five, like clichéd clockwork
every ******* day-after;
after wasting (enjoying)
the better part of a seventy-two
hour stint in wonderland.

i don't know how to
confront the piles of
confetti on my carpet--
stragglers you left here
like it was ok, not rude.

i guess i could try the
vacuum; unplug it
from my stomach
and **** up the
residual signs.
            
it's funny how
misunderstood
a metaphor can
be, a teenager,
for example.

the vacuum hooked
up to me keeps me
stocked up on longing,
and lacking in content(ment)
what a drag, or a ******.

all i can really do on these
rare mornings becoming
regular, is drag this (mis-)
matching hot pink comb
through my hair another
time, in wistful hopes
of restoring some silly
insignificant order to
my disheveled and
"last-year"
hairstyle of a life.

i found your
habits tonight,
the ones you kept
tucked up your sleeve
like aces in a hold ‘em match,

unwelcome, unwanted.
tells, twitch, or tell truths
to me, while broken
records and dated playlists
keep me company;
the soundtrack
to this life i can't
seem to find the verve
to live anymore.

this train will go on to see
brighter things, however,
with or without my muffled
murmurs and quieted complaints,
it's not up to me.

mannequin, your sacred self is secret,
you save and squander on
your precious aces;
those hidden cheats, cheap tricks
to while away the time.

there's nothing left for me
at the end of the night when
i stumble in and fall.
nothing at all.

like a walking
smash novel
waiting to happen;
this isn't perks,
there's no ****,
and no falcon,
and certainly
no flower grow(ing)
on the wall.

like a british
teen drama
or ******* of
equal magnitude.
this isn't skins,
well it is, just
less exciting,
less meaningful,
less expressive--
basically,
less british

like a discography
from thepiratebay,
or a microsecond
clip of sound waves,
this isn't a teen
anthem, or some
ridiculous ballad
written by puppeteers
who don't know
any better for
children far too
young to even
comprehend
the concept of
       loss.

this isn't about
the strain on their
parents or the baby
in her belly, or even
about the ****** up
liver of a walking,
deceased villain,
no.
it's about the
universal and
ubiquitous:
hollowness.
longing.
strife.

the record's straight,
no thanks to me,
we'll all sleep
easier tonight,
won't we?
who am i kidding.
i writed (clever)
a wrong made so
many times before
it doesn't even matter.
it's forgotten,
no longer verbatim,
content to just be;
people describe it
by saying,
"it just is, man."
and that,
ladies and gentlemen,
is a reason to cry.

people don't like truth,
or beauty, or breath;
they like depth
and context,
or rather the
comfortable despair
in lieu of a lack thereof.

some mornings
even my hair
seems to behave,
when i don't need
it to -- like weather
or feelings.
                         after
today, i was content.
i finally got my bed
just the way i like it,
settled in, surrounded
by cush, and plush and
(dead insects)
                            despite
    a growing discomfort
in my belly, i'm still fine;
saltine remedy, mint tea
                              potion.
a lovely girl asked                
me to catch dreams for her.
of course i will, in jars like
fireflies, natural lanterns
to light up your
imagination.
                             but the
          aching in my belly
    seems intent on staying
until addressed appropriately--
sneakily
                creeping up on me
like adolescent shenanigans--
acknowledgement is
reminiscence, the kind you
don't fancy at 1:00 am.
so i mulled it over,
going home; like
a kick in the shins,
it made me realize
that the little place
in me, maybe a vein
or vesicle, is still
missing.
               it used to
be an *****, a limb;
in months it shrank to
an extremity, a digit,
finally infinitesimal--
but still
missing.
     (now) i'm having trouble
                making my peace
with the fact that you'll have
that artery, or capillary,
or soul atom for awhile
or forever, maybe.
but i think, i posit
in fact, perhaps
by march, a few
months more,
i'll forget and
be able to say
*"it's yours."

like when we told
ourselves we'd be
there for each other;
i'll clean up your
splattered brains
if you take out the
trash and do
the dishes.
wine-stained eyes
and sweaters wet
from the rain outside--
flecks of possibilities hitting
the tin panels or shingles,
                            or glass.
but
pages don't turn themselves,
and kindling isn't suicidal
or into pyrophilia.
planets don't just
           fall
into line like soldiers
or silly wire hangers,
it takes time.
and i'm scared,
       (terrified)
that in my
waking hours
mortal minutes
squandered seconds
and so forth,
i'll miss it.