There are beautiful things that live in my house
they tend to occupy the fractured crevices inside of my walls, adumbrating a kind of obscure phenomenon: shadowy luminescence
they tend to sink into the spaces between the ceiling and the roof, immersed in chocolately darkness and dust, eating termites for supper
they tend to isolate themselves in the acidic liquid of my kitchen sink, bathing in rotting rye and leftover cherry wine, finding peace in polarization, a prize in the priceless, a perfection in the pitfall
There are beautiful things that live in my mind
they tend to whisper to me because they know I can discriminate between their desperately voluminous silk and the vortex of thickening threads that cages my cognition in demonic demands
There are lots and lots of beautiful things
but beautiful things don’t ask for attention
they tend to slink in the shadows.

Echos expand the ice crystals in my mind
Coronas of galactic dust feed into my pupils
My eyes are moons leaking white fire
My heart explodes into a supernova for it cannot bear the things I did to you
The guilt kills the sun inside my chest
The guilt is Jupiter and my vision is a slave, for auspicious moons have not gravity to compete with astronomical planets
Here my limbs are constellations that drift from one another
Here my fingers bend into uncomprehendable wavelengths
Here I float, empty, into space.
When I saw  what could have been
what would have been
and what is now
I became an Earthen Absense.

this mind of mine craves poetry and this body approaches starvation
Ravenous,
Endless cream rectangles collectively croak begging me with cracked throats to fill them with deep chocolatey ink
this hole in my stomach expands and my papyrus lungs deteriorate;
these ivory teeth dissolve into dust,
lack of sustenance of simple sentences strung together to form sublime alphabetical artwork whose medium is LETTERS and letters only:
my aching soul craves poetry:
grey people tell me I look gaunt:
somebody says my fingers are soaking in silver and my eyelashes frame absent black eyes
a diamond casing sheds: my cortex is sand and my brain is an ocean
my heart is vulnerable and empty; and hungry
Ravenous
this mind of mine is living on poetry and my body is approaching starvation
shall I beg on the streets for food?

look at my green eyes you said
those galvanic crystal gems
I tore your heart in half; it bled
but you see through yellow lens:

even as we fell apart
your eyes were lambent lights
you wrote me poems of charming art
you stayed with me through nights

green candles burning embers deep
my heart beats my tongue flies  
you gave me things I could not keep
and now your memory cries

green glass windows to your soul
extraordinary, beautiful
my eyes are dirt my mind is coal
my choices unexcuseable

listen to my aching heart
share raspberry sorbet in my bed
you can see now our film will never start,
for life and love have unhappy end

your green eyes saw me through yellow lens
you though that I was good
but plastic sheds, my veneer ends
you want to run. you should.

sometimes I wish my eyes were blue
sometimes I wish that I was dead
I am sorry for what I did to you
Oliver, my green-eyed friend.

you told me everything last night
how your chest is black and blue
I promise you one thousand times
I never meant to hurt you.

Today I pondered Oblivion. If the stars will collapse on themselves, if the nothingness between the asteroids and the dust lining the moons and the inhuman complexity that is Time will all convolute and dissolve into existential chaos, then what is the point? If space time does not have an infinitely stretching edge like an anti gravitational sea eclipsing the earth, then neither does humanity. So Europe and America and Africa are tiny islands in an everlasting ocean; single ants in an interminable universe. So my home is even more exponentially tiny: my state is a mere indention in an all-embracing dirt path so I am a receding footprint in a fossil of human existance. My poems are specks of dust on a planet of amorphous matter.