Ah, a warm cup. Take it.
Winter's obscene coziness has brought
companions as flushed and running as the boats
where the cousins of my friend make their home
for a duration of heartfelt strokes, as the water
swoons to the prow's authorship.

The smallest changes are brought over a sip.
Late night sabotage, academic arson because
of a lack of faith, geyser-treachery- with warmth
is forgotten the level-chested month of waste,
with warmth is forgotten the limitations of pulse,
with warmth is forgotten the cold lack of touch,
warmth being gainful exploration, tight-coiled breath
like the rower and their treatment of the lake,
paddling away dead afterthoughts that float
like the fallen, broken and ****** biscuit in Hades.

This mind is *****. Squalid.
I will begrudge it no more. I will swallow it whole,
I will follow it's role and dole out a more subtle close;
panelling the house, my cloth, I will bite into the pocket
wet from being searched for a stub or a roll
of cash forgotten to be spent and crumpled in a ball-
certainly withdrawn, a familiar accident of being thrown up
by the morning into the next day, into the next day, overall
a complete moronic dire wolf, a wire coil that slips between
shoes and causes a fall, like an omelet on a pan
(but I've run out of salt, chili, onions); waste of direction,
waste of selection, an eviction that tragedizes the *******
of a cause. No better to detonate- and let suffer the dogs-
or digest- and let suffer the bogs- but the only course left
is to study or perform,
unequivocally; supposed a dynamite tick-tock in the soul
is there's any worth left in it to mould into something
that can find a format for itself or a voice without a drawl,
a voice unlike mine, which can halt without a pause,
which can exalt without a cross,
which can vault without a loss.

For all love is born out of a dark, out of a letter,
the persecution that spreads amidst the drained holes of choice-
out of a weary separation of head thrown back, neck craned against wood,
the true likeness of stone. The dark is an imperial gaze,
dandy, strapping and strong, munching metal-noise, truly noice,
obviously strung for a price. Dark can’t level, only analyze
the distinction between tears and tropes, the limit of a gimmick
that was clipped on a string, drenched and adolescent.
Dark is not the choice of photography but who has his mad eyes raised
to the fortune of automatism, to the terrace where blank steps hurtle ahead
to reach for a dusk that can be raged; over time,
strange accounts are opened. Office becomes a blade,
a staple with the scent of a lover trades itself for impression
(Love against the wall, tacked with thumb, pressure against the edge,
merciful arrogance, cocky cocky boy with whom I color my tongue
and my body, by clutching your neck closer and becoming the toucan,
in our dark and our ether, in our mouths and our births).
Soda gulped down the throat has its own morbid thought,
but not for long, not until the straw builds our house,
with a ceiling made of arms.
Rather, the risk has been framed, the blinds through which
horns intrude for duty summons remain winced as an eye with
dark circles, dark bringing for itself the juice of intent-
intent that splurges into love, intent that splurges,
far-reaching, intent that snuggles inside a blanket speckled
with strewn cloth, inside being the warmth, the heart, the shuteye

let's not be doomed by the settlement of what we want
instead of discovering what we do now.

Light chickens out, light resists and
short-circuits accidentally. Light can,
supposing the time was passed
and the roast was forked,
it can draw us into a scratch.
Light proffers a skip, two skip
three skips away, leaves to question
those asking after the color.

Light bleeds out from a finger in the eye,
a nail in the corner of horrid sketches
that etch a late offshoot, a straight mongoose
chasing kraits for alimony.

Slurping love and licking our hands
sogged with a cream to soften the skin,
slippery enough to jinx action by type-speed,
bleached with complacency; such is the pitch.
and the turnless, sweaty scream.

But the power outages in Heaven,
or the concentrated sulphuric rage of a dog
that's denied it's pom-pom meal,
or the grit showed by a crown that faced a big blue bug,
or the achievements of the fallen cookie;
there must be room for the rusted prostitution
of God's vestigial hobbies,
for the matte personality trying to find a way
to not be a pococurante,
for the truth value of a fiscal year to be decided
over a game of arm-hair ripping,
for the civil gauze to allow its memory clot
to mature into a functioning worker;
not done with the perjuring aphid,
the bundled and slouching rose,
the anaphoric destitution of history,
the tiger's salivating mouth;
don't even bring up Count Chocula,
the tide of blinding, burning magnesium
that suits the ******,
the twine chairs and the feet rested on their heads
as they wait;
what's mizzling here, I haven't got protection!
Bad, bad son, running to the dust,
to the accounting that's hurt,
mesmerized by the cult of burnt meat,
holding up.

Truth lies like a truncated branch
blocking the door of a junkyard mouse's flat.
That is a very jarring notion indeed.

Hesitant to staying truth, hesitant to lodge;
the informed call on past gaze and past phase
for their feeding, the new individual
perfecting a new utility belt.

The new individual may be simple and torn.
Torn, because what is considered simple
could be pooled in the gap between the wedges
at the bottom of the Milo milkshake tetrapack
which the straw cannot find no matter how meticulously you jiggle it,
despite its stark authority, and you're undecided on  
whether you should throw the packet away.
Simple, because your motor function,
simply put, needs to be less awkward.

Does not make my cluelessness at functioning any less true.
I was struck immobile because I almost got run over by a mouse
(or a rat, I have not googled their difference),
but I admire the schoolishness of that terror,
its being real.