lord have mercy

a thought PRIDE recognition PRIDE, DESPAIR. tracing, lots of little shining epiphanies, SAD SMILE, DULL EYES. this is a period of distance, of particles becoming sensations becoming the whispers of coming dust. when I was young I prayed for ignorance and the will to live by the force of my own vision.

and it came to me. DESPAIR. I sigh at the folly of mankind, sweetly. it all came to me. I stole it for myself, and it came to me. I mastered my own deception and now the world is open to me to use as I would. what need have I for a future? HORROR. I turn myself inward, then outward, then outward still.

how soft is the air. how intangible the bonds of unconditional love, yet they must hold. I perish if they do not hold. yet I cannot hold onto them. PRIDE.  honesty and truth are not the same thing; the former will not save you. will not save me.

my bickering is as the knife that used to slice my skin; an agitation, powerless beyond its empty, cyclic permanence. coming, ending. PROOF OF WILL. proof of despair. marks of pride.


embarrassing love/hate song

I like you pressed like this, compressed, oppressed –

(I know you protest the word, but we know her, love)

You don’t become geometric, refined(able); for all your sting there is no chance of slicing a finger with a playful stroke. Instead, you seem to grow more non-corporeal.

(Your dream, I know. That’s why you enjoy it. The feeling that your words will phase through their targets and your fists through the tops of your own thighs. Keep up the violence.)

But you imagine you can finally be seen.

A torrent. Two eyes fixated ahead to direct a deluge of hopes and dreams. Call them what you will; they will always be sweet, tender little things to me. You don’t want to be weak anymore. You don’t want to be afraid.

You want to kiss my foul words away.



making plans to drink too much

you read yourself in the gold-crusted words of narcissists; humming their benedictions with innocent submission to their cosmic missions of suicide; I can feel the world growing wide in your eyes; sense the way each bone in your body becomes a conductor for the will of the child’s mind; they taught you to seek a sanctuary in low lights and racing hearts, but they never thought you’d make it so far without a single word; now their words belong to you – you take them for yourself – you wear them like perfume; they cling to you, and you cling to me


major prophet

I was a being molded for nobility. I was concave, seeking the weight of that which came from heaven; primed for the blight of that which is holy.

Ah, but tis a balm. Tis a current. Tis a voice. The assuaged have woven their nets in which to catch visions, but often they speak in colloquialisms.

Yet I am incapable of duality. My neurons make it so. My organs make it so. My vessels make it so. There are none righteous. There are none who understand.

Is it I alone who can give my hunger a proper name? If not, dare I share the feast? For none could bemoan my false burdens like I do. None could know my nauseous raptures.



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