calming from the torrent,
wires pushing through his skin;
i wish for an end that
does not contain love.

Yearning for clear, seven and fear;
Found an old book and made it my snare.
It rotted in bed and drank the stars,
/Crossing closer to cars/

Kissing the clouds that tremble and run;
I fear I’m mourning the salty breath,
waving at the birds as they devour the sun.
I match the crows and hope for death.

Climbing up the furnace to the hollow gate of heavan,
Itching for gloppy sunshine in the cracks of your stomach.
Pour it out, pour it out; the thick fervor of negation;
Climbing in the window through your ears,
Hearing, yearning for the stained glass.
You know, it’s okay to die.

restless fever of useless gardeners
feeding the monsters of separation
calling quiet the aching reach
of a love drinking leach