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.

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

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.

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.

How alone I feel without you
How quickly Id concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wear me
Like a shoal
Crush my trachea  
With your feet
Oh the people you’ll meet

How alone I feel without you
How quickly I’d concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wring me
Out
I’m your song bird
Dead in defeat
Oh the people you’ll meet

Love lost and love lept from balconies
And steps between stoop and pavement and before the floor the thought of becoming better. If only I could dissemble each twine of thought balled in knots to
The next which led to me the spring forth and become the grass,
soil ground from bones and the wood once engrained with beautiful carvings of deer upon a mountside reaching low for morsels
Balconies break but baked what to reach for, what handrail can come so cruel as to pry each finger?

I leave myself and my body with it, I giggle as friends joke about getting high off whippets, I’ve singled out the thoughts which creep. No longer notions of flagellation, each word a bare reminder of fragility to this foundation
of mindfulness.

Do you ever get nervous.
And you say the wrong thing  

No I want it to be spring.
I want to feel love bring me a bit closer.
Pilfer through the past,
run with a purpose
but I know one thing is for certain it matters not the days or the weeks and how things worsen

I see the clouds
and how they’ll part and how I’m
a person
the versions who make them selves appear is weird
but I know the end of suffering is near

it’s the crowded rooms in the train stations waiting to board, lazily the coach opens and you hop aboard.
The rewards of watching birds flock Inside as the atrium between you
and the outside is wide.
When I remember the past I break
through the worst.
Wishing for the feeling
of love without hurt.
In pairs they’d fly though the building, following the train as it moves to the open, to the green grass fields I wield this ability to see the congruency of each step in my life.

Sewage eminates from the grate
The door is crooked, and doesn’t fit the frame
The nights await for those left awake
The days bleed by
Scrape the gum off concrete
The heat has dried the lake and the fish flop
and eyes are left wide and scales flake
What’s it truly like not to breathe?

A drawing of the moon and sun is hung from above my bed and every morning I wake and realize the mistakes,

(of how your) name rung like a bell through my body


how silly

Break the
Love in Purity who’s to be discouraged from ***






I know not what’s next I need my mind out of this hex I wish she loved be back again but a million miles away from the moon and I am the sun
My Sol is lost,

And this is where I ask myself why I’m so aloof. Who am I. What is myself. How grounded am I to the affects my body will experience from the actions I take.

I’ve spent a long while meandering. Running even. I’m confused. About everything. I’ve unraveled unto where each segment of spirit and personhood is delicately dissected and laid forth for observation.

What part is in defiance

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.

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

His head grew, bulging his hat and ripping the brims. His temples expanded, more and more and the weight of his craniam increased too. Soon his huge head was too much for his neck, and it was propped up upon a stick for a time, dug into the dirt leaning from over the edge of his porch where he’d sit on his chair and wave at passerby's who almost mostly never waved back and his eyes were locked to the dirt path onward through thickets of pale green brush.

O surpassing knowledge.
Dead elephant
Tusk towards the heaven
The brain. The plan.

Savior in the sinking swamp
Who’s warm rolling probiscus clutches
as the mud clings to the infant wading and a helicopter successfully hovers
a thousand yards above as grandmothers attempt to drag kin

Are we all but to perceived and regurgitate and transcribe

Let us mallieate and mold and arise from the ground paper mache houses spat
from compressed lumber
Gargled from the imitation of beauty
And live once
More in the simple lean against the tree

I’m to **** on my brothers couch
after passing out, what sort of loser at forty years old does that? I’ll say,
I come from a good family I’ll say.
This is my last bottle I’ll say
before it’s bought,
before it’s even 11 pm,
before I come up with an excuse of the death of my cousin months ago.

I’m to crush and indent my temple
upon the grey wash of the concrete at the bus stop,
in the dead of night, where no one will be to pick me up,
I’m to convulse from the subdermal hematoma,
I’m to lay out on the stretcher with my head above my heart to allow it to pool away from the cranium.
I’m to meet someone who says they loves me and doesn’t want me all the same,
I’m going to cry against them,
I’m to just hope they eat there words,

when someone said they’d be there for me,
when someone said I was worth their time,
When someone said I could trust them,
when someone waited for me so we could walk together.

Open up the kitchen cabinets
So that every silverware warms by the window
And have them all ajar
To be sidestepped
Ducked around
And everyone can see the film
Of dust around my spinning plates

And the particulates percolate in washing circles against rectangled yellow beams
Shooting heat on the concrete and tiles
And everyone can see my ***** airs
My ***** kitchen
Why am I to shut them

Let them bake
Coagulate and rot
And we can masticate
Our loved

About a daily routine, when one wakes up,
a light flickers
and we know so quickly what hasnt been done yet.

The sanded sheets, feckled
Life like theatre.
what appointment is
made in our head where we all fall.

The calling crows on branches past,
the low lags
The crack in the shell of the crab,
o woe
the morsels white and shredded fall forth,
im just questioning,
and wondering what or where I need to be
in future time,
o woe
I think that right now some things just seem silly,
I feel that some things just
seem redundant  
O woe
I’m to be alone for how long
This is the song of death,
the weary sagging eyes have bled
I’ve dripped from the sinew Slow dredges of cough
O woe
The bird in flight, who’s grip on on the reddened stick and bouncing brush waving hands of shining leaves like flickering lamp

I’ve had nothing but beer to drink
I’ve had nothing but smoke to sip
As it barrels from my mouth

Dec 30th
What soft light bounces between the wooden shudders, These slats in rows.

Let’s grow ugly and fat together
and let the lines of a couch or bed depress into our form of repeated placement as we wear small spectacles and squint anyway as one reads and the other sleeps despite the yellow wash over white linens and deep shadows.

These slats in Rows. Clouded white light
peering around the vestibule.

Nobody walks on their heels with their
head crook to the neck and their eyes
behind. Nobody walks backwards.

I’m not here much longer I don’t think I can take it. Living in uncertainty without an element of death or danger, only monetary insecurity, is the worst stressor which far surpasses the former of having to watch ones back, of having to look forward and plan, of tenting or warming oneself by flame.
This living is death.
I’m to smile today, and it’s not by choice but elation
but laying in the hollows of the wooden floor built up on stilts where every step echos as you slide with socks backwards for just a moment, this conclusion of thought itself in the soft paws and feet treading, where in echos of the depth of the warm pipes and soft dirt and dead lost pets  and cabinets of sticky noted named bottles of soap of people long since visited and mounds of photos resounds family.

When will I come to be the beast to feast upon the nest
The one to harrow fear to those at rest
The baby bird falls from the tree
It’s spreads its wings to bounce from red branches of the canopy

My brain is festered with worms
Tombstone in the white wash
I’ve lost my leash
I’ll never catch another at haggradies
I was beaten on the beach
Sand and snot I cried and walked miles back to my mother

Reject

A mocking jay called on a leaved branch by My window where the porch light shone
How it’s voice quivered for a mate till one late evening I awaited its song and it never returned or whistled it’s disjointed tune.
and I never heard it again.
An owl ate and regurgitated over the white Chevrolet truck.
Dead rats in circular spitted tufts

I understand. He said, chained to the wall. The guard Edmond twirled the key in his finger back and forth again and again and it tickeled as it hit against the wall but the impact did nothing to slow the encircling motion of the key and Edmond laughed.
You understand what. That your trapped
And spiders dropped from his eyelid. Popping out, peeling with legs from him, and his body erupted in bugs.
You understand nothing
He gazed as the wall dripped wet

Where are we going he asked the small crowd of about twelve as they stepped slowly dodging clumps of mud in the deeply soaked dirt behind the wooden carriage. It bounced about, throwing itself with every step of the hoove, as the four muscular four legged beasts whipped their tails and trodder ahead, pulling the heavy mass of the stuffed wooden object behind them.
You’ll know soon enough
With enough time
Do not worry,
Enjoy the ride
Dandelions all about if you look closely
Too much mud in my boot
**** all
There goes the sun with every step
Boy
Asking questions
This this this
The troop marched through the greenery, and it browned upturned in its wet state, wetttened by the storms, the grass emulsified

                          '''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''­'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

The waters cold grey groan
Winter spent clutching sand slipping through my knuckles

I gasp Firmament  
In the shoots of green  and yellow tufts dispersed by feathers discarded by birds
Waxed paper discarded by men
White Plastic coffee creamer cups discarded by men
Yellowing earl grey tea bags
discarded by men
Burnt crisped flattened cigarette butts

But the waters wash. Whiter water billowing. Violent diaspora* of white and blues and sweet smelling sand circulating in the circular motion of falling wash.

There is something deeply peaceful about cleaning. The action of putting order to those in which have none if they’re to lie where they lay

Eat the dinner and clean it up
Turn on the light and turn it off
Recycle the plastic, buy more
Sleep awake again
When will we feel finite