Once it started opening up,
Like a wound, the pearl sheen of skin
deepening into a red
As rare as the perfect rose
And just as treasured.

Bones dense around my heart
And lock themselves in place.
Stifling the voice - two beats -
The third one silent.

The fourth,
The fifth,
The third.

You are my arms outreached but selfish,
Hands open but stiff,
Palms red.

sometimes

I wish that I could get out of here, away from the dead thud of your approach.
You remanifest with a mouth full of flat line, nothing’s changed.

A man with the same nature about him, the same engorged rhetoric toward life
I wished to bury in my garden long before. 

A wound in the backyard, untraceable and
unremarkable.

Not of my heart but of Her Red Sea in which you reside now 
Only as blood. 
Buried along with my naked, along with my softness and my victim.

When all this is over, don’t look at me 
and expect to see the same person.

I wonder if fire can burn so hot it turns white,
And your heart begins transmutation,
An involuntary, unauthorized transition,
From something familiar, to something alien,
And you are all together mystified.

You rely too much on the kindness
Of those known to be unkind.

Narcissists are the anomaly,
The inexplicable sixth kind -
The bend and snap of neurology,
The frequency turns horizontal,
And pulsates to vent, it stops -
And somewhere in the wound (bend)
Something cannot heal (snap!)

Heart soaked and singed in lilac overtones
A tall tale; a castle cloaked in white diamond
An illusion deep enough to move its marble body,

He reaches out to me
But it’s not enough.
It’s too much.

Your red cherry cheek pressed on myth,
On vitality, a story
throbbing, falling, fleeting.
Legs wide, breast open.
I lie naked on blue sheets
And you are here
And you are present
But still I roam for you.

Still sit in boats daylight going further out
And even more

Until I’m lost.

Softly positioned beneath the ****** sky
Mongaloo rubbed his sore belly,
Picking the moss bites out of his naval
And ingesting them in his heat stricken misery.
Oh gloomy am I when forced to bare witness
To such abysmal stupidity.
You Catch are truly a tragic reminder
Of the need for infectious disease,
Or another global disaster.

Catch rubbed his eyes and moaned a bit
Then replied to Mongaloo with much certainty,
That it was in fact his mothers fault
For being such a dreadful ****,
And raising him so poorly.

The monkey bowed his head towards her,
And saw what he thought must be the answer,
To every question he'd never asked.
The best feeling I've ever had, she said
Was when I'd wondered into the forest,
And found myself trapped in the sun,
Right in the middle Monchella, at the core
It was simmering hot and soon,
I couldn't feel my face,
I couldn't feel my feet.
It was when I got out my dear,
That was the best feeling ever.

His movements are subtle,
A sweet illustration,
A still from a classic film
She could never quite forget,
Although she never spoke about it.
"How does it feel?" He asks.
"It feels ****, and all you can do is wait it out.
I've always thought about it like returning to myself, as if she's sitting somewhere in a garden, waiting for me.
A vibrant figure amongst forgotten orchards, light blue hands immersed in the greenery,  humming a tune once familiar to me,
But somehow distant now.
One that existed before I began to think of myself in multiplicity, before she manifested as separate from me."

There is glitch in the scene and for a second he dissolves, and then reappears. He touches her cheek, and smiles.
"Then what are you doing here with me? With this illusion? I manifest time and again as the same man, to exhaust your skin, to grab you with both hands and then discard you, and yet you always return to me, and not her."

I pick up my things and walk away, I hear him humming as I walk, a tune I could recite off by heart.

When faced with rotting extremities,
Twist, snap and scream of agony,
When locked into to your anxiety,
Stomach full on deepest fear.

Remember, my darling,
That you are strong,
That you are brave,
And always have been.

Savvy boy bite that tongue in half,
Are you at a loss for words?
Do you ever regret it, being a coward?
I could never write a love letter, I’m too cynical – too sadistic,
I could be your darling, sweetheart
Get dressed up for you every Friday night,
I could trap myself in a telephone root,
Get ****** and try not to think about it.
But I could never be a coward.

It has nothing to do with them, it is the birth of love which has no direction, no body in which to be contained
Once the source has smeared its face.
You are overwhelmed with love and you are alone.
You are overwhelmed with a love you must restrict and compel to shrink back into your stomach.
This is a crucifixion.
This process is excruciating.