Tingling tentacles tease me as they wrap themselves
in me.
Underwater mermaids pour mercury down my
crustacean filled throat.
Pleased to meet you in this blue utopia.
Pleased to feel you in my sunken heart.
Rhythmic repulsions fill blue buckets with chum.

July burns suicides on burnt out tags
wrapped around
toes.
All these blank, useless colors are salesmen to me.
I can see right through them though.
Truths are useful only for those looking for them.
Here's our cut open shame for all to see.
Miracles ***** rainbows and empty out tongue
filled pots.
You can have this truth.
Please, have mine.

Chime along you baby child of mine.
Suckling out the little I have left.
Your mouth spits out leftover, green grime;
Unable to use it for the little left unsaid.
Rage through the age of remembrance,
Dance with the sass of the moon in June.
Ode to the majesty that is you!
Ode to the songs trapping all of your gloom.
The ages will remember little of you in the end.
It will end only in your death.
Little child of mine, do not cry.
It's only the fury that we call our lives.
Rushed back by the eastward winds,
It's our horses galloping, and on them, our sins.
Through the trenches and in the form of a flood,
Comes our remorse, it's face covered in blood.

Chime along you baby child of mine.
I have no more to give, for you see, I am almost dead.
Before I leave you, I give you my heart and my spine.
Here is the lesson: don't leave things unsaid.

That is the ultimate death.

My Rapture occurred on a friday night.
That's when I first reaped autumns rewards.
Dying leaves left lovely reminders,
or lessons;
Vultures cannot be trusted with love.
Forced rhythms are false to the ear and
dead to sight.
They fly over the carcass, waiting to strike the wicked.
Vultures cannot be trusted with love.

One hand gives you solace.
The other gives you sin.
Ice cold autumn winds wail a song to the blue sky,
vultures cannot be trusted with love.

You were happy today.
I could tell by the things
you didn't say.
You are now an angel with wings.

Rubber banded tongue,
trapped in your elastic mouth.
Pulling at your molars as the
dried blood rest in your mouth.
You look up and you see
Perplexing clouds shifting, one one way,
one the other.
The bees dance when they see this too.
They too know miracles when they see them.

You speak with repetitions, like an eagle
catching its prey.
One is natural though, like the beat of the heart,
the other is forced, like the vomited out "I Love You"
that are left at the graves of the dead.

Good intentions die sometimes, like flowers left at a
tombstone,
they to will end.

The gentle breeze of an imagined kiss,
ends with tears, breaking you bliss.
Imagined lovers in this time of mine,
manifest couples, unable to go through the grind,
of the greatest crime;
I have you heart, you have mine.
It's better than suicide.
It's better than life.
The love of another.
The lover of life.

It must be dropped into the Catacombs;
my love for you that is.
Lucid lights tremble as I choose to forget you,
the taste of you that is.
I wore white gloves when I touched you;
your sultry skin that is.
I traced the freckles from head to toe, on
your sultry skin that is.

Tailors knitted my love for you deep in my lungs.
When I breath now, black dye excavates my body;
those are the memories of you;
Those are the secrets of you.

It must be trapped in the Catacombs,
my love for you that is.
In between my pillows, I smile.
The Catacombs have buried my love for you.

I don't have to anymore.