pt. 3

laced in the riddles you tell for free air fare and dutch narcotics.
laced fingers.
numb gums.
failed trial and error.
mood swings and sick familiars.
death and the ever growing shade that follows you.
his chubby cheeks.
anger and resentment for lack of communication and your unapparent participation.
his hair combed back.
unease.
unrest.
visas.
passports.
lustful containment.
detainees.
forgetting the names of the people you loved most so you can create something substantial for yourself.
in a place that your friends inside their houses playing xbox with their unborn babies can't understand.
dreams of interviews with comedians overshadow your day job.
its like theravada says, we're always, wanting.
desire is the root of all displeasure.
and the dimension for which we seek it.
disconnected earlobes.
dopey configurations.
the stinch of heat in the summer.
when flesh seemingly rots its way thru peaceless nights.
nights where its too hot to fall asleep.
sticky tossing and turning.
but then
your sick facination with reading and
sad souls makes you who they need you to be;
imperfection.
warrants wave past your ears.
thoughtless participation is the new motive
that laying in gutters was last year.
patience is an unavoidable accordance when
falling in love,
with drunks.
love being, unattainable.

pt. 2

if you're free,
come sit in this dark with me.
we can waste away to an ink blot
a graphic function our atoms collect
a standard invitation that leaves you feeling parched and mute, yet somehow balanced.
i saw a piece of silence waning somewhere beyond the cityscape.
it looked like you and me, your hands fused around my waist.
when you leave me alone, i'm morbid.
and days play straight into chemical addiction.
where lines rob this face of youth and liquid accumulation melts agility.
she sits slurring words.
dark lidded eyes,
beautiful pug lipped features.
sweating out every pore of you,
a mixture of salt and desperation.
words your guild could never understand.
verses you keep locked inside of your clenched fists.

pt 1.

wild sprinter
gliding on blades of grass
devotated naysayer
denier of love and all things frictional.
using life as an excuse
to rotate cylinders
to perpetrate cycles of devoid emotions,
depictions of courage;
a price tag teemed validation.
its a ripped sleeve
exposing the place where your heart once was.

lice

free spirit.
nordic philanthropist.
dissolving eyes
pulling beneath icy sheets.
pulls at my retinas.
wrings out my arteries.
and i and you
plays softly on in some sick lethargic fashion
while you ride escalators to dreams bigger than the both of us.
while i sit, erroding beneath your keeper.
the one that braids your hair and washes your laundry.
up here is poison.
up here with benevolence and regret
acting out of loneliness.
down there where they are right and make no decisions.
down there where love truimphs and you exchange wedding rings.

lorne.

sitting alone in a dark vial of preference.
the clouds are stilted,
the dead leaves float down, fluttering like moths.
grey exceeds this smile.
she returns to her rightful place beneath the surface.
where catastrophes go to sleep.
where catalysts go to pray.
you're standing somewhere beside a sinking mirror.
and i cry out to steadfast,
i pour blood to its deities, so i could have you next to me.
but these sweaty palms are constantly letting go of everything it grows fond of.
i thought somewhere between last night and the year it is today, i could find you.
that maybe the name of the disease would bring understanding.
but who understands what a name means.
i look down and i know i'm loosing you.
before the roads even have a chance to move.
agoraphobic, pathologic.
isolation dwells in ovaries.
far from the lampoid.

/close./

daphne

sitting under a depthless tree
in the midst of summer deportation hearings.
somewhere between the thick air and the ground,
summer is heaving around us..
lifeless, incapable of being able to lift myself from the dredges of humidity,
from the absence of your being.
leaving the city made things comfortable,
and its quiet at night now.
nothing disturbs the way the old zones did.
not the sounds of bars howling
not the flipping of locks from the inhabitants of doors adjacent.
somewhere you found me,
lost beneath the pavement
crying, for a destitute shoulder
a lover, another broken fetus.
the wounded of the earth,
suffering in silence.
who are we to sit here despondent, until the day we inevitably expose the other for the failure that wears bruised flesh and organic cotton.
i still wonder if you're out there..
when i stare at the skyline beyond the trees here.
the skyline that i once craddled beneath torpedo windows.
somewhere amongst the culminations of crimson light and parking tickets floating to the heavens.
i stare out past the train tracks here.
i listen to songs from powderlipped tombstones from the seventies,
whilst southern crunk rolls by.
whilst glasses break.
the world denotes your origin and instead presses upon me something much more collaborative.
wine socials and medical bills.
this state wants me to pick out china patterns and floss a little baby's teeth.
this state has accusations and perscriptions for my hostilities.
the abnormality of all things private.
but inbetween the stiffness in my neck and the constant conotations to vomit.
i think there might be something here.
beyond the nearly naked hipsters.
where you're vowless.



/close./

cabbage.

suddenly guilded
by height
times
when two perfect
broken
souls collide
it was here
where i lost you
here
where i threw you
something came up
creeping
dissolving ambitions
and anxieties alike
you were just as broken
atrophied
pardoned
then forgotten
two gentle
storms
disillusionists
liars for every occassion
deserted
lifted
giving up rotten teeth
presenting
aluminum gifts of ash
and soot
i found you
rotting beneath the pier
i touched your forehead
and you came to
life
/close./