You look at me,
that is all it takes, and temptation tumbles towards me

Electrochemical codes stretch themselves thin
taught and winding
cooing and fluttering in axonal cornices
Echoes rush through neuronal chambers,
charged and pulsating.

My mind in harmony and fully drawn to you
synchronized by the network.
The messages reach my cortex, aesthetic appraisal follows
I know not the meticulous, miraculous mechanics of such a wonderful process but
You beauty is magnified now.
Touch receptors tell my whole body to tingle
Sensory splendor is so scary.

The cascades have commissioned the deeper circuitry:
Those ancient blueprints of visceral demands
from which wicked temptations of man are born,
the veteran fossil of primordial impulse, a buried luxury, a relic:
My reward system
permeated by your kiss.

I am dangerously, fearfully humble to the power of pleasure
It is awake in the under-structure of neurobiologically institutionalized euphoria,
ablaze in the basic backbone of bliss
It is stirring in it’s ancient wires.

I can say I am somewhat privy to the elusive nature of experience.
being a human being alone grants me this
being a scientist of the brain only dilates my sense of love’s incomprehensibility.
And so I sink into your touch, your presence unresisting.

Everything keeps on flooding into this associative mesh,
It all reflects such involved significance
I ache to grip the essence, but settle for metaphors
pining after describable meaning.

Stretch my fingertips far, and further still
try to cradle the lattice
it escapes me, ever extending
Leaves me in a daze,
wooly and jumbled.

Obscurity is thick and difficult
Her true depth shrouded in a coolness
The perfect touch of rugged to rouse baseline beauty
compelling, titillating
Just like the divine bitter edge of dark chocolate
—how it aggrandizes the taste,
stretches it beyond mere sweetness—
she imbues my life with *****, full-bodied awe.
dark, deep
Terrifying
Fantastic.

A moment- She steals away my peace
comfortless, deserted. Cold and abandoned.
Shriveling at sheer confusion
Cant seem to understand this whole thing I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to but it’s all a bit much the compulsive need to know plus innate knowledge that I can’t
A bit cruel

Another-She invites me into warm, multicolored awareness, acceptance
Free of cosmic heaviness
Forgetting the weight of existence and filled with bliss
I’ve got it I’ve just got to do it Just got to
Live my life
Not try so hard to understand it all.

The oscillations make my head spin.

Now,
there is the contour of her upturned forehead
nosetip kissed by the moonlight
and shadows frame the shape of her eyes
soft wrinkles at their tapered corners

And my god, the color of them
I stare, squint
A misty night, but they are distinct even in the dark:
bronze beads nestled into slight furrows
gossamer, reflecting starlight.
The sweep across the peppered sky that we stand beneath

Chestnut disks floating in milky spheres
unmistakably hers
full and round, soaking in curiosity
handsome mahogany irises bound by the gold tracing their edges.

The way the light makes those disks look glassy
Semitransparent in the moon’s glow
How they shed their boundaries
shifting, swimming
layers on the eyelid horizon

They shimmer, and stir.
And now,
they rest their gaze on me.
I inhale
dare to step closer
The bustle in the back of my brain—
A hum, and the purr of pleasure at her beatitude.

Shut, open once more
Mortal eyes to welcome the light:
The modest ushering in of photons
who tiptoe towards the photoreceptors
dancing, gingerly between their fingertips
whispering their electrochemical messages—
tens of millions of data-bits—
bundled and strung up in between synapses
Sent to a distant place in the back of my head
Segregated, sorted
rearranged until the details emerge.

In the morning I’ll be better
Surely a brighter day will come and a darker one still.
In the evening I’ll love you again
Swear it’s the last time and come crawling back tomorrow.

The days are crashing into one another
heavy and swift
Leave me bleeding at the end.

I spin words into pretty phrases to make it stop and it works for a while.
Take another breath
swallow the entire nighttime hold it in my lungs
Nothing left for when the sun comes up.

I suppose that contemplation of things is the true prerequisite of Art
Then
Let feathers of winged creatures hold my gaze in their layered order
Let the vegetation’s whispers creep into my ears and plant gardens in my mind:
Let willows whisk my weightiness away
Soft, dangling leaves brushing kisses across my shoulders
Let the tips of my fingers grasp pieces of the sky and
pull them closer to my eyes
Let me examine them like shards of glass
Let rain feel like thunder
and lightning look like cloudbursts
The personality of a storm
inherited in its natural phenomena: elemental manipulations
My eyes upturned,
My lips soaked in sky water
I taste the cyclone
Let me breathe in the mist hovering amidst canopic leaves
Let negative space become positive:
purple shadows ascending from the bleakness of their Definition
Objects themselves bowing, and stepping backstage:
Let the Shadows Shine for a moment
And let me see it
Let the mysteries of nature hold my mind’s gaze
and
Let me paint them

my mind will finally be hollow when explosive entities of its existential warfare finally self destruct.
until then,
Recondite rifles are ruthlessly reloaded with unanswerable questions regarding the purpose of seemingly non purposeful things;
lack of resolve wrecks me.
Unanswered ammunition degrades cerebral cells, intercepting normal neural connections:
I cannot think properly in the midst of pellets of panic

until then,
Selfless soldiers employed by future uncertainty battle against selfish soldiers of MY physical being, employed by my diminishing desire for sanity.
They engage in trench warfare: digging desolate ditches, hammering holes, all of which eventually collapse and contribute to the constant compression of my cortex.
But Compliments and Hope fracture into particles of sand that are ****** into the openings in my pupils by amorphous wind which is structureless anyway
these particles are vacuumed down my optic nerves and pile into pillars of petrifying plant-based picket fences that try to guard against the existential warfare plaguing my mind
But more explosive entities enter through my ears and reproduce in my temples waiting to self destruct

until then,
Forces convolute: existential warfare compresses my cortex into inevitable flat nothingness, while pitiful pillars of disillusioning dust collapse because the wind that whisked them inside NEVER EXISTED ANYWAY
Eventually i will implode

Until then,
numbness gnaws at my heart to balance the bullets
waiting to implode
until then,
Existential Warfare bombards my brain with bullets of black metal

I do not write my poems,
My poems write me
these boundaries of my body these fingertip extremities are not quills and this liquid velvet this lifeless blood is not raven-colored ink, rather my skin is pages and pages of palpable pulp,
deacrinated tentacle tree branches and fiberless roots convulse and my metal mind seizes sadness and manufactures paper out of the trees growing inside of me
Titanium oxide is extracted from my black eyes while wax drips off of my eyelashes into liquid pools of ebony
My mistake of a mind imprisons abjection and mass-produces ink out of the elements of my soul’s curtain-drawn windows
words and words and words and words fill the spaces between the pores where my hair follicles protrude
Diction dilemmas dip their quills into my eyelids and peirce my forehead until I am scarred by POETRY
Asphyxiating abnormalities write themselves into existence and reproduce in my skull, the fissures of my brain are their nests
Seven hundred million two dimensional letters float into my blood and disperse and and feed on these crimson channels and converge to form three dimensional words to form still increasingly multidimensional sentences and stanzas and POEMS until I am a library of impossible holes in existence, an impossible amount of existence.
I do not write my poems into existence
My poems are my existence.

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.