You can't survive
off Coca Cola
&
crickets.

you said you'd drown in my tears

if it meant being with me

but you see, you were always under water

with one hand drowning in the density of my sobs

and the other over the surface holding her

Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.

Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep  
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.

I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches  drenched
in honey brown ale.

His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.

it seems I am out of place
filled with vacant conversations
and a weary heart
I'm not suicidal
but
I don't want to breath,
Breathing is thinking
I don't want to think.
I don't want to feel.
it seems I am out of place
and a weary heart and heavy mind are not easily mended with vacant conversations
I'm not suicidal
I just want this void to fill.

It sketched and slapped an ombre
of crimson reds
& tangerine oranges
until it carved a comfortable atmosphere
amongst the void blacks
and howling navy blues.

Her sun bleached hair dangled over her forehead.
They were the vines that tangled
into wispy curls of tiger's eye gold that
hung lavishly in front of the youngest
temple.
Her eyes were sour,
a Blink and a whistle.
Someone coughing on the last bus outta town.
Those powerful cheek bones,
that she obtained through her
constant "according to" accordion smile,
fell off into a pair of lips
that were just pronounced enough
to make her look like she would laugh & ****,
tempt or incinerate.
Intellect winked from her every word
like a whip of cold water and eggnog.

The Campfire was an artist.
It delicately plucked a scene
ripe with confidence and relaxed alcohol.
A tone that made her amazonian scowl
seem intimate and gentle.