Apocalyptic opportunity operating on obversely open,
oblong abortion-addiction, analogous of an upturned
episodic aporia apprehensive about obtuseness-
an opportunity inimitable in essence,
its assiduous attribution apparently evident
as economic edifices advertised as assistance-appeals.
Obviously, opportunities as enriching are essential
on account of existential affirmation,
otherwise all's apoplexy, ethanol ornament,
an altered evocation understated and escalated
obliviously; absent absinth; am armor arrayed
especially as assured; aerial oogenesis;
asymptomatic aphasia; acts of elegant appetizing.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
They are done. I am an anagram
a terrorized, tangible motor recoil,
follow their steps with no haste,
wallow in the lapse with no taste,
swallowing the rapt kiss but no wait,
something out of the rat-noises under the bed,
something out of the sarcophagus of dead film clips
(the film in their eyes),
sunken, pouted mouths which press the buttons
of thrill to mesmerize my motions
with cycling pain, tumbler's pain,
the pain of airless strobe lights,
engraving etchings of a bad bird
on the pillar of my neck.
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 11:12 AM UTC
Something sweet left on the bedside table,
not within arm's reach, but I stretched anyways-
adipose weight alliterated against the sheet,
pectoral garage grunge sounds because the sand
is still puckered in my eyes which adjust
to the helix of light over time;
light, like lavender talc branched in.
My wrist flinched from the cold metal ****
of a compartment under the chestnut top
with papers spread expeditiously.
With my hand scampering for a sign
I splintered the squeak of a rickshaw.
A shy crow pretended to dodge a bullet outside the window;
right thumb still wasn't ready to draw the pattern
that unlocks my phone, but we do things
when we wake up and look beside ourselves
for warmth. We hadn't exchanged numbers,
but you'd left yours in a text, with an invitingly pale font.
Your lips left perfumed migraines where you kissed me,
but that's a good thing.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC
I drink water like no other sunday-
the afternoon, grouped together
with light tease-breeze, an impending
dog-eared sundown, we ruck up in languor;
a kid carrying carrots bicycles on the road
that's an overturned, sweaty, scabbed hand,
although they may not be carrying carrots,
and they may not be a kid; but there definitely were wheels
that moved slowly with limited grace
(no way to make sure), and the washed clothes
left hanging are almost dried.
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 6:04 AM UTC
When I headbang- and we do headbang
since as far back as we remember-
my hair, shaking like clumps of phantom pom-poms,
has its fun, evading a spotty survivor's guilt,
making good use of training and conditioning
under diverse climates. But it still chafes
against a comb, which is understandable.
I don't relish being grabbed by my throat
although I have been, but very safely,
in the good humor of a modest Tropicana-
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
Meet the boy standing on the stump
of a tree, (species undisclosed) lopped because
of reasons unknown, on the sidewalk,
towering over his shadow unrolled tenuously
like a policy behind him on the road littered
with mouldy cups, hired ants, ****** breathing-
you cannot find him on a GPS.
That would be delusional.
You can't meet him either. He's a service,
a tangy satisfaction that doesn't want dinner
until he goes back to his house,
plonks his backpack, bats his way to consequence-
rounds up his Kinley heart,
that limpid stare-ahead.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
When someone calls me a frantic baby
I call myself spontaneous because
my lunch discourse is nonpareil, entering
the vacation of filling motive-
to them I say yes, yes on the call
we whisk the happydent-chewing sky,
pull the sweet water off the stem
with stock pumped breathy initiative;
if talking is ever cumbersome
we loop around the cream-fills
with the authority of 25-watt-dust lamp,
all the good stuff pulverized skeptically.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 1:00 PM UTC
Tonight, the full moon looks so beautiful
that I am crying. I have lapsed on my knees,
the pulp of every love- shared. subscribed- streams
through follicles of unpardonable zest.
Nobody should know, but they end up aware
of the malpractical jingling pulling us
into the cartoon turbine that wants us first,
into the scratched longing poised in our collars.
Nobody should know, but they end up aware
of the unplanned lobotomy of wrong-
with opaque grunting, sure, maybe,
the necklaced ash-bath, the causal antibiotic for dummies
who dream about a bite instead of the consequence
of our bodies.
There's a full moon, and nobody should miss
on the engine-knock of our throat;
we've not loved for a while, but we still hug warmly
before we leave, smile at the odor of food,
spill it like the children we have never hated or loved but were,
clean up like the hankies we became.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 11:02 AM UTC
Smell of (fantasized) cell number on a napkin-
wheat-colored, taking stride with the outcast wind
bouncing off the sleeves of Monte Carlo-
barks with attentive seasoning;
I remembered that smell inside the subway car
in the jute-fiber knot of flesh,
furnished myself with its contour,
mucus fondling of despair that unfolds
its sorry, coy sequence.
When we're asked about the imagination
we who can't smell it as well imagine
a ribald audacity on our part,
like a whos-who on a pinned up list, like
sunlight thrown like a muffler around your neck
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Every shelved poem (if there are any)
(and there aren't a lot of them, to be honest)
(when they exist, they exist like a barbaric
sizzling television static or what-do-you-call-it)
(but usually, there aren't any, and the rear
of my neck feels made of curd when I wake up)
(but yeah, there aren't many, which drives
me to make some monumental mess ups)
(because there aren't any I indulge myself
on my college educated words, inherited
from hours of labor, and I shuffle them, save
few hours of sleep, post like I know something
about the gravitons of regularity) (but, its cloying,
really, very juvenile, sappy-like) is annoying.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 12:52 PM UTC