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


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


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.