i'm sleepy of you
i'm exhausted of you
i'm sore of you
i'm drifting off of you
i'm nodding out of you
i have narcolepsy of you
me eyes are starting to hurt of you
i still have to bike home of you
i'm bored of you
i'm restless of you
i'm indifferent of you
i'm worn out of you
i'm over it of you
i've been up all day and night of you
i might head home soon of you
i'm not interested in you
...so fear mounts...

almost 21 and i don't have any fun
cause i don't have anyone
been this way since i was young

he's terrified of her voice
that whips his eardrums like kashmir switches
and tickles his diaphragm until he convulses
in nervous laughter inside his head

the way it inquires broadly,
like an opera written in tornado sirens and megaphones
and the brightness of lighthouses,
for conversation he thought
had drowned long ago and only
reemerges as bubbles on the lake's surface

a boiling body popping deafeningly
with anxiety, and plumping
bravery pasta, which smells seductive,
which he loves...

he's just not hungry right now.

don't step near the burning bush

beyond the drapes of his beard
billow his words, a balding, scalding heat
beyond your hands excusing their presence with no permission
rippling through caustic silk
that can't feel anything til the screaming
just to grab a hold of the trunk as an anchor
burnt to a ******* crisp inside your grip
roughly formed by rigor mortis
quickly turned to ash and swept away miles over the earth
long after your lungs have collapsed
curiosity killed the brats, a cosmic belch
broken down in his stomach acid as he chokes on his *****

so this must be the smell of burning flesh
the wheels of fate hopelessly buffering movement
against the hands of time, the worn brakes ******* into temples
which are coming loose
which are coming loose
which are coming loose
which are breaking in the middle of nowhere
with no one around
which must be the sound of death
thats so beautiful through the trees

the doorbell will never ring at 4am-
no surprise visits,
hesitant, awkward, longing smiles
and hesitant, awkward, longing body language
that sounds more like childish screaming
than pleasant conversation
had by adults who'd administer un-pondered scolding
just for the noise-
at least not anytime soon.
wrapped and delivered, waiting on the stoop,
a box beneath a bow and note scribbled
with little hearts and a name-
an offering responded with fangs and venom
by a snake, like the veins of the heart
that was supposed to grow fonder with absence
but instead grew wicked with the thought
that forcing seconds into minutes-
minutes to hours-
hours to days-
quickly caused us to wonder

akin to sewer grates
seeping toxic gas,
a friend to deadly smog,
and bad attitudes,
a product of waste,
between holes in the lime sandstone
occasionally silenced by
commuting feet, disparaging
their accidental charity,
retaliating with lethal fluid
those feet then fleet from,
all the while wondering why they
can't bear the stench