The sea isn't a blanket.
Sure, blankets may have waves,
and blankets ripple when you jump on them,
but a blanket does not host Atlantis.
A blanket isn't full of saline.
A blanket does not hold billions of creatures underneath it.
Instead, a blanket only holds a couple, snoring, unconscious,
unaware of the each other,
unaware of their petty troubles,
unaware of their drunkenness,
unaware of their bruises,
unaware of life, death, and the sea.

We gathered round the baker's corpse
when he fell off of his flat.
Waterworks came shortly after.
Blood was pouring from his broken body,
nauseating the entire crowd.
We heard a crack coming from the asphalt prior,
which we thought to be him breaking all at once.
Some say that someone pushed him,
some say it was his job.

I will praise the flickering you give off before
you start to die down, and finally
the one burst of light like an explosion
that startles the room.
Then, light no more.
They toss you before you can retire,
but maybe the dumpster is your home.
Night comes to place a gentle hand on you,
with light no more.
The other ones are buzzing, busy,
giving off a harsh glow.
Night comes to turn them off,
and then, light no more.
But they are not defective, as long
as when the night melts into day,
they still glow.
But you,
you will always be under night's force,
light no more.

her cigarette smelled like
a black rose on a
2:39 am nightmare
full of feelings and darkness into the abyss...
dramatic ellipses...
uh...
evil! dark! mean! bullying is bad! i guess.

@cyber
    @punk
headset not
clear enough. can't receive circuitry
rewiring veins back to my
internal mainframe in which two
magnets start to spew out
dystopian propaganda. neon motorcycles
that can turn at any corner
dash through the streets.
concept? oh no
    @end
@function

Stars are actually snowballs, constantly being thrown at each other by the playful children
that are the Old Gods.
Planets are ornaments
that adorn the Christmas tree
in the center of the Solar System.
One of them has a floral pattern,
one of them has the British flag on it,
and one of them, I think, is half-shattered, only held together
by the holy adhesive that is tape.
The meteors are popcorn garlands,
that we popped the other night.
Now they're stale and flavorless,
so we decided
to decorate space
with them.

On my way from DC to Manhattan, the sky an odd indigo.
Got some donuts from the local bakery, which I'm munching on.
Some girl sits next to me.
After a couple hours she dozed off, and I whisper to her:
"You might be stardust, but you're no nebula."
She can't see the window through my silhouette.
I hate that inky nothing, I hate that
shadow, I hate
that silhouette.

This disorder is characterized by three or more of the following symptoms:

1. Odd appearance or behavior.
2. Peculiar coping mechanisms that do not seem to follow any logical train of thought.
3. Fumbling with language to the point of gross disorganization.
4. Odd perceptions that can range from illusions to hallucinations.
5. Strange beliefs that fluctuate wildly depending on context.
6. Wildly wavering opinions on others -- that is, a fluctuation between idealizing and devaluing people.

These symptoms must cause some sort of impairment in everyday functioning, social skills, and workplace skills.

Suppose time is not best measured by a watch,
but by a symphony, two kids crying in the background, one person coughing.
Suppose space is not best defined by volume,
but by ice cream cones filled with fluid sweetness, seeping at the bottom.
Suppose love is not best calculated by chocolate,
but by those games at carnivals you'll rip yourself off for.

"I got kissed once," she mumbles,
sitting outside the local Sonic,
between her fingers a corndog fumbles,
mixing her slushy with beer and tonic.

The not-so-neon sign of the dive
flickers like a flashlight there;
the activity isn't alive,
its fundamental force impaired.

"I remember it vaguely," she groans,
the seat of her car squeaking,
"The times were full of gasps and moans,
my memories are fleeting."

Many things happen at night
while others are asleep.
Under the not-so-neon light,
the stillness made her weep.

are my aspirations your nightmares?
are they chemically derived from neurons?
are they a curse from
the birds of babel?
(ready or not)
do they seep out of the fabric of my mind? do they break you from the inside out?
are they dead or is that just you rotting?
(here i come.)

Your aspirations shatter like sugar glass;
the shards taste good.

That open window on the bus,
that purple hue of the dawn sky,
is just as it is.

Those repeating lyrics,
those melodies which never irritate,
whispering through earbuds,
are just as they are.

That hotel I stop at,
that sea salt pool,
its warmth in coldness,
its missing chlorine,
is just as it is.

1.
hey kid wanna
balloon i gottem in erry color
blues n reds n yellows n so on hey kid where
you going i just wanna give you your
balloon

2.
There are five types of balloons in this world:
the kind that floats,
the kind that don’t,
the kind that once did,
the kind that will one day,
and the kind that doesn’t care.

3.
A child strolls along with a balloon in hand,
attached to a string.
A child lets go of the balloon while trying to traverse monkey bars.
A child cries at her green friend floating away, knowing that it will soon pop and fall into the ocean for some sea turtle to choke on.
A child gets a red one.

4.
A friend came up to me and gave me a bouquet of roses.
I gave him a bouquet of balloons.

5.
A balloon is like a balloon and nothing else.

my digital might is incompatible with my analog life forces.