In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;

The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.

I was yet to understand blood.

When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.


In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
                 all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.


There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.

I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,

they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)


In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.

So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.

And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.

Then one day our skin shed and our
organs misted, all that left was buzzings.
And some post-molting wore their old coats
like necromantic cyborgs, and some buzzed together to a bee.
But it took only one ghast accumulating of intertwined
perpendicular lines, the spider before the egg
who could fly across the Ouroboros gagging a new,
and cut the threads of astral, crimson nebulas anchoring
our time.

There is
a wooden
cabin on a hill
It awaits me still.
Hate, Loathing, and Pride, sit by the
indoor fire. And discuss disgust. Logs
of spit and mucus in an ivory stack, therein,
breaketh not they for moon or sun. In abyss, engulfed
in a blister, of scarlet marsh and murky water. Of poison
their cups are filled; midnight blue, the cherubic wine of sorrow.
I join once more my dearest friends and gaze into the fire's flat, eternally burned, lithium disk.

Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
get lowered.
The jesters
       cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.

I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
                   steam trombones
There
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
forever deceased.

It is a temporal
apple worm sort of fate, that
is no more contingent than a granite lake.
It's tail from my 9-5 jest, its fangs
In my present pips.

Flaking lead, spit on green,
walls formed the small leaned
over bar
known as “Bulkling Beer”
(No pub at the end).
Migrant driven cars zoomed, rippled the window cage, but never stopped.

It dripped with desolate machine roars
and those were the customers.
The poor shop keeper, once in a while, slid in her knitted socks to the mechanical fiend and grabbed a gawkily warm ice cream cone

Dribble I, rusted spheres of number and
ethnicity. My small Hanoi tower, emergent in
sweaty purlicues, yearn for mushroom dish.
I pocket them and once more rinse to the
other side of my frame to await the inquisitors
in a St. Petersburg ’s sleep.

I tear my bones
To try and not
Hear the drones,
Drill in dot.

But soil so ill
Is where I tread.
Shriek when fill
Buddhist debts.

Behind the pillars
In cenotaphs,
Edge killers
Of my calfs

I bread bogged down.
So they would claim
The forest crown,
Clear my name.

Fear my ingrowns!
Alas, they rot,
Drink the drones,
Drill in dot.

Who is he?
Who is he?
Skull and bones and only meat.
And nearer soon he’ll be dust.
Tremble, quiver, quake, and quaver
He'll grind himself to a crust.

Who are you?
Who are you?
Any inch from any hue.
Hunching back and dainty eyes.
Swamp root spiral for a tail.
A master of my ghoulish dyes.

Wicked green candle
light glows through her teeth gaps, as
she forces a smile.

My own soul left me.
Ire gulfed me till I found out,
‘twas seeking a home

Cheeks: in ***** hue they
Glow, hide his wrinkly soggy
Eyes, give life to corpse.

In empty cells of buzzing hives,
In purple lights of summer nights,
Proliferate the dying sprites.

I must admit I often seek
This needle dotted anti-noise,
For in this static ever-gloom,
I hear my old friend's voice.

Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;

divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.

Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,

to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.

One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for

these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself



And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow  the
evenly laid out,  sorrow yellow street lamps

and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,

where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems

to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they

wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived

in a previous life.

Two humps
Spurt on my back.
       A slaving,
       bone dry camel
I am
in this feverish desert of the night.
Through this ocean of
                                sand,
maroon sky, and
Black Sun
I crumble and crawl.  

My mammoth-teeth filled mouth
aches for a droplet of what
seems is mere ether
                                     here in my
hobgoblin realm.
My thorn spiked hooves
slip,
slip,
through the colossal, monumental mountain waves.

In a thirsting,
   ******* crave,
I lay on a cold patch
and I feel,
feel my hands, I catch a breath
that
isn't chundered
with dust, and I doze off.

But my master and God
   has a loathing for the
sloth, so he sends his Black
Sun to smoulder my carcass
             and he strings for
Two humps
to spurt on my back.

Oh my tree
blossom child, winter wave-like
eyeshadows and equally
cold stares. Silently

screaming with a closed
mouth. Who ghosts
trough out alone.  Do not

waste your lungs
to ponder. Wolfs of
now might starve with summer, but

the hounds of old will
continue to hunt.  Alas
not sap drop of pitty

do you deserve. You in
cherry cyanide light who
washes in tears of sugar.

The lycans will at last
tear your ephemeral skin. And you'll
learn to slay beasts like man was meant to

Through the street lights  and brutalist cliffs,
blinking beams echo my breath.

Laughter still bleeds in my throat, conversations still pierce my ears, alas
A Kodak haze,  a synchronized buzz

and agony is gone. For most are
nothing but pines,

A sleeping balm, a charming whiff, all the
same submissive to a whirr.

As a child, they  left me in awe
Now I know they're nothing more

than a palisade for the sea.  Those
that bid time in the isometric

backwoods, simply haven't the clue,
that no concrete can still her.

Broccoli in a white lamp shade
cast shadowy face tattoos
to mark the unjoustly.
The festival in background
is throbbing in directly contrasting sound, to the art nouveau it's sleeping with.

Each vegan burger stand vomits exquisite neon. However
the collage itself
is apologetically brown.
Theatre masks and DJs, VR and a Just Dance floor set,
a sprint before midnight, a sprint after discount ethanol;
so I gaze and perhaps ponder for a friend.

And yet when counting the heads,
I find I needn’t more than my own to hands
for the few middle-aged supermarket clerks

We real cool. We

Skip school. We


Fiest fruits. We

Rake roots. We


Make mates. We

Ditch dates. We



Weep winter. We
Bait bitter. We
Fake foster. We
Gamble gutter. We
Save stutter. We


Dance alone.We

As I almost begin to tremble again
A blistering call erupts my thoughts.
“Come down around your block
And bring a broomstick and a helping hand.”
Wanting to remain I hesitate,
But I go anyway.
There I see
A mother and a child,
Waiting to paint the city with equally blistering imagery.
So we flooded the walls with watercolours
And flooded the houses with noise,
Then when saying goodbyes
They tell me:
“Call us if you think you'll tremble again.”

Frigid curly
Black and long
Tentacles from the scalp

Frantic, we dance
And our unbraided ropes
Drench in salted sweat

For now
I shake and yet
The tremble in me is fake

Finally silent
I crouch away since
When was having fun such a task