There are no hammers in my room.
No tactical advances which need enhancements.
no broken bits of furniture in need of further
assessment.
There are no screwdrivers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed.
nothing blotchy or broken.
or to say this house is less than homely.
There are no hammers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed. Deconstructed. Detonated.
No little lines on the carpet, no rusty pipes beneath my sink
There are no razors in my bathroom
nothing which brings blood from my retinas
nothing stinks of mold, nothing sinks in the carberater
escaping excavation
measure the short comings of my
makings, and takings, and tasks.
There are no dust mites beneath my bed
there are nothing but soap and cleansing masks.
sleeping with the boogy man, sharing his head
space,
no naked, termites in my walls.
skeletons in my closet.
nothing that would appall an exterminator.
nothing which says this house is less than
homely.

Watch him work.
legs swinging,
head bumping to the music floating between his ears.
look to his hands hold pens, pencils, stylus.
awkward stance, laying.
look up,
there's the rub.
You cannot see the finished piece, but the work in progress is progressive enough.

I lose people, it's what I do.
While my friends lose car keys or pairs of socks.
I'm stuck losing people.
Tripping over shoe laces and old belongings.
Longing to look back and see familiar smiling faces,
instead I'm left with my own star dust, which rusts in the rain.

The artist sits with one leg crossing over the other.
she doesn't look at him, draped over the sofa, eyes softly closed.
she wishes his lips were as soft as they appeared when he spoke to her.

The historian studies until it's too late to think straight.
The artist will be sleeping and dreaming in
technicolor.
He hurts her from the inside, moving but somehow keeping his body motionless.
making her wish, his whispers were as soft as his lips looked
in the sunlight.
but he only holds history, and she would hurl his head at a canvas
if it would make the memories mute.

Once tall, he now sits stooped over a stool.
drool, dropping from his lips.
pen in hand and hardly a smirk to share
where he once mocked.
the clock now ticks
louder.
He’s still regarded as a ****.
by everyone but her.
and it sticks like gum under
table tops, and flips
and flops, because he once had a confident air.
Now there is a blatant obnoxious stare.
A history of charm does less good
and more harm than it should.

The world was cold this evening, hard as fresh rocks on the beach. There was no rain to lull us to sleep.
My love you and are floating.
There is no space more vast than the piece between our fingers.
millenniums pulled into the inches between your naked feet; and mine
bathed in the moonlight, the frozen grass.
We slept here, was it the pills which numbed our senses,
or did we only now feel the putrid sadness which emancipates all lovers.
lengthy discussions between my teeth and your lips, strong cheap tea.
and ***** toes.
millions of miles resting between who we were,
and where we were going.

I've run miles,
upon miles,
trying to forget how you smiled
and for every time I called you mine,
I'm trying to bleed you from my spine.