leaves manage, don't they?
blown away by float planes,
thrown away by old dames,
the same game,
return.

your cells manage, don't they?
sewn away by atomic frames,
time lapsed to transform again,
the same game,
return.

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loading more guys...
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loading more guys...

headless torsos only no fems
under 150 only
white skin only sorry not racist
likes lonely walks not holding hands in public 'cause that's ****
NSA only please

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loading more guys...
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Through this song I am
where my mind was in a panic,
my heart was in a knot,
its drum long gone.
Fateful delirium
like unearthing a grave,
one covered with purposeful seal,
now bonded to chaos.
These pangs are the wind
of a flute, poisoning the lungs.
Heartless pandemonium,
back you go
under lock and key.

Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'

Ankles dry, calloused thoughts, skin peels to reveal oozing flesh. **** sinks in and swallows floating zinc; immune. Consuming ex-cadavers in mall parking lots and pushing the crippled in shopping carts, an ankle twisted, a mother swallowed monetary *****, the stock market became the shelf market, and creation wondered if we were okay with frozen pizza for dinner.

Life dragged on and on, the world swirled on twitter feeds and Facebook statuses, the streets completed laps around our better judgements and our better lives, we sank to scheduled escapism and believed that one day we would find the light despite our never left-look.

Massive intention swelled to disjointed shark search. A witch-hunt to burn unhappiness in it's own angry passion. Bones; cost efficient at the least and designed in the weirdness of erosion-return. Miniature intention swelled to grabs solidarity. A manhunt to freeze stillness in it's own endless silence.

What complete? What shatter-tastic ******?

Eyes like massive clanks- gazes morphed to lanced boils, lungs ache and the tumour of hopeless alien weird melts an old painting we used to call 'existence.'

I made a mistake and even Daski can't help.
The combination of it all makes me sick,
the revelation, the lack of cigarettes
and the fact that I unintentionally opened up our old Facebook chat.
And I read the last message you sent and every single one before that.

I am your eyelids and the train-tracks of your stitches. I am the cracks in your bones and the wealthy mind riches. I am the fluid of your language that speaks in every sentence of your prose, I am the syllable you cannot speak though your tongue still knows. I am the chapel of your rib cage and the rage that it slows, closing the gates to the crosses in rows. I am the dirt under your cuticle and the follicle of your skin, sprouting a thread of your body within. I am the anxiety of your brain and the ecstasy of your flesh, crawling at the sense that you attain and possess. I am your lost baby teeth and the way that they chatter, I am the neurons, the synapses, the white and grey matter. I am your saliva burning caverns in the cave of your time. I am the line of your lips and the lungs you call, "mine." I am your soul, your secrecy, your sanctity. Your spine.

The atoms of which the sun consists
lays upon the land
who can only resist.

No, indeed, I must insist!
The story is etched into murky water and mist:

Oh, the sinking sun—with a twist—
setting on someone
who did never exist.