What is that thing
that looks better
than it looks

like it gets better
than this?

True: it's a never-
lasting thing,
like a countdown

Pillow under the head,
body laid in a bed,

black splotched red

behind the eyes, and
a breath somehow
wakens the rest

I feel
I learned
to speak

by reading.

I don't remember
the joy of shouting
with accuracy

some signified
entity aloud,

but I recall the sensation
of annoyance at sounding
out the toothsome shapes
at such a slow pace

compared to the force of
words creation exploding
in meaning and references

within such a
small space.

You think
you know
beauty

better than
the bee, but

Flowers turned pretty
for them-- so we say
Flowers turned pretty
for them

because of evolution and propagation

and not how the bug sees
something pretty enough

--for a human
to say its pretty
enough--

and go to it

The sky would darken
to a terrible color.

It would tear
and bare orange
wounds as hail

like stars on fire fell
from the gaping sky

Something comfy but
ill fit, come get through this stretch
of time for a while

Tired of sleeping,
eyes still closed,

mind oddly clear
—boredom does that,
searches so blindly and
fervently for a thought or

idea that it bursts into
a bright dark nothing,

sweeping wave over the
wide endless expanse of
ethereal wiring

The soul sings
of sweet succulent

freedom: not needing
much else but a sip of sun

and a
nudge of
water

here
and
there

What jealous
freshness

wants is
the tickle

of microbes
from meatstink

My father wanted
a son and got daughters

Much like how I
wanted a lover and
got you instead

Ok, I have
nothing

to write but
I'd like to
write, but

it's gotten
an unfamiliar
strange smell on
it now from sitting

out on the
counter too long

If fusion were just
a cheap trick to
make gems stronger,

then would Garnet
have even found
Sapphire and Ruby
to begin with?

Is our comfort made
from presence or
conversation and
which is stronger?

The side effect of
unconditions is that
thing expectation
dreads; some book
already read

turned its page and said:
I am made of love, boldly
with inflated lungs, but

what is love
even made of?

Have you ever
felt the jolt of a name

the same but a change
of face? Do you like how
the drug always

hugs a little tighter
when you pull in
on the tip of the spliff?

I don't like hugs, but
do you like love?

I’m more sleep than
I thought I was.

There’s nothing like a
good pinch of salt
to wake up the

taste buds from
such a bland recipe.

I throw this *****
like a tantrum

He say my name
like a mantra

Slappin clappin ***
like a hand drum

Had him so thirsty ask him
"Don't you want a fanta?"

Tobacco tar
stuck like the scars
from my tattoos:

pain elective
and
permanent

like we like the
mimetic representational
citations of Bryson Tiller
and Drake,

what hails so merrily
your unsaid name?

Slit to split slip
knotted strings
attached to every

balloon chocked up
colored chakra covered

balloons Up with Ellie's
babies and belongings in a
cloudless storage space

Unnecessary thus unused
then unreal: the fading of

love as a mother tongue
unspoken for generations
at a time dies out, eventually

the helium depletes or
something pops off

My body will scream
if it wants.

My body will do as it
will as long as I
allow it.

I will not soften
the sound of the screams
from my body
for the sake of sensitive ears

when the point
of a scream is to
be heard.

My body can scream
loudly, if it wants.

My mother tongue
is my father's language.

My mother had a
tongue like her own
like my own and all like

their father's tongue,
whose first father's tongue
was the first to lick up a
word and taste it.

Where is the oui
in we-- in yesness
or togetherness?

There may be a
sense of you and I
a semblance like

a reflection of the
self in the mirror
in a place in time

If oui tried to be
we could be a way
without you and I

A push might pull
if asked nice enough

A pull could give a
push if invited to do so

The nature of a thing
is very flexible and
malleable like hot glass

A coupling doubling
effect of the thoughts
ability to produce

Itself again in a
body not too far
away from the self

Like a tool or limb, like an
extension of the brains
primary function to organize

At what point
does coincidence
become not so

Say the thing about
energy being everything
is true then

At which frequencies
do numbers ring?

There was
no longer
hope for
them at
this time

Bubbled
then
pops

The thought comes
like an ******
--anticipated--
and dissipates

Where does a ravishing force
come from an unknown tantinglingzing
tantric combination of random hailing
between two (or more) bodies;
As is prescribed by

any tongues
dictionary of
mandated choice

The ocean and I
lie in bed awake all day
No bleak place or space

My script or
My scriptor

The spectator sport of
reading and representing
present in the temporal
sense that is constant

Confined to its binding
in one setting up the
dictionary of texts

For the scriptor to arrange
For the ****** to graze

"You are likely to
succeed if you try!"

Perhaps that's why
I find a part of the
self in verbal form

At the subatomic level of
this and that there is a Platonic
good vibrating like mad, like a
mountain flower

Saying "Yes, I said yes,"
will you yes to its yes?

Oh my God, I forgot
how ******* amazing Manga
is and I wonder can't

Remember why I ever stopped
reading it tickles then torments
my sensitive nature and
reminds me

I am a romantic when
my green grows and swells
resonating from her hand on
his coat or her resounding
"I belong to him" sound

It sounds like drivel:
to need so little as a trope's
grip of some coat in a storm

Part of the pleasure
lies in the silent
treatment:

The sinful thing is the thing
prohibited is the injunction
to talk about the thing that
should not be talked about

The discourse that most becomes
a silence is the authoritative kind,
in the way that a child's authoritative
cry lies in an ability to shut it up

A child cries and you
pick it up like a book and
set it down like a book

Is the line under
the signifier: a thing
not self-originating:

And the I that takes
a pleasure in watching
it identifies with the self
watching it happily identify

This representation of the
self in verbal and then
ideal form to be faster,

Faster, faster, because
Mommy is near and I have
wings and can ******
you with my bare hands

It's an understanding
in an unconventional way:
To say that the utterance
gives way to strength

She's changed and
much more sensitive
than she used to be like:

She'll cry if something
is sad enough to cry
about and say "how sad!"

To herself, she says
softness can be a reverse
blade sword that cannot ****

It says "I will not ****," with
a murderous strike: a representation
of a murderous stroke, twice

Removed from a first killing
swing a springtime of ******
youth and creative expression

Exists in the ego only and
the line between signs a
flash of the you in the universe

How natural and harsh, such
lovely waste: an amazing
mazing system of constructing

Whose *** do you
tat for up the sleeves

Of a fine charlatan
selling tinctures and
such

Breathing expands the
belly and the roots

At the top of the head
contracts the greater force

Extends into the toroidal
field until they resonate

A little higher, a little tone
sharpener, a little lquiet

I was going to
do an obnoxious
blackout post but

Decided against it,
because who really
needs or wants it,
anyway

And it's in these small
ways that you affect me

It's 4:53 and
I've woken from my
sleep to think of you and how

This whole speak
when spoken to thing
isn't for me and I've run
out of reasons to stay except
for bad timing and fearing

your immaturity and the
paltry amount of love
left I guess

I would stay if I
thought you wanted me

Well **** me if
I haven't had this

memory before of a
love expanding during
its reconstruction.

The purpose of such
a thought is to make it
like a poem- all pure and
full of the meaning its given,

and I remember the point
of remembering: to whittle
away the excess and reveal its
ideal form, but what if

it gives you a back kick

I'm ****** at this.

I skipped class yesterday
and today and haven't seen

you in a few days because you
won't let me and that's valid.
I still wish I could help some

how I think of leaving you at
least once every day but
all I can think to say is
I love you and I'm yours.

My stroke of love
goes against your grain
and I am bade to withhold
in the presence of equals and
betters regardless of the claim

And the needs being
met with knees in the chest

I am uneasy.

Does the girl even
matter, or is everything
a matter of time

A body wants some
body, some more than others
And some none at all

Again the train makes
a standard stop at what
the **** am I doing

So I get off.

Dinshaw argues that
the text is feminine and
the writer masculine but what
does that have to do with anything?

Good lord, the frilly words make
crochet lace and the others
make the rest-- now doesn't
that make sense: a scent
of cents means money!

The sign of the signified says: Why
the **** is this happening? You read
into me and translate accordingly but
can't seem to interpret a bit of it like the
first poem in Zong, but I'm not sure if you'll
remember what that quite looks like

You reading rather feminine lace
together an image of Mulcahy from
the Coombe that's not a bit like the
man! With a laugh who could
blame a drunken thought?

All the stupid girly **** gets dealt
with in a familiar manner stripped
bare teeth tearing the cloth in the process
of progressing to **** it like the little
**** it is: exactly how it deserves

Your moon princess turns
into folklore where nothing
is left but an ancient language
written in a mother tongue
in languish whilst unspoken.

You read languidly like
sparknotes slow speed reading
some well known notion readily

Of me standing stark naked
--out of clothes-- at a
random station

There is a violence in translation.

Would you want
to know or seize?
Are you able to

see which arms belong
to me and—can cling
to love undeserved—
in the meantime

I grow tired and sleepy
from forgiving you, so you
let me be your blanket, with
my head in the crevice of your
neck, and tuck yourself in with me

You say things like:
"Caw caw!" and "llamo"
with a hard L

As a statement
you ask: "You my baby?"
Despite the holes in my body

Our shared presence a chaotic
good and I, beside myself, at your
"We love each other, don't we?"

Two generations
removed from
the Good

But Good
is not the point
of poetry

I throw
the *****
like a tantrum

He say my
name like
a mantra

Whose fan do you service
so regularly and generously?

Which senpai do you hope
and need to notice you?

Whose moral maiden’s ****
are called to duty?

Taken with what
exactly? There’s no
hunger left in the greedy

That same old thing always
had weak knees for begging and
asks with arms extended: May
I have some more please?

The sound of stark reality
sounds like there’s not much left
in the *** but dried bits.

We all wear clothes,
and lick our lips
against the cold.

As a child things close
with a ziplock zip, and grass
made you a woodland nymph.

A sentiment arises on the first
day of school—and you say: never
let me go or let me go at once—

With a stubborn tug
in the passionate bones
long gone by lunch

I couldn't help it
if you came the same
as you did before

And your weakness
is the only thing
that keeps you talking

Yea, yea, yea
Yadda, yadda, yadda
Realize the same thing

Who's been faking
it the whole time?