what
drift
along
the
axis of
the
sea sky
currents
bring
us
haunted clouds

that’s the great thing about modern celebrity culture,
you’ll never be as famous as a door, or a tree
in the populist usage of words,
you're antagonising common usage,
you can try as hard as you can
but that monkey face
will neither
show a smile or a sign of anxiety,
you will still not be more luxurious
no more “popular” when oak summoned autumn
and oak leaf fallen a *****’s buttocks in paris tamed.
i mean some nouns will remain in the everyday
use, but some nouns will be fake for a bit
before fading away to endear the river once more
with thought;
but like me, the tree will remain a tree,
a stone a stone,
and the un-lived but loved and the un-loved but lived
will be the secure remnant of grammar
that didn't pay its taxes;
so george washington iii lost his head and asked
if there was vietnam.
believe me, i said the word harpoon more than a politician’s surname,
and it made sense to animate universals and inanimate particulars
to claim at least a revelled in assortment of the least.

they say write, say write, write
all i hear is 70's french music and static.
all i think of is you,
      last night i took shots until i couldn't hold a steady glass,
      remember thinking this is it, this has got to be it.
      this is how you forget.
contemplating calling you- dreaming that i did
      on, on and on
my english teacher said to write for poignancy,
i wrote on a coked out father,
sometimes i dream i see him at a grocery store, a church
he's all screams, i'm all "you have the wrong person, sir."
i've forgotten how to write,
maybe i'll call you in a year or so, maybe i'll forget

Thorefin,
Therifen,
Theraphin,
Raven Angel.
I do not expect
you to undestand.

I am he.
He is me.
She are we.
We are thee,
And there are more.
I do not think
This is something
Ordinary men conceive.

All the paintings of darkness
Are not to impress upon the critics
The level of my shallow depth,
Nor are my phrasings for the sake of vanity.

It is the darkness that gives lessons to the light, of things that I am not afraid to learn.

Like a papillon in a  season of change,
I am transformed into a dark lamp,
For I  have stood in many shadows.

I have soaked up the knowledge.

In my shadow,
Illumination awaits.

Is it love or is it lies?
Perhaps both, or neither,
Inflamed by need,
Quenched by self,
Swollen with desire.
Imagination fans the fire
Until the floorboards creak outside my door
- Then I brink for her no more.