Chiseled as much
from spaces untouched
as the hammer’s strike
The statue cries out,
bound by it’s synthetic periphery.

The CEO walks across marble
Hanging his jacket
Lips press against either bottle or barrel,
Feeling is for the living.

Reborn in the duality of a miscarriage
Man grows old
Descending from woman’s womb stoic
His iron fists reach for mother’s ***.

Earth spins coddling paper thin virility
Her soiled hands constantly left to clean
The painter paints until easels break
Her brush dipped endlessly in vibrant sorrow.

Another day in paradise
Halos handed out like parking tickets
While prophets are corner store common
Heaven is only ever in moderation

Halos handed out like parking tickets
You can buy forbidden fruit half off
Heaven is only ever in moderation
The tallest building is never tall enough to jump off.

You can buy forbidden fruit half off here
Take a bite and put it back on the shelf
The tallest building is never tall enough to reach paradise
So I jumped and I fell.

Take a bite and put it back on the shelf there
Prophets stand outside corner stores
So I jumped and I fell

Another day in paradise.

When I was 5
I got married to the girl down the street who’s name has been lost with time but daisy chain remains vivid. I remember holding hands, while playing pretend.

I’m still playing pretend.

Part of him — the part that confronts painful truths — was hemorrhaging. That night he felt the mass of her every word like crashing waves. He watched the world crack open, and planets collided, as stars died at the tip of her tongue. The pain he felt was what separated earth and heaven — while the love he lost separated hell and earth.
— —
Both lines were incomprehensibly fine.

I write about you like street artists sketch strangers on subways. Using diction only found in the speech of brush strokes. Your water color eyes sink ships like sirens — and I was drowning, watching the kaleidoscopic surface give way to your naked abyss.

I waded into ineradicable waters. Turbulent, permeant, I baptized in your sexuality. Your curves as symbolic as the cross.

We bit that apple baby,
And to see your naked body felt joyful,
not sinful.
Yet we are born sinners,
not lovers,
and for that,
I never understood.