As they were documenting
the height they are about to fall from,
I dropped my camera.
Some secrets are better left buried.

The sea
was once everything i needed.
The ornamental, the accidental.
The absolute is.

Night rolls in to stand watch
a film in which i play everyone,
a scene that refuses to end.
end.

Staring at the monster
who looks enough like me
to be me.
me.

In reverse of the waddle wheel
the landscape runs back in blow
of winds that take a hair threadlike’s hand
to dance a trickle of pathos
when I swallow.
Not thoughts of of prattle, but roars within struggle
as if time concreted through spaces, still,
to contingency thee confide.
What a subtle heaviness to stand where I shall revel
What a terrible freedom to know what I cannot sail

It’s gonna end.

But until now I can’t even tell
what I am missing,
for what, and by whom?

Some say that the world will end in fire, and some say it’ll end in ice
Some say that the world will end in explosion, the cause of the despise
Some say that we’ll move to a world we’ll learn to love, to miss our home
That we destroyed, So we’ll fly away again into the stars but still we are alone
Some say that the world will end in darkness, when our beloved light goes out
Or the god that is said to rule us, will tire and we’ll never know what the story was about
Some say that the world will end in nothing, for we’ll not comprehend it when it comes
We’ll be angry or upset, in our last moments, or perhaps holding the ones we love
I don’t know how the world would end, but maybe it’ll end when we do
The earth will grow back into the place that it deserved to
Or maybe it will end when the world breaks apart, unable to hold itself any more
Or maybe it will be when we are the ones to tear apart, ****** and full of gore
Or maybe it will never end, and though we will stop life will continue on
In a universe without us, in a universe where we are all gone
Silence of the world, slowly rocking itself asleep
Our cries were no more, nothing else to believe
Perhaps we were not meant to be in the start, for this world is out to ****
And battling nature, we’ve begun to feast at each other, our own blood what spills
There are a million ways that the world will end, and for us it seems important
But we continue to ignore that we are the cause of almost all of them
Maybe the end doesn’t matter, because at the last page of a book we cannot write more
We do not write the story, the path of fate, we know not what’s in store
So maybe if we work to make it better than it was, and maybe make it last
And not be stuck in our heads about who to love, when the world’s ending so fast
Perhaps we don’t need a war, and maybe we need unity
But there must be some sort of end, even in eternity
We can just live today as if it doesn’t exist, smile some more instead of smiling so less
The people that will come will go, and it’s okay to make a mess
Remember to clean up, for someday this will all end, best to make a home out of nothing left
Let’s leave something so the ink doesn’t dry up too soon, write our own story
While fate writes ours too

Ecstatic in the sea breeze,
a magnanimous moment of
interloper pride ******* the day.
Uncoil—my heart, my chin,
my unglamorous abstinence
enforced by fear.
This is no lapse, but fury
and fortitude forging me
in the crucible of love.
Yet again I am up against it—
the stage of floating eyes and
overcooked feelings pawing
at my attention like
squids in a pool.
Ink and jelly in a room temperature soup
swirling and sloshing under
the authority of a rented room.
By gods, this time I’ll make it work—
plant leaves and blunderbusses
leaning against teal paint,
the sun really is on a fishhook.
Stand apart from me then and
judge the waters for what they are—
a storm too small to surface
in a sky too big to swallow.
I’m sweating in it
and the alarm clock is going off.
bleet
   bleet
      bleet
Too deep to turn back.
Too tired to go on.
This is where the end begins,
in the middle of it
with no ground at all.

Imagine you met God after your end
You bowed in reflex 'cause the prophets did
You crawled to His toe like a loyal dog
But, when you look up into His eyes
You can't see any praise
Only twisted face of shame.

We become soil and ash
We all do, decompose in the east
If my knees can’t carry me up the hills
If the millipedes can’t have a feast

back in time  to the stranger-danger eighties
  when you could really taste the concrete
and the end of the world really meant it
  (or that's what it felt like anyway)

Fallen cherry blooms,
Sticks to my wet skin like grief,
Brief and hard to hold.