She loves the beat,
bass so heavy
it hurts.

She loves the heat,
ecstasy,
short skirt.

In the middle
of these times,
I'm square.

I'd like to be
with New York City,
if she'd ever take
a bore like me.
But
in the middle
of her times,

I'm square.

I'd like
to hear her
digitally
repeating,

with her
lips pressed
against my ear,
soft whispers,
heavy breathing,

*they can't stop me.
No,
they can't stop me
from dreaming.

When the fire burns out
there will be nothing but
a foggy forgiveness.

From me
to you.

Till then,
watch your back.

When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.

He got his strength up flush and in full glitter.
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun's centre.

He laughed himself to the centre of himself

And attacked.

At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.

But the sun brightened—
It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.

He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.

"Up there," he managed,
"Where white is black and black is white, I won."

However much
it may pain me to confess:
I appreciate you
much much much much more
than I like you;
even so,
you oughtta be grateful
for even so much
consideration.

If our Paths ne'er crossed again,
it would be an eternity too soon.

If only this car could travel
As fast as my racing thoughts

Don't eat those pomegranate seeds
Don't gloss those beautiful lips
With the sticky liquid of death
Heaven seems so far away
When you're stuck in hell
And the devil has an incessant need
To deform all things beautiful
And to separate you
From everyone you love
And the ashy snow will fall
Until you're with me again
Because all I have is memories
Of you dancing in the spring blooms
But now you're laying among asphodel
And I know it's hard to see the other side
Because depression has a relentless need
To touch all things pure
But I know
Spring will come again

a widow
with three hands
has ten
doomed
acquaintances.

god’s tacklebox is too light
to carry.

think of it as your ascent into feminine indifference.

think of your son as the incurable
made
thing

on the factory floor
of my son’s
use.

a male mime
bites into
a bar of soap…

***
is a bruise
in a blizzard