By the discarded pile, a visible crease of a newspaper shows the grown perceived image of a lost child missing since 2013. Corrugated marks with a small scissor between the lines surround the advert space, as if I was to cut out the description, and put it in a wallet with my other gathered markings of missing people. Perhaps they’d expect me to lift the paper up with one eye, and compare the supposed 25 year old boy with the other souls, shuffling across the metro with their heads down and turned, leaning on the benches sleeping,  and carrying slings and canes and neck braces. What would I do if I was ever to find him? “Michael. Come home. Your mother worries about you so much.”
Certainly I couldn’t pin him. How to find someone who is certainly lost, and may not want to be found. Or long dead, there face strewn in sticks in a bush somewhere, a quiet overdose, or a night to cold, a placid end for an unfortunate, all to long suffering individual. What happens to those who disappear. Their names are whispered, until there grows a time in which no one remembers. I’d like to keep it together, his memory, as my pressing finger traces his face, and I imagine his mind racing out there. I’ll remember the lost, I’ll try, I say to myself as I tear his face from the page and into my pocket. A grandiose and otherwise futile gesture. I’ll keep them all, sure.

The destitute encumberance of a recluse, the constant excuse
The solace in solidarity
it’s denial
Of the salience of co-experience

Two birds hanging on a wire

or just
Become the Mannequin
posing perfectly,
posture so sure,
the contour of her face
is smooth as she has no pores.
Plastic existence is feasible.

I cannot continue
to verbally berate myself
I’m pleading
prosperity please

at least
the plastic Mannequin
Who’s eyes seem vacant
She lives adjacent
Not quite there
But The unthinking body
needs not worry
about the future
and how
abrasive this all is

Willows shading
and lily pads pointing.
posing flowers.
Sunlit hues of blues
and sharp burlesque red bulbous scorpion tails,
in a cabaret bouncing between
the shallow pools edges.
Sliding where crickets hum aboard,
performing. A dive for frogs,
and under it all the mud
could be kicked,

Fish would frenzy,
Dancing in the dark boite.

The rain dribbled Down the window pane and pooled on the sill. In his hands beads of pills and from his back cocked the elbows of wings. They quivered from inside the seams of his shirt and he palmed his hand upon the window and it cracked and water stuck between the webs. He struck himself too, afterwards, the heat from the wound upon his chest as feathers got stuck on his neck.

Sometimes I find it hard to concentrate,
But my mind can hold the image.
someone That'll commiserate
in my morning misery,

Or at least understand The hollow filling like a drum.

Maybe
when I awake,
and see you lying

that things are fine

and our hands could be entwined,
or I could slip between your breast,
and hold you by your chest.

But why be so burdensome.
perhaps I’d rather be alone
Let the morning throes dissipate with the sun.

I saw you just taking out the trash, but I didn’t want to seem like a creep, so I let things skip a beat and now I’m thinking of your smile and your face but I’m at windows distance and I figure that you want some space or you’d be hitting me up and right now so I stand between the

Crater filled lakes of ash and ****,
scoured landscapes sickened by flame.
Fire and breath of choking ash distended disarray

Lava lakes and crater making mash
the splintering soul coming through, gashing and weighing in on itself.
it knows little of the chopped trees gutted for domicile.

The fresh roots poke from soil
and I sit and think about how I can dig holes around myself and with that somehow take something away,
like a tree or a treasonous wish.
Pitfalls and kush. Smoking the herb and with wishes of last dishes

Misguided missels firing,
their exhaust coughing plumes,
and strands of future tears,
and beams of heat pierce the sky,
molding oxygen to any form fit.

Distraught I revisit the past.
The crashing pain and aftermath,
the raking claws, the jaws and teeth, seeping from the soil.
Coiled snakes flicking tounges
and young souls.
old and putrid piles of bones,
left alone to shine bright,
and tranluscent as night falls, my mind is old and misguided.

I’ll cry out in distress I’ll never find the proper time to relax
I now know I’m worth nothing
I’m suckin in air taking up gas
I’m stressed but I’ll find
That throwing refuse onto a pile
Of burning rubber. the cooling bubbles

The trying times of today.
Getting out of slumber,
waking up to stay alive,
gritting teeth I hate myself
I am the pain and suffering, and that is why the suffering exists only in myself. without a body such as my own, perhaps suffering could cease.