some are dainty
some are kind

some are precious
some are vile

some are poisonous
and black underneath

some are thin
and corkscrew-like

turning constantly
until morning.

break off the cover
show a buried pit of coals.

when done, skin
scales, or feathers will all come off.

i tell time by the switching
      on        and        off
of fluorescent lights. there is no
sunset, only night
then day
and night again.

my head glows alight
with chatter. brain cells burn
inside like the bright
infernal filament of a bulb.
my skin and skull
are made of smooth, round glass.

please
do not gaze too intensely
at my madness, for it is painful
to behold. your eyes
may water, throat tight with tears
at what you cannot fix—
at what you cannot control...

Gaping mouths grow from the craters etched
Into the plaster walls.
The bulbs in the ceiling sockets flicker and grow soft
And softer still,
Until I cannot be sure of whether
Or not
I am really here at all.

Honey,
Bloodwood sap,
And sweet orange marmalade flow
From the cracks, ooze
From the lips with murmurs,
And mingle with the air,
Coloring the low glow in such a way
That as I lay my eyes upon myself,
I do not see my flesh,
My hands
My feet.

Rather,
There upon my lap lies a form
Sculpted from the dead weight
Of terracotta clay,
Pushed, pulled, molded, pressed
Extruded through a die
By some unseen, unnatural force,
And set inelegantly on display.

In this moment,
I try to claim it as my own--
To move it in some way that feels natural, real
Or complete.
And yet,
To strain against this heaviness--
To splutter and wheeze
As the murmuring tide of warmth rolls in
Is to be swept up and drowned
In the undercurrent
Of my own mind.

Thus, I will float, just so,
And the walls,
With their dribbling mouths
Will seep sticky-sweet whispers
Into my hair.

Take hold the loose and bubbling tongue.
Unfetter the ridgid, crumbling flesh
Shoved
Into the snail's shell.
Shake off the jumping fly
On the edge
Of crust and dribbling sweet.
Let the languid breath
Float free.

He floats there near the bottom,
Dragged and anchored like a ship
To seabed by rusted fetters,
Down where ***** shuffle a slow
Ribbon dance, twirling black seaweeds
And long grasses,
Where they snap out a rhythm
In solemn beatnik fashion to mournful
Whale songs like low saxophone moans,
And where the disapproving clucks
Of dolphins’ tongues echo
In quiet communal protest.

His body floats bloated in brine,
Cheeks puffed like wet bread,
Skin grey and shadowed blueblack,
His face slack,
Broad chest beaconed out of dark waters
By dim pleated streams
Of ocean light.

my thoughts crumble to bits
under the pressure of my skull,
under the weight of my consciousness.

they collapse to dust, to subatomic
fundamentals
that cannot be broken down
to anything less.

this dust—these dark particles spin
in vast empty space between my ears,
colliding with each other, fusing
into angst and despair.

I am dutiful, a docile child.
Mother tucks me in, again and again.
She need not keep me under lock and key,
So long as she knows that all is well.

I swallow my eternity,
Once in the morning,
Twice at night.
It is a bitter thing that drains
Ebullient, frightening laughter from the maw
And eats at all solemnity.
I am pleasant on the mind and secure,
A safe with nothing to hold.

Inside, the oven is out.
There is a storm turning,
Two cities over. Nothing to fear.
Someone has closed the shutters,
Venetian blinds blinking.
The tenants are sleeping, the house is cold.

the word spreads itself
across my tongue, thick
and stiff as carcass flesh,
bones locked, ligaments
taut, as though tensed
for the crushing tide of oblivion—
the weight of nothingness
instead of water.

my tongue is dense as earth,
cold and steeley
as a silver autopsy table,
and the word lies supine,
exposed upon my lips.

Tiptoe so as not to wake the dead
Who slumber underfoot,
Their empty heads
Resting on mossy pillows of stone;

All their gelid dreams sour with time,
Beneath linen of soil and grass,
Under pounding paces of passersby.

At night, hear them snore and brood,
Chattering, gnashing bare bone gums;
At dawn, they roar and call and hoo,
They whistle through a naked cheek,
**** long-forgotten tunes
Through combs of dry and brittle teeth.

It is not the taste you are after--

The caustic, lingering bitterness, no.

It is the change.

The small but definite step from haggard man

To bright and solemn sage.

You put the crystal to your lips

And drink eagerly, each breath that fogs the glass

An imperceptible whisper of your grievances.

that august,
when you left,
it felt as though you took
every source of earthly air.
and all i could do
was sputter and gasp
and choke on my despair.
and too **** often
i still find myself mourning your absence in pantomime,
whispering out midnight cries
so no one else can hear how much i miss you.

I sit squat in the hollows
Of this massive skull.
It is where my weight resides—
Just inside the great cathedral arches
Of the brow bone.
I can look only outward at the world

From these odd windows and lay mute.
Under my door,
A draft sneaks in from a passageway,
And I wonder what now lies beyond.
I can only imagine, for there are bits of me—
Parts of my own psyche that are terribly,

Painfully inaccessible—dusty corridors left
Long untrodden to savage, rotten things
And hidden gems
Locked in safes in rooms
Closed off behind shut doors,
And here I sit,

Separate from it all—
The bad and the good,
—in this cold, dank and empty
Space lined by stone-bone walls, door fastened
From without.
Now some fiend has come

And locked me in,
Locked it from the other side.
I cannot escape. If only I had let the anguish storm through—
Felt it ripping raw against my skin—if only I had not
Stowed it away in some remote
Recess in the far reaches of my mind

To fester and to grow. If only I could now live
Without this severance from myself.
If only, if only...

I have fashioned out my worry doll of you,
your hair and eyes richer, sweeter
than the darkest honey.
Now you are borne from my own hand,
you cannot leave me.

I’ve sewn in a heart to keep you warm,—
amber eyes to charm me—
moulded lips from red Edam wax
and pressed them into your cloth cheek.
They do not stay. At night,
my teardrops stain your linen dress
a briny, bitter shade.
The lines I've painted on you bleed and run.

I love you, all the same.