my alarm on silent, again

there is no longer time enough,

the days when hunger was slicked with work – the clink and clang of suppositions falling into wily, dimly-lit phrases, tugging on muscles in the mouth and drawing out higher temperatures across the span of an unseen face;

have nearly vanished. a step bypassed as an appetite changes out of necessity.

atrophy makes for heavy fingers; a light and pliant set of corneas, eternally swelling on tides of stimulation; a pair of jaws forgoing their innate function for something which better serves their master.

but their master has tired of giving orders. it gazes at an altered reflection in a darkening room and draws a finger lustfully over sharpening edges and rounding portions of flesh and catches, over its shoulder, the wavering and tumbling of another distant planet

one more portion empty. room in the canopy for the surplus. kingly gifts brushing ancient pillars. somehow the interaction is acidic.




there’s a blonde out there saving my life

roots torn through soil;

this crusted rot our inheritance snatched up from below in armfuls, in mouthfuls; endless regurgitation in all manner of forms; a breeding ground, it has tasted of us in return

yet our lungs have vindictive capacities;

our minds have capricious visions;

and at the base of my fragile fumbling tongue there is a wailing – at the base of my trembling medicated heart there is a stampede


savoring the gashes on my skin


I was hungover; the word slipped my mind

I will call myself in all manners a coward;

hear the slight lurch the slight crunch the thick skin splintering amid rivulets of translucent fluids – even so I mask it pettily in sweetness

but the state of the teeth disagree; the angle of the jaw protests

I want sweet words and gentle whispers but I shall provide all manner of rot, all depths of intoxication; don’t worry that you’re still finding the means to bear the sensation

you’re just one of us. and maybe more so than I think.


bad try

the imprint of my limbs has been understood;

made script, made mean.

faint over epochs and thin through inches of mass

clues come easily enough, diluted and proverbial

but mark my words, marks on my arms, marks above my head,

if my true mouth could feed itself –