i have only
one lonely
component
of moments
altogether, they make the misnomer
we all **** every morning,
every time we call it
time

i’m in bed, thinking
of my child--
past,
my mistress--
future,
and my husband--
present.

do i manifest it
in the most innocent victims
in my kin, keeping
their necks bent backwards,
twisted
twenty-four, seven
for no reason other
than my (sub?)conscious,
its viciousness i keep
feeding, nursing it
with ****** breastmilk
   i keep reminiscing and reliving
   my initiation moments
   ago, when she forced my transition
   from visions of halos
   visible in the distance
   to a new life witnessed
   from a higher elevation measured
   in mere feet, in measly inches
   all its symptoms
   hosting the syndrome
   we selfishly love scapegoating
   as the capital of sweden

or do i invest it in secret
in a potential haven
its instantaneous
gratification
purposely overlooking
my infernal husband
   i see him, vivid
   his eyes gleaming, livid
   while he's smiling, living
   in pure bliss, the image
   of him standing
   in the background
   oxymoronically
   observing
   with a rigid south
   that defies physics
   and hails northbound
   like my eyes when they widen
   allowing my peripheries
   to admit the bigger picture
   and finally i get it

or do i intertwine
his fingers with mine
give in and follow through
with vows
so
black
i had to contrast them with white
   by draping
   over my shoulders what i'd only seen before when
   time, my fashionably late ******
   snuck into my room and ravaged innocence
   it was mariana trench grim
   even the moon couldn't take it
   watching her stab
   the white sheets,
   in blackness
   hearing my eerie screams
   as my innards leave me
   and suddenly i embrace
   the potent beauty of a venomous snake
   the gleaming power that hate plagues
   so together we'd watch them bleed red
   sitting. but that was moments past
   now i carry the horrid legacy
   of mastered maleficence
   how to manipulate it
   beneath a veil that hates evil
   and it still tempts me...

that's why i did it
wore white and feigned interest
to distract the morbid being
hiding deep within, rotting, festering
i put it all together when i broke
at the hands of a monster
who created a fraternal clone
by instigating an innocent sadist
a different species
i can drain us all, together
in a brutal whirlwind
of failing, of indecision

if only
the moon had made it
if only the sun had listened
and rescued me
instead of insisting
that shining on time
was out of style
but its prerequisite
was no compromise
instead it trapped me
in a sinister dungeon  
because taking orders
from a subordinate
is a demeaning price
higher than
the cheap little girl
bleeding, crying
she carries no significance
she's falling behind
just like the future
of an otherwise worthy existence
just like my mistress --
future
my husband--
present
and my child --
   passed
now
nothing
matters.
it's only
a matter
of time
until we all die

after all,
we had it
all, stolen
or otherwise
yet instead,
we spent
our whole lives
torturing each other
and killing time.

- end

we're lead claiming to be paint.

i never had the right.
i never saw black as all of the colors at once,
or as the absence of any,
i just allowed retinas to dance and be still without ever taking any of it in.

monochrome rhymes with monotone but no apartment or pasture has ever been warm enough to call home,
at least for hollow bones and eyes constantly shifting from a gregarious green to a more genuine grey.

no one ever hears the crickets, even when the floodgates are open or we're searching for that perfect shade to transform the canvas.

you were a monkey with a paint brush,
a brief rush of lust disguised as beauty and anything else that retinas could convince themselves to be mindful of.

chipping paint on the garage will remain and any lungs in proximity will continue to breathe in the dead crickets.

i don't have the right and we'll never get it right.

Strange music playing
I never know from where it comes
always on a whim it wanders and goes
a flute, warm breathed upon my flesh
sometimes cool night jazz
a deep toned oboe, I breathe in wildly slow
drums synced in rhythmic beats
now a bass guitar strummed ever dark
a haunting violin that moans
ripping at the heart.

A broken man
With a heart of gold
Turns to stone
When left in the cold