as the squares charred,
lying to my eyes that their
matter was disintegrating, salted
droplets eroded streams of
regret that deepened my dusk
and dulled my blaze.

but it’s somewhat amusing
isn’t it, that my own fleshy
urn holds no shape as
symmetrically sound as the squares
that charred and lied.

call out my name; let my ashes be the
penultimate vibrations that echo as
the squares squares squares grasped the twigs
and tufts of amphibological
debris, beckoning my
eyes to glow ablaze.

while the wisps of smoke
escape the dancing radiance that crackled and
cackled as the memories i was
too burnt out to memorize, decomposed
knowingly, deceiving my
orbs that will
indeed always forget the
silently sleeping squares.

i’m awakened by the
climb of the chime of your
mirror bell as you zip
above me like the shadows
of the golden metal that echo
in my ear.

but it seeps so strangely under
your clenched fists, as i watch
you pedal and ascend
one knee after another,
as sweat condenses on the
handles, and streamers sputter in the wind.

all i recognize you feel is blur,
and the substance we need
to pedal, fill your mouth and
choke muscle and tendon,
as our cartilage crammed turbines rise and fall
like the pant of your lung as you tricycle
away from the choker covalently
bonded to the first of all that matters.

yet we giggled - we snorted,
while printing the memory
on your chip as the disc swerved away.

rue had let you run over my
toes with our red.
you rose and fell over
the unseen ivory bones; and i pleaded for
a motion of  cyclical squeeze more
potent than a chip and a
wheel gone awry.

such as our disc shattered
in two, i stooped on our
step with palm under arch,
limp from the stubs of nails
that bled out like thorn bush
creaking to the zip code that a
tricycle is no bicycle when one
wheel decides to drift away.

Her pants will not ascend up the body.
They exhibit the various mountains and valleys of exhibition
that exhibit all and every stifling opening in the land between the limbs.
The progenitors apparently never trained the lass in class.

Her pants will not ascend the body.
I slam the image processor shut
and beg the higher powers for more cloth
but the portrait remains hung in the palace,
exhibiting, exhibiting, exhibiting,

weakness and detestation in the wake of insomnia,
for she can spine-chillingly be pictured in the movies they show,
the ones with palm and sand and ******* for all.

When the tape ends its shift as a documenter she still exhibits,
plagiarizing the greats like a trombone entertaining itself with exhibition,
its brass perpetuating nausea and its horn emanating
aromas of catastrophic consequences

while it sits there like a *******, echoing the words of the vivacious
director in the silk scarf of silhouettes and the exhibition of pure animosity,
that pops and fizzles like the dying carcass of an ****** ridden rodent
who decrees that Cersei is the finest in the land.

She will look out the window as the deluge descends.
Water will flood the glass pane.
It will acceptingly defy Earth’s gravitational pull
as it will warp her vision.  
Once she moves her head and body across the pain
she will see the twists in the tunnels of moist beam.  
She will look out at the window,
believing Mother’s fallacy,
understanding the reality,
when solely viewing a distortion across the glass.
Drenched pains cause distortion.