the world is made from screens
our boredom is our only defeat
as waves infect us microwave Waves make us sicker.
fat and bloated
those were the days in which I would remain fixated on the box
and my socks would stay on my feet because there’s just no time when there’s screens.
hours become the moments of our lives
when we are mesmerized by the horror with our own eyes
but this disguise is the screens terror to topple us,
into a slow and pitiful demise.
terrors of fuzz-glow and makes us believe that we are infinite.
yet lights only tell us what we think we believe
corporation stains our hearts
till we accept the rush of anger or deceit.
but please, my feet have remained so warm
and the fuzzy knowledge makes my mind swarm
with images of faraway
Inside the box, I will wait
until the day these images crack and decay

i think of you
and come undone
to a private world
where your kiss is the sun

Don't be afraid to walk through fire
Let it burn your clothes
Let it lick your skin
Let it show you the pain within
Don't be afraid to walk through fire
There is an aching in your bones
A burning heart
A burning desire
To bring yourself to home

Through partings of dismay
I lead myself to stable
A feeding of my prey
Big-eyed and unable

I trudge a swallow track
To a barren fixture
My mind itself attacks
Its own beleaguered mixture

Night I spend in transit
On familiar paths of woe
And memory demands it
That I shall never grow

Repeatedly I’m tarnished
To a blank and endless room
And my skin is taught and varnished
By the silent aching moon

Sometimes, the sad stuff nestles
And offers a familiar strangle hold
But you offer me a stranger’s hold
And like a snow globe unsettled
The sad stuff scatters
Blood vessels open wide and wild and bold
And we go deeply upside down

All the particulates of our particulars
Dance around in carnal discussions
Of morality and philosophy and borders
Spoken in petite four letter words

palms spread
glittering sweat
a thousand powers pass
over flesh.
close on air that bares
memories
quashed by life lines.
cross gestures of hedonistic roots,
that bear no resemblance
to us.
egos flare and quell
reveal a moment
that weeps for itself
between
bare walls and
fantasies splashed.
imagine a cure
to the sickness we face
and tick on in it's place to
solve the wetness
the wetness of my grooves