we shall dance and not be too tired
for we have loved for years and
will no longer deny this but
if that mustache is indicative of anything
we shall spill the liquor and forget ourselves
momentarily
for we are artists
with beautiful artistic hands
and beautiful artistic eyes that see
putting together pieces of ourselves
and fitting them into each other
to see things in a whole new light

and even if we eat from garbage cans
and never have clean water to wash our hands
we have our skin
who has seen us through seeing through each other

There is
no poetry
in me.
There is only
people and
things and
places where I should have
been hours ago.
I am empty cigarette carton
I am
bleeding nostril
I am sweaty neck.
I am calloused feet.
I am going to shoot up
a mall
or maybe
eat some hummus
or maybe
take the train home.

In this shroud of warmth
I hide
Clutching every part of me
Together
As insecurity swells and burns

The hem must surely go down
Some more
The neck must pull up
Further
I want to submerge

Sink into the scratchy tent
Completely
Drown amongst my
Limbs
As I writhe and stretch to provide sufficient space

For the monster inside my head

My hair has grown but my body lingers
In childhood trances
My brain? Anxious, Insane.
Torn between values and ****-it-alls,
Objectivity and nihilist paradise.

Coffee grounds keep me caffeinated, awake,
Giving a ****.
Then the high disappears, and I quiver
Full of arrows pointing
Into every possible corner of existence.
A breath is taken, a step withdrawn,
To be deposited in gold mines;
Of murderous reason.

So I stand at the peak
Of personal enlightenment
With a handful of delirium
And a head wound.