i've always wanted to **** a ghost
and now i suppose i've gotten my wish
but i look down and see
your insides exploding
with the wrong kind of transparency.

take me to the desert
lie me down on the burning shifting sand
dry my skin into creaking sheets
of golden leather
feed my guts to the wolves
bury my bones with the snakes under the land
where no man will ever touch them again.
stretch me out under the heat
hang my intestines
like party streamers
on the spikes of cacti

i wonder what would grow out of my flesh
if you buried me alive.

i put my fingers in my mouth
salty
honey soap tasting
i can feel the pulse in my upper lip
desperately beating

i can feel my pulse uneven
when i jab my fingers into my neck,
like a dancer slightly falling offbeat,
distracted with the smoke

or maybe that's just my imagination,
my father had arrhythmia,
so did my grandfather.

both of them abused substances
and drank irish ***
and black coffee with sugar,
both of them wrote about things
like "passion" and "sunset",
both of them had troubles with commitment,
uneven smiles
and
bad teeth.
both of them ate too much sugar,
and laughed really loudly,
both of them liked arguing
and letting stories fall from the caves of their mouth,
leading armies with their teeth
their tongue a home for dragons.

it only takes a skip of a beat,
the dancer to fall completely
for me to become
another carbon copy.

i hate being ignored
but i do it to other people,
and
sometimes i just don't want to say anything
and when i do
i guess i say too much.

i'm mean and rude
and nobody want's to talk to me
because if they say something i don't like,
then i'll tell them
right away to stop saying it.

i haven't called my mother
in a while,
and people are telling me what to do.
i want to escape
and jump into freezing water

because when i come out i will
be extremely
numb
and i'll be able to feel the sun a little better

if you
call yourself cruel,
just imagine
how horrible it would be
when i tear your
jaws out
with my
teeth

i don't even know my own father's birthdate,
and sometimes i still think about
boys who never touched me
with fingers
instead he caressed me
with dark,
star painted
tall trees.

that life is behind me
and if this one is a temporary one,
then i'm not sure which one i'm really living.
is that why reality seems so
fragile?

i lose everything.
i take naps on winding roads
above mountains
and i even lose my dreams.

sometimes in the shower i pull
violently on
my face,
seeing if i'm real enough,
assuming that it will crumble in my hands
turn into a brown puddle
and drip down the drain.

my mouth feels dry and i
feel aching
where my shoulder meets my arm
and my clavicle is nothing but a stick
covered with a
man of flesh;
my body is making love
and layered upon one another in a
fiery bed of red.

the odd thing,
is i want to smoke
and sleep
and lose some things in my memory.