my blue bones are wit
and it means less to keep things
and nothing is quiet.
we rely on knit springs and
disingenuous
copilots.
we're prone to the oath
of our fears
suckling the dent in our collective breast.
nursing the suffering
of our sharp pillows
and the terrors of our happiness, windswept.
we cherish the swamp-sweat
of outlines...
chalking the missing
body.

instead of dem crocodiles, we have golden calf-fish
slaughtered on the lawn
of our untarnished rush...
prospecting -
and jumping the claim
to our gummi
worm.

we tumble in tandem,
and massively mismanage our enchantments.
my bones are blue
wit
and it means less
to have at
it.

we jab Stats and lack Data, but clap atoms
to a mad hatter.
we raid the pantry of our miffed ladder
against the side of
a barn
gone.
leaning in the twilight of
our genuine
sun.

surly pixies in the black sugar, kinking the last nerve of our entropy.

dem crocodiles, grinning rigid menace
in the murk... instead of dem -
let us first disperse
where the hurt, hurts; and be first
to do less worse than
a farcry
or an up-close
word

a tad mean. lets collapse things
that expand, burning all this,
instead of dem
secrets...
un-ghouling the riddle of our dead wait
in the infinite room next to the room
with the last view
of a naked
girl.

where the world is this world. and we're on it.