We fight for death,
and we are forced into submission.
Our suicide is gently taken away from us
with quiet eyes.
A weaving, filmy speech, gently eased from glazed tongues,
And we burn with dismay.

I met a man today,
with a great triangular moustache,
and a carpet of a beard,
with a little fracture for a mouth.
Bewildered eyes and an angular posture.
His brutish stomp (thunderous among the sleepy books) was awkward
and solitary, constantly echoing his pathway.
I met a deaf man today, blissfully unaware of the
weight of his footsteps.

Lets fly to the edge of that map that hangs on my wall,
The little border,
ribbons of navy and maroon will be our vessel of freedom.
We can walk back and fourth,
Between the tightropes on my compass,
And I will wear a crown of land.
But keep in mind, that little border is about as
straight and narrow
as it gets.

I look back at the clutter of the shadow,
Still black with interruptions of window,
and great, heaving plumes of molten air.
The glass is oiled up with
the dirt of love.
And I am surprised to see myself suspended there,
In a web of smoke and grime,
Waving back at myself.

Lets dissect ourselves,
Extinguish our flame,
And eat our electricity.

I never really took note,
of how the trees reach their fingers into the clouds and ****** them.
Clawing and ripping,
causing the clouds to smear like clay across the sky,
held fast by little threads of fluff.
The trees point their fingers into holes,
and places without holes,
turning the clouds inside out;
and leaving them to bruise with the night.
The moss turns a blind eye,
and the birds weigh down the branches.
When morning yawns,
with its dewy mouth;
all the clouds have to cling to are the trees

I imagine a neck,
Split open like a flower
with many crimson petals,
A soft and foamy gurgling,
and intoxicating fumes lifting
in hot and dense clouds.
The extensions of limbs,
Slowly being emptied,
Drained until those many pipes and tube run dry
like dust.
This is our friendship,
What nourishes me, also kills me.

I see his fingers lapsing,
vibrating,
fumbling,
It sickens me, but I love it so;
His brightly capable hands,
plagued and infected with excess movement

I find bits of poetry in my bed.
Who left them there?
They smell of neroli and wax...
Are they not missed?
They are not particularly beautiful or true...
They speak of a lonliness,
the impression of my spine,
My heels lightly digging in,
Of a passion my bed once thought it knew.
They tell me how the rattling of my bedframe (like cold bones)
is only my constant readjustment,
The facing and de-facing of my world.

The images my eyes have absorbed will dilute;
only a residual stain will be left.
My senses will soften and lend themselves to my imagination;
only shrapnel of the past.
The thoughts that once impregnated my brain;
will be drowsy and dog eared.
My face will crease and fold itself into a white sheet;
Ironed with the heat of laughter and tears.
My teeth will push themselves out of their sockets in protest to beauty.
My heavy limbs, condensed with history;
Will curl into a petite cage of bones,
And become buried deep within my sheet of taupe skin.
And all the momentum of life,
Will push itself into a crescendo of;
A faint peppering of sunspots,
scars,
wiry hair.
Because there is an intense beauty in letting yourself go,
and reaching for the next page.