I.
My pillow smells like another deity.

In the morning, I breathe out
from only one form,
daylight to dictate who is allowed to wake,
from within me.

And during that time,
I am one deity;
I am one deity;
I am one deity.

But when night falls
and lullabies are accepted into a place
with four walls and barely a door,
I am seeded into a different
plane of reality.

Hitting my pillow,
falling into its soft embrace,
its plastic scent is dizzying-
because it is not mine.

This way,
vertigo can easily write itself over
my heightened senses.

II.
In this realm,
I exist not as myself,
or just one deity that
wishes to be
skinny-dipping into daylight
without anxiety.

Instead,
I am everything I ever wanted to be-
either something that is
close to this "true persona" i speak of
or something of a far away fantasy.

In this realm,
this void that is a blockage
from a world of judgemental skin,
I have one hand-
the key to the judgements
of the ministrations of the night.

III.
You see,
in this realm,
there are two things your hands can do
in a rather lengthy moment of warm privacy.

You can either use both yellow hands
(frigid, lacking of blood circulation),
to embrace
(without loving, without care)
to snake around your neck or
you can snake one hand
between two pillars that,
in daylight,
bring them from one place
to another.

IV.
While,
far far away,
in a wonderland,
you (or perhaps me?) wish
to be a part of one day-

a boy you've seen in short,
sizzling hallways to arousal
and moments of desire
ー He sings.

V.
He sings for you in unknown pity,
in the fact that he barely knows you,
in the fact that you,
despite never being able to touch
such majestic and soft paleness
of another-

to touch what can be touched,
yet you yourself cannot-

He sings for you until your fingers move slowly
far, far away from hell
yet closer and closer to a little
bit of death.

That is how it is;
your pillow that smells of another deity
that isn't in accordance to the "you"
painted by social sunlight-

That is how it is;
a duplication of you that is somewhat you
and the small waist you felt
your fingers touch-

afraid you'd break their
small innocent body
is gone.

It's morning now,
and fantasies are better
when kissed by blankets
and shown with purple skin
and a clock
that depicts midnight.

VI.
Before you do,
morning comes first
and it is time-

to burn yet another
undecipherable duplication
of yourself-

or whatever left of who you
used to be.

- eozyoh. 14.12.2017. 16:37.

it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.

this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.

and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.