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The body
I want
exists
through the veil of blood that spiderwebs above my eyelids.

The soul
I so desire
screams out like nails on a chalkboard, across my vanes-
and alone, underneath the cupboard drawer.

The human
I loved
hides underneath my larynx
and rests so heavily upon my soul.

It is the monster under my bed
but, I am no longer five so-
I assume night lights are out of the question.
A callous darkness hides in the
Haze of your burnished body
You run your icy fingers through
My gossamer hair and a hazel fuzziness
Leaks through your chocolate eyes.
I mutter silent requests of mercy
As your intrepid skin steals into the
Fragility of my crystal soul, reducing it
To splattered relics of harrowing passion.
Your lust burns like spilled neglect
And tastes like rotten coffee;
With every painful sip that strikes
My lips, it sings  like a sonnet of love
And with every tepid sip that incinerates
My throat, it burns like a gentle eulogy.
You’re the parchment, stealing the
Expressions of my artless love, and
the obsidian ink tattooing my fragile heart
With gestures of an intricately
Woven melody of a foreseen loss.
A foreverness,
a looking glass that looks into endlessness
full of emptiness,
unhappiness
and a corner, chipped, that spreads the
image resigned to
hopelessness.

I have an empathy with these things that
look but do not see, these minutes fixed to
an eternity,
if I am free, If I unwind,
if I ever find the unknown or
am shown the question,
the answer will follow.
i am too sweetly suffocating,
because a girl across the way
has made herself too pretty to be ignored.
an open mouth is an ocean to swim in,
but i cannot keep myself afloat against
the impending crash of wordless waves;
frail confessions staining nervous teeth,
neither she nor i will say it,
but we both know.

i share with her a hello in the morning,
not far from my mind when once i shared
the touch of spine with a car seat’s leather,
a hot hot heat bleeding into my body from hers.
it’s not lust, and it’s not love,
it’s just one day of swallowing each other whole.
i take her breath in, belly pulling into me
when her fingers find my flesh.
i am trying to make myself small
so she can engulf me.
there’s stars caught between her teeth,
and when her mouth matches mine,
they spark.
my tongue burns with the supernova taste
she leaves when she pulls away.

and it’s not love,
but i still today cannot resist the want
to be the only name that bleeds out her lips
when someone’s touch drags her back from the dead.

“madness is what i have instead of heaven.”
she is both of these things
late at night —
stars crack and crumble on the memory of her tongue,
and i can’t breathe anything but her oxygen.
if i could
just one more time
have her slide into my bones,
gladly would i let my skin unfurl into ribbons.

i’d let her torture me into submission,
her eyes half-lidded, shut
with the mold of lust,
and her tongue absorbed with my taste,
hands capturing my freckles between her fingers.
maybe her legs will quake under the weight of my promise,
thighs flushed as pink as my cheeks
as the white-hot pierce of passion
overwhelms.
i grossly still so want
the tremble of my name spilling on her mouth —
a prayer i can answer without words.

and it’s not love,
but i almost wish it was.
love is
it is;
it's
to wish you
well-off
not to dissolve

while melting
and honey,
I'm melting

why can't I
can't I
can't
I can't
catch this
catch my
gasp, ******
this breath

why can't I have it ?
I've had it
with
astronaut emotion
head in outer space
what goes up
must come down

but I've been

d
o
w
n

drowned & coming up for air
at the last second to explode
the need to inhale
something
you or air

I c a n n o t decide which feels better
Museums as art
Art as museums
Sail the trail to my mausoleum
Psychopaths and physicists
Psychiatrists and philosophers
Philanthropists and pilots and painters


Declare now, that these are our days –
Our hours, and our days
These are our city, our hours
Our time, our days.


This is our world –
At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it
And searched it and found it wanting
Of civilization that I could so easily supply
By means of wounds and iron
And brawn and truth
(and just a tiny touch of influenza darling)
By means of our Lord,
Who grants us all that we desire
If only we **** enough of those he did not choose.
This is our world –
And we shall make it what we will
Make it in our own image
Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong
Raise it to hate no one
But to love itself so deeply
That all other love seems hateful in comparison.
This is our child, love
Yours and mine.


Here the first shall be last
And the last shall be first
But once the first are last they shall be
Last
Last
      Last
And once the last are first
They shall make it so they can never be last again
This is our primitive accumulation
Of necessary materialism
Let’s cultivate matter
To make objects that we can place on shelves
And in cases –
These are our cases
And we love them as we love ourselves


Museums as mass graves
Mass graves as museums
Kiss me in my mausoleum
Priests and prisoners
Prostitutes and prophets
Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans


This is our time –
And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments
Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons
Buying ample earplugs
To seal in the silence
So we can somewhat say
“look there is peace –
Look we have done it
In our time it is accomplished” – 


This is our peace –
And we know it by the signs
The lions and lambs lay quietly together
In our brass-barred zoos
For as long as shelves and cases
Are intact and the first are first
And the last are last
And the civilized are organized and holy
There is peace –
Oh, look
We made peace!

And as for Solomon and Socrates –
We take their words to weave through our new wisdom
And when we re-chart the constellations
We shall give them each a star
And salute them once a year
When they come around the universe
Oh, look
How wise we are!

Mass graves as art
Art as mass graves
There have been no better days
There has been no greater time
Politicians and pornographers
Professors and pirates
Psychologists and pastors and pianists


This is our time –
And we are doing with it the very best we know how
The last are toiling and trying
And the first are trying to think to try –
But there is a shortness in our hours
And a violence in our peace
There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom
And disease in our cities
And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases.

This is our world –
We crafted it and declared our truth to be true
We sculpted this, our colosseum
Please inscribe my mausoleum
With “we know not what we do”
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