In the midst of all of this dismantling
itself into it's revolting component honesty, I try to remember the way
your arousal changed the hue of the space around you.

Memory or fantasy or dream
or lie or ecstatic state; bottles filled with coloured sand and then sealed up into boxes left by the street.

If only someone could sculpt the dance we do between the moments
of a waking life crystallizing into grotesque simplifications rattling chains in the labrynth we build for loneliness.

I try to chisel some aspect of it into wind and rain.

I try to pick out your breathing
among the howling infinity outside and my edges are reasserted by the glare of life's shadow.

My name is that of any pile of bones ever to have a candal held for it.

My path is undetermined, unfettered from the seething potential beneath all things.

Explode with me.

We can paint the crumbling walls of our illusory disconnection like a drunken Michaelangelo laughing at the absurdity he is a part of.

**** rules, style, message, time, space, words.

**** it all.

Just go mad.

I'll take all of those terrifyingly gorgeous photographs of you
just to cut them into pieces
and use them like paint.

That is me pulling your visage
down from the heights only
to confuse it with the dirt.

It is also me showing you that
the pervasiveness of your form
is never lost on me.

Every particle, entangled.

I don't need to see you.

You will make a science of yourself
before me and I will ask,
"why?"

I drew your viscera by candlelight
before I ever watched you avert
your eyes from mine.

I wept while shrines built in your name were pulled to the earth, your disciples chanting as they bloomed black into the hungry sky.

Every particle, entangled.

"Seen" is a stupid term.

Although I am still seemingly
bound to it's use because of
every single one of you.

All is absurd.

"Up to Olympus from the wide-spread earth"

I keep meeting oceans that only want to be the same lake of fire.

I is a lie that was fabricated by no one.

How does anyone catch a glimpse
and not melt into their own laps?

See?

Absurd.

Finding myself in paper warped
by the ink from a stolen pen.

I lose it again in the lonely
void of smoke filled rooms.

Our need for a better vernacular
is a cup of tea sipped by our ghosts,
somewhere.

Evoking an old ghost from smoke on the night of a new moon,
curses written in perfect cursive
by the light of my gloom's doom.

I'm purification.
I'm uselessly aloof
but in full-bloom in the basement
where your mutiny is reduced
to a tomb for the nameless.

I am not that dope in the spoon.

Anymore.

this is what happened when
i sat down to write something.

an aimless stroll through the
crooked halls of memory while my
pen drips potential onto the page;
a homeless man, drunk and starving,
singing hymns in an abandoned
mall food court.

why do i do this to us?

she takes a pull of
her Parliament,
face painted in
in fleeting ochre;
an ancient star dying
far from me.

"i was alive once and i swore
i glimpsed the storm in
the laughter"

we write each other's names
on our palms and lovingly watch
the ink fade as we drink from
them.

that was the plan.
plans end the same as the rest of it;
vestigial and resentful in their silence.

you said your grin was
that of a misfit.
i said your grin lent
dimensions the intent
to rip open.
i meant it,
but i said it just to see it.

"...reasons. things can have many..."

stealing smoke from a Parliament,
that old foolish ochre
skirmishes with night,
i remember that i'll remember the hospice stint intimacy fondly
when i splinter infinitely through dimensional rifts in that moment
you howled at the moon with the
earth dangling from your neck.

"the wild hunt was a horrible
film, but it was our horrible film"

you didn't even notice me
dissolving into the monolith
and i admire the honesty of that.

we can speculate about what the
next life's masks conceal when
we get there.