crimson flutters down in
beads in rhythmic hymns
tangling themselves like slipknots
or messy hair on Sunday afternoons
when sunlight floods living rooms and porches and drips off shingles
it continues down a pale forearm
in patterns
neat straight lines like lines on asphalt;
uncrossable.
when the hymns cease -
silent psalms begin and bathe in cold streams.
streams turn to lakes,
still, and warm as death.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
chaotic machines die alone
drenched in autumnal slumber
memories etched on top of our bones
of pizza shops & phone numbers
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
gloom looks so good on you
we're doomed. theres no room for two.
a stagnent game of islolation
ironic, chronic concentration
on rainy days
wet shadows play
the melancholy dries away
caught between a dying sun, a loaded gun, the ides of May.
****** ****** desolation
injected with the sweet sensation
in loving hate, you despise creation
we are deep. unconscious. animations.
i like, i hate, i love, i loath
schizophrenic panic mode
like me, hate me, love me cold.
i watch the stars
and stars implode.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC