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.

Standard

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

Standard

this counts as a social experiment

talking pages;
words are printed there, and i know them. i know their meaning. ‘ball’, ‘dog’, ‘run’, ‘gone’, never coming back again.
yet sometimes words are nothing more than black and white spaces. empty. waiting to be filled.
sometimes there is too much room in the margins. and faces begin to appear, because they were never made up of space but of life and vibrancy and pain.
and when they spoke they used more than words.
their names were more than words.
‘are’ or ‘were’;
death is more than a word

Standard

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

Standard

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.

 

Standard

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.

 

 

Standard