and lately, entombed within four walls of questions

I’ve wanted, so, so desperately, to bleed


I faked out my philosophy professor

somehow I had forgotten that this was our last day living side by side, and that you’d return to the substance of pensive thoughts and late nights. A couple notes in a song that carried me to a place neither of us really inhabited. You know, as it was.

You don’t know, do you? But I promise, we had good moments together. Your presence, and I.

Still more real than what you’ve been to me recently. I blame myself.

I always blame myself.

I try to blame myself.


this will end up fragmented someday

and what would you ask of me – that I not betray myself?

that I not reject the eternal froth of illness and woe that bites at the back of my throat – that I not seek to rend the wiry veins of a pitiless, passionless creature back from the tips of my fingers and the whites of my eyes?

courageous, congenial summer triumph, your feet will soon become snared, for the outskirts of my vision are a mire of traps, and nothing which I behold retains the shape with which it was conceived.


meme war

and I only like to talk about the sad shit when my world is suspiciously quiet, bolstered by cotton or unmarked hours or the heavy scent of lime;

I only talk about the sad shit when I can touch it like a rope of pearls spread across a satin pillow reflecting a thousand melancholy whispers in each sphere – each sphere, taking up a certain amount of space in each eye with a certain amount of weight in each hand

I yammer on about the fucking spherical shit that I want to put in my mouth and crush into my skin and make some sort of surface that is no longer reflective but potent and makes your irises adjust


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.




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 –