the stratum
of intention?

germinal grains, embryonic clock tower -
mineral lies don timescales
tucked in our hereafter mattress.

i will deathlessly dry with a towel
unless i’m showering with it, a full commit
to the status kiss.

[after all that, you still love me,
in the bedlam trees the choral key,
the old oak door embroidery
are pieces of me scattered (spelled) naturally.]

i like how the clouds come down, pick up my spit, then leave. are they hiring? every time i fail, i draw a chicken with a mini mindflayer crawling under its naked skin. some day they might look convincing enough to be seized by the authorities. a kid got the best of me when i was five trading cards for the real deal. don’t stop smelling the cheese, i said to the maze rat.

i like how the competition keeps me on my toes. are they tiring? every time i fail, i pick a name from a hat and mentally execute all those people. some day they might be convinced to drop dead. a bird got the best of me when the birch called us the real deal. the walls aren’t closing in, i said to the maze rat.

i like how my rorshach lungs are little Kara Walker demons in dresses silhouetted when they turn the x-rays upside down. am i expiring? every time i fail, i inhale, bring it in, until i feel wing-clipped and start coughing tar snot. hive mind got the best of me, the rules of engaging reality come with a coronary deal. the little beats are meaning something, i said to the maze rat.

i like how i have two temples, and each one gets a special drill bit from my spirit. am i unwiring? every time i fail, there’s a countdown that starts and drops to absolutely nothing then leaves. knowing got the best of me, a cinematic coronation for the mediocre is the reel deal. they never stop watching, i said to the maze rat.

i like how the am-i questions get the best of me in a real deal, i said to the maze rat