you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  



you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.



you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.


there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.


i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.



i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.

i.

a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.


she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.


another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow



ii.


on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she  
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and


i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because


i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off


azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well


those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that


sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.




iii.


death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream


but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.




iv.


when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.




v.


i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.  



i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
  
and i am bitter.




vi.


i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.


i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.


i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.


i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.


vii.

ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest,  and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.

Lati ball dressed for the costume party with relish.
She wanted to look pretty.
She wanted to look mysterious.
So she took a mask from her closet of witches, tied the lace bow around her head.
"My" she said as she stared into the mirror.
She thought 'the men will ask me to dance, the men will forget the rest.'
Lati Ball went to the dance, the mask fit on her face tight.
The people did not reconize her. But she was the best!!
"oh who is this women!" they all cried,
"she walks like an angel, and floats like a swan!"  
She swept around the floor into another land.
The night gew late, Lati Ball had to stop inbetween dances to rest.
Then the clock rang 12 times, and a cake was brought out.
A cake of 12 candles.
Lati Ball wondered whos birthday it could be.
So she hurried to hear.
The hostest of the party laughed and said
"the cake is for you, the cake is for the best! now take this knife and cut some for the rest!"  
But before Lati could cut the cake, she wanted to make a wish!
So she leaned over the cake and said to herself
"i always want to be the Best; Better than the Rest!"
So she blew at the candles.
But the cake was made out of wood, and caught fire.
It burned her face, it burned her mask.
Soon the mask was part of her face,
and she looked like *death.

All you

Are an octave without lines

                                                                                     Synchronicity

A treble-clef tattooed upon

                                                                                     the skin of my heart

Notes like

                                                                                      bloodcells in my veins


                                          **I.Can.Never.Play.You

i.

  truth is clever
  when you underestimate
  him,  the moment you
  are sober he will
  excavate the flesh
  from your
  fingernails, grazed
  out with
  his fugly ones,  

  and while you wail
  in this agony,
  this soundless saliency,
  you will seize
  only for
  this fragile moment
  and only then will you
  cultivate what is true,
  the truest and the truest
  fallacies.

  it is only
  like this  
  when it hurts.



ii.

  i like the smell of
  rain because it smells
  of absolutely nothing,
  and it reminds me that
  nothing
  can really be everything
  because nothing is what is real
  and nothing is good,
  and nothing is better than
  happiness,

  but really, nothing is
  the only nothing,
  the nothing that
  can surrender
  this theoretical emancipation,  
  this sugar that tastes like
  cardboard and crack,
  this chemical that
  is white enough
  to bleach away
  sins with cold
  fire.  



iii.

  i'd rather believe
  in the bruises
  around my neck,
  lynched by
  the metaphysical ribbon that
  ties me to reality  

  than to believe
  in the bruises
  that appeared
  on my brain,
  raw from the world that
  is fabricated by a
  *******logical
  malice derived
  by a mind  
  like yours.



iv.

  am i merely a nudiustertian,
  and the monsters before that
  and the carcass after

  or am i simply a demonised mother,
  of 'duplicity' and 'profanity'
  or any other piece of lexicon that
  defines a rapture between
  the word 'human'
  and the word 'sublime'.

i could believe in the mouth of others



                                       honey, you both got chemistry like sugar and ice.



i could believe in my own little brain

                                      


                                  tell me what is so wrong with me..                                                

                                                               ­                     



tell me why..




                                                            ­i could kiss your lips

                                                               ­     with o p e n e d  e y e s ,


                                                     but i cannot bear to look at you

                                                         when you are embracing me






                                 i could confine in the quarters of my heart.


(since when did the fact that I possessed such monstrosity come into acceptance?)                                                     ­                                                     

                                    

                         ­                          inside the four rooms




                                                       ­         portraits of your face

                                                           ­                                  lingering  
                                                     ­                                            vanishing  


                                                       held up by strings of infatuation,



                                              
              ­                                       making the walls






                                            collapse      ­                                            condemn
             ­                                                constrict                       collide      
                    
                                     carress                             consume                     crash    

                                                      ­crawl                                            curse


        ­                                                      cannonize  ­               corrupt

                                                        ­                  
                                              ­                                  crave




                                                            ­                   floating          

                                                               ­                                     down
                       ­                                                                 ­                      

                                                               ­                                                down
                                                            ­                                                  
  
                                                             ­                                       down.    

tell me why..


i could write so shamelessly  that


i need you                              


                                                      i adore you          

                                  i miss you                  
                                           ­                                                      i   l o v e  y o u                          
        
i want you                                        
                     ­                             i cherish you
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­              
                                                


                                                   six thousand and eight hundred times.





    

but i cannot tell you that  " i want to see you so much it hurts " .
                                                                ­                                                                 ­                   

                           it doesn't quite matter.                                          






it is only a simple act of
attempting to balance the sanity
of a toothless adoration
with blinded self-proclaimed
masochistic interpetations.
                                                 ­                     


                                         ­                          it is only the veil of an apathetic shell
                                                                ­   to fortify monsters
                                                                ­   laced by the maddening hormones of
                                                                ­   teenage mediocre oestrogens.


it is only bruised knuckles
wrapped in cheap bandages
in the futility of closing wounds;
as there is no such
blood in the world that has not yet
been tainted by obscenities.        






                                      ­                       it is only the fact that
                                                             i have a tendency to stare at you as if
                                                             i could stare right past your flesh and
                                                             bones but i forget that your skull is
                                                             just too ******  thick.                                      




it is only a masterful literate
who can comprehend the laws
of sentence structures but refuses to
write the word " you" and " me"
in fear of establishing "us".


                                                  




                  it is only my heart that you hold, bleeding in your clenched fists.




       the more i think : the more i hurt.

Little girl in that
wonderful glass world
she tells me
                                                                ­                         How
wonderful her world is.
and how I                                      
                         ­                                                                Could
live there with her. All
                                                             ­                            I
would have to do, is
**** her, and
                                                                ­                         Hate
everyone in the world
i already lived in, then
i could live there too.
but i told              
                                              ­                                            Her
how there was so many
                                                            ­                              That
i loved. she told me
how i didnt have
                                                                ­                          Much
to live for.

*

Anyways; i broke open her glass world.
She painted my hands red.