So much flesh,
crushed beneath
a metal press

and like my mercurial mind,
it flows from solid wax
to running oil

The smell of
the tropics,
and ***.

I deleted your photos
from my ******* facebook
cover album today.

I went to change it and your face,
beautiful,
took me by surprise.

You left is such a hurry,
in such a dark plastic wrap gesture
that I've already started to
forget what you look like.

Inside my chest.
Inside my mind.
From all the dreams I've left behind.

Shudder the alarms,
I won't burden you with this weight
so fly
free
and come
back to
me.

I've got a ring
I don't wear it.

Even though it's on my finger,
you see,
it wears me.

I have this gold wrapped
around my finger -

For when you aren't near
For when I can't lay in your arms
For when I need to be held,
your ring holds me.

Just a drop
on your tongue.

An act of
charity.

Spun out of control,
consummated consumption wrought us together,
but now you need space

but there's no air for me to
breathe in space, where I am
left.
The well of your gravity keeps me close,
insides vacuuming out as I stare
helpless
at your blue white corona holding the one thing that would save me,

(drowning in an inch of water,
oxygen so near but impossibly far...)

if only it would pull me
back in again.

The stars comfort you,
but there are none here visible,
as my eyes shed their blood vessels
to the nothing that coldly cradles me.

I'm dying out here,
baby,
and I don't want to get
lost
in
this
space.

This morning I  smelled the sunshine,
and thought of you.

Immediately.
Suddenly.
Instantly.

And like
the storming ache within my heart,
the longing of you
left me
vacant.

If only I could cleanse you,
sponge your body away and out into clarity,
find some emptiness to replace you with
the exit you took took the taken moments
further than I'd have liked them to go.

You bled,
I bleed,
help me staunch the bleeding,

and I don't know how to deal with your loneliness.
It's the one thing
you have left behind
with me.

There's a clear stretch of land ahead
of that broken dessert landscape
shattered in atrophy and assumptions,
wrong.

The things I took for little,
weren't.

That stretch is ahead,
though our heels are leaning back on the precipice
behind.

Ahead may seem empty,
but it's not.

I'm filling it with a road lined with dates,
trees a girl draws in journals, hope and want.
And just like those tree sketches,
skulls growing into cartoons that are non-threatening,
in black and white
like your face concentrating into that mirror
on March 5th,
the road will lead to wherever
we need to go.

I've been looking up
to the stars every day

knowing

that though I can't see you
you are still here.

I'm not asking for much...just a
sliver of something to
hold onto.

I only want someone to love me
when we are old,
for the things they loved me for,
when we were young.

Warmth rises
so smoothly my fingertips
trace geoglyphs,
markings for the gods to see,
from whence you descend upon
mi vida y yo estoy Feliz,
permanence permeates
as our droplets of sweat glide
from my white flesh
onto your coffee-with-creamer
skin of mocha.

I can't see anything else, I've become blind
from staring into your eyes, like stars.

It must be nice
to be surrounded by green
to be in a safe place
to seek the therapy you need
to break away
to wrap yourself in yourself until yourself emerges again.

It must be nice
to not be left behind.

It's so much easier
letting go,

Tossing away the life we both wore
like a sleeping bad for two,
and finding your own,
made for one.

It's so much easier
than laying alone
with too much room left over,
your only new companion
the anxious embrace
of insomnia.

Just like in the movies,
I'm running to her,
just like I had dreamed.

She opens herself once again,
like the light playing through the blinds
yellow fingertips creating shadows,
I enter you.

This reunion...
happily ever after all the things
we have been through,
and I am here again in your body,
the only place I ever felt I honestly
belonged...

But this isn't the movies.
There is no reunion.
There is only a pale black noose
and my life is
on the
edge.

I see your silhouettes standing like
empty ghosts

everywhere I look around this city,
on the static sidewalks,

and like the stars etched into your shoulder blades,
I paint inside your lines
with the colours
of my heart.

When you are tired, feeling alone
please know that I am waiting for you
in our home.

When shadows run marathons to catch
and hold you down,
blocking out the bright night sky
making the stars seem so far away
you only need to come to me
rest your face in my palm

Where the starlight of your eyes
reflects in and back out of mine
and pushes back the shadows
and you no longer feel alone
in our home.

I want to hold my breath
like I thought I'd hold you - forever

I have never meant a thing
(laying in my blood...seeping)
like the title I've given you.

I used to
burn for you,
now I
burn away.

If I write it in words
here on the screen
how much remains
between what seems, and what's real?

It was a blurred mirror
on that Sunday morning,
the wall, black
stretching above there is nothing
but shattering little words
that fell
into his sleep.

I don't write for you.
I don't write for even myself.
I write for simply no reason
and so very much less.

She only has so much weakness to bleed,
so much effort to save,
so much anxiety to drain.

I've painted enough words.
You get the point,
but there is less a period.

I've often wondered if, why, when, and how much
it weighs.

It weighs exactly as much as the leaves
you wear upon your hair.

Wrapped like candy in your skull
the skin crawling off the bone,  
exposing your white lie life.

"You'll end up the same as him, you know."

His cigarette burnt the faded complications of my life.

"Yeah. I know."

When you're missing something
(like a piece),
the only way to go,
is forward,
and one day soon,
you will roll over
what you
were
missing.

Fly, little bird
find your peace
know you were loved
fighting against growing up
for years
together.

From "we love Satan"
to "Franken-Mamma"
to late night rides
and jumping medians at 2AM
facing head-on collisions
with life.

So fly, little bird
the time is now,
fly.

I purge sans binge
I ***** scars onto everyone around me.
My guilt: a summation.
Now, if I could only figure out why
I keep sticking fingers down my throat.

But how far have we come?
The miles we've traversed are benevolent ice:
we fly,
frictionless,
into each other.

Love destroys.
That is only to say,
"Love makes room."

The edges were brittle,
the chip's corners itched
down like a metal prong into a filling,
nerve.

It squealed binary hemorrhages,
subtle as a battle axe,
my pleasure,
please
put it past me,
in the present
where I can now hum
electric.

My words,
so full of love and concern
for you

have never felt
so
empty.

Weight presses
concludes everything,
decides what is nothing,
whips an errand boy to its whim.

Pressure,
withstood
at the promise
of jewels.

The first time I ever heard the term
"Manic-Depressive,"
I was seventeen.

I walked into Andy's house,
to see the oil of his father
splayed across the couch,
in a still pool of ink.

"That's my dad. He's
Manic-Depressive,
and just gets like that sometimes."

I painted that memory into the fire of my brain,
carrying with me the fever dreaming,
the terror,
the praying to never be
like Andy's dad.

Beads of water
cling to the glass edge
I glide along.

There is no greater clarity,
No greater freedom,
than a pistol barrel
in your mouth.

Chew my scabs,
peel them back
(my paper mache skin).

Let the oil
of my life
flow free,
drink me up.

Oh amber, foam-ed memories,
cast about my brain.
The evening tide pulls me away,
sooner than later, I'm afraid.

A halo
of blonde blacklight
Skin, stretching
A canvas
Luminous
The shadows
are wet

He was so far down, looking up the light was nothing.

"How dramatic of me," he thought "they can't wait, can they?"

Maybe if he just broke the rules a bit farther he could be
jonesing for that hit of pure white
Beachy Head again,
and everything would be gone.

The lumination was just that: fake.
He was just that: break.

"The only way out, is through," said Frost.
"If you're going through Hell, keep going, " said Winston.

"Well I'm not in Hell, Winston, and I can't move through it, Robert."

And so he scraped the ***** root-veined wall with his cheek,
rolled eyeballs down,
and started moving his toes into the earth below.

So long ago, useless digging down.
Will I find you here?
How much more could there be?
Here, I have to pull myself apart:
the only way I can come together.

If there is no kingdom
you still are my Queen.

If there is no world
you still are my Ground.

If there is no universe
you still are my Sun.

If there is no life
you still are my Breath.

I'm leaping in waves,
rolling like dice.
Give me the victory,
she reads just a slice.

did you ever fall
into the deep end?
he looked as though to fall
but in the end, he dove.

You're bubbling up, aren't you?
Like the flesh,
I am scattering you to the wind.

Pretty potent,
Portent of Doom,
lift up your eyes -
blind by the Moon.

I've collected Fathers like trading cards.
My first is the very common, "Abandonment Dad."
I've also got the "Distant Stranger and Sometimes Estranged Dad."
Then, I've got doubles of "Dead Dad."
If you have the rare "Decent Dad,"
I'd gladly trade a double.

Quiet...
   .. .
      . . .
         . . . there are feathers here.

The blue you use to wear me clean,
knows nothing of the day-stains
I wear.

They do not care.

I am purified by your blue,
deep, a shade beyond the glow of nostalgia.

Come to me again, in this copper fever dream,
rest your temple before me,
that I may make an offering unto you,
oh Queen.

I could only count so high.
That was my regret.
It's a secret I'll always tell.
So accept me, my sweet meats and myrhh,
toma mis lágrimas, y arreglame.

And baby,
you are my perfect world.