Goodnight

The harder I close my eyes, the stronger my sense of sight becomes until this resting state isn't restful at all. You're fading in and out of dismorphic behavior, one by one with your cells blending together so that a kaleidoscope of you is erupting in my frontal lobe. I mean, frontal love. Stretched out like a character from a Tim Burton children's horror porno or mutually mutilated without any recognition that you were ever human at all, I see you clearer now than I ever did before. Beauty lost its sparkle when the rhythms of your pheromones got manufactured into cologne that they save in the men's bathroom, holding it for a secondary mistake. 

Oh so molded and bolded and scolded like a child on the sidewalk, teetering too close to the passing cars. It's not a suicide attempt until you understand death, but just childlike experimentation.

She's probably just experimenting. 

She might just be curious.

Sweetheart? I see you still.  You're not experimenting at all, and your science project failed. It's time for you to pack your little backpack full of expressionless mementos and tie it to a balloon destined for somewhere far away. 

You're older than you know, because age is a feeling since the human race lost its ability to count and retain any sort of self respect when wrinkles become more prominent than smiles. 

It's funny what you see when you close your eyes. 

Night words

As your breath has done me the favor of falling into near-perfect synchronization with the bullets being fired out of doors, it has become possible for me to pretend. Through and through and through again, it's hollowed out existence until wisdom has grown into the brick walls, redder and redder as the night burns on. Faltering only once on the subject of their mortality, she and him watched the trees get milled down like it couldn't have been avoided. It was too late for her. They didn't stand a chance. 

But now you're lying in my skin without announcing your exuent or pronouncing my resignation in your native tongue, and the residual longing in my collar bones has calcified so that you fit into my skeletal structure. I never would have guessed, before I saw the outer working of your tributary sacrifices, that it was you all along. 

Seems to be the truth buried in a hazy reality and a silenced click of the shutter. 

Sleep well. 

Safety Hazard

When your words hit the breaks and my words hit the gas, I learned, once and for all, the power of g force.



I'm developing wine stains in all the holes that you took when you picked up the schedule of your locational development and left.



Yielding to the unsubstantiated evidence that I have backed up on my extra extra hard-drive, filled with illegal movies, a spoken word piece, and you, it seems too far past put together for me to become another linked up, cracked out, picked apart third-grade diary filled with secrets and under-developed hormones.


In Shakespearean terms, this is a tragedy, but I still find it all rather comical when my sight has been blurred by the warmth in your smoke and the moisture that is gathering, right now, as you read this, on your palms.


A little bird told me you missed me. What have you got to say for yourself?

Weep.

Until the sun rose yesterday, you patterned through my dreams;
A silent voice to cry through all the din.
I'm searching for the blue of your eyes, arctic, gentile streams,
With all the lies that float along within.

There's something that's hypnotic in the way you hold your pen
And laugh at notions that allign the stars.
It's a wonder that from out of nighttime you've come back again,
Still stuck in all the shadows that you've found in all the bars.

You're all lined up, all colored out, all indignant and grey
Your shape is tacked in darkness on the white.
But, you're all narcotic and disguised to make me it feel okay
It's just enough to say that it might just be alright.

Year along and month to month and breath to take a breath
Hearts jarring like a knife inside the glass;
Fragmented in the sorrows hold until the game is death,
Whilst nothing in the world can raise me up into your class.

PARTLY CLOUDY

quitting
quotients
like
mathematics rocked noah's ark
made you
feel
superior
to
little old me

and you told tomorrow's tragedy to hurry on in

little
by little
by little
the noise of the ocean
full of liquor
cooled the senses of your incandescence
and i took off my sunglasses

to catch a glimpse
of
jesus
before
he
finally
sank.

but it spoke in words of thunder on your lightning colored lips
and made you smell like daffodils on all of your rose hips
you'd like it if you could regret the bad things that you've done
but all in all, funny enough, it seems the loser's won

sifted

She held her Quentin Tarantino special edition collection tight in the bottom of her bag. All the sounds around the maniacal misgivings that her mind were beginning to publicize to the world were something of a wordless embarrassment. All of the words she said came out misspelled. All of the worlds she wrote looked like a really bad dream. She sifted flour through the grated acceptance until it had no odd lumps or bumps and until it made all the biscuits taste like gravy and the cakes taste like frosting. Yule tide carols were being sung by the choir in her mind on Memorial Day. She didn't remember who she was supposed to remember anyway. 

Thee

She must feel like the wilted dandelion that escaped behind the tree. Bruising until and under the sun and sum of all things holy and unholy and satanic and of Jesuit descent, for Good Lord and God Spite Thee unto the demise of the earth itself. Without demolition of the sacred spaces, all of the cafés in Paris and the pizza shops in the big apple, all the libraries are burning like they really were made to give society a good fuck in the ass. Authorial intent without authoritarian regime makes the incompetence of literature and the irrelevancy of words remarkably and truly youthful after all. A morning that grew out of an afternoon, with a lifted resemblance to marital dilemmas and watery resources, mumbled to the subsequent dusk that, when the means came to the end, all he wanted was for someone to make a wish on a shooting star at noon. It's hard when all the candles and weeds hidden behind trees can't do enough to make what you want come true.