If it smells dead, it probably is
Rot makes no mistakes
I sit and spin my wheels and it takes
Everything inside of me

To rid myself of her stink
Seventeen years of parental nurture
Two weeks of preying in search for;
Only six minutes of squeezing to be

Left only to be filth again
Passed over and forgotten
Are my words too heavy for your song?
Sing loudly so I can hear you

Again, my pale skinned love
As I hover above and sweat into your mouth
Quiet swan song sung, splash of **** all too loud
Calm I grow as from you, I take my cue

Does my breath not fog glass as much as yours?
If I crawl away now, I won't appear to move.
Silently shaking and praying in search for
Something less living, something less grand

Bedside stories told to you once at night
A lone little light plugged in low by your closet
You feared the wrong monsters, and I felt that fright
It clung to the air; you were my first as by my hand.

But my hand pulls away now--
My fingers hardwired, pulling, reaching
For something warm to touch
And you were warm once, too

It was a brief respite between summer and autumn
Where our love fell to the wayside of the far road,
the path less traveled,
and we were no strangers to the yellow wood.

We fed off the high, but serotonin depletes.
You left with my voice crack with fond bleats.

Walk out the glass, wait out the fire.
Bury me for necking on the
beckoning of
a long lost romance of mourning frustration.

Bled stone as thrown
through the walls of your frank emotion.

"*******."
Alright, honey. If you say so.
And when your storm cracked our oar,
we filled to the brim
with saltspit of breeze and bubble.

Our wood rot and mildewed.
So we hanged it all up.

Chase ghosts as an albatross hangs low on the horizon.
Sea and sky meet with no seam.
Let us drift to that beauty.

If you speak of me in such oily vinegar,
then reply to me with joy subsequent,
I shall think of you as polar Cressida,
as she slalomed between bi-encampment.

To see your mouth forming my name-
Blisters peeled back so I may openly lament-
Of every rolling hill your fingers grazed carefully,
And every forged wanderlust you splashed upon my chest

Hellbent on spent days and evenings anew,
Lipped old promises freshly feigned undue.
Take me for bitter, and taste me all too sweet,
Storm whorled to ebb, still flow we accrete.

My home is a wasteland of cigarette butts and coffee cups
Help in repose for better mornings
Where a bitter taste in my throat lays dormant
And I think alone, in regret of nothing

As fresh *** brews and *** ignite, thumbing my finger ring.
Tracing back words in search for other purpose,
realizing secrets as regrettable burden.
Clear throat for first sip, and light a second cigarette.

It is not insomnia but rather being too bored to sleep.
It is not knowing what to do with your hands
When someone says they love you.
It is wanting to discuss film, art--
Hell, anything, with anyone--
Only to talk yourself down
Before the words escape your throat.
And yes, All the words come from there.
Some guttural utterance only heard for those that care.
That pesters you too.

All the nerves in all the world with all the words,
and there's nothing wrong with them in my head.
Passions intermix and weaken,
with every passing moment of thinking,
So I speak of Russian filmography,
mingle as hands press to small of your back.
In an instant, a stutter, a wide expression.
But my hands were always in my pockets anyway.

"Sometimes the curtains are just blue,"
An old professor told me once
From behind his olive green desk--
In front of a whiteboard that made him look small.
Curled over, I respected him more
For the fact that he knew
Nothing everything has a purpose.

Purpose is as purpose does, "I know I know nothing."
Pretentious is as we may be, sentences full of stuffing.
Like our shirts and puffing chests, teach me like you went to university.
Analyze in caffeinated anxiety every word ever said to me.

Three soulmates deep into a mid-twenties lifestyle.
Where I say nothing, do less, barely walked a mile
In my own shoes, let alone the fortunateless.
And when she says,
"Oh, my bugaboo. Can you, for me, please,
ask forgiveness?"
I smile, for lack of a better expression,
at her rueless lesson for me, which is
as is,
all I can surmise,
to have been meant as
a surprise.

Shocked now, and a few fingers deep in the bourbon.
"Did you know it must come from Kentucky?"
Of course she did, and she spun my spinning back around,
and now wrapped up in myself, as I tend to be, sat half-tipsy
on the hallway credenza-- I thought, for lack of a better imagination,
about the station from which she heralds through some truth.
A flag raised but not saluted.

I regret for a few turmoils. The clicking tocks of ticking clocks.
A minute is such a long time when you expect it to end,
and I feared this romance barely a fortnight into,
"Look, me, you. I don't think this is going to work.
I don't think this is working."

Where was the loudness? Sudden, or not. Not.
Was this right? Expression was meant, otherwise
what is anything and its proper place?

I sat woke in my bed now. Looking at her chest, the curve of her nose.
And as I rose further and felt the warmth of our body heat trapped
beneath the comforter escape, I was jealous.

There is no more room to wander,
within the wild, blue yonder.
All the skies and seas are dead to explore.
No new ports, forgotten resorts; a lack
of ****** shores for rich men to ravish,
in search of riches much more.
Sea-faring clime possessed on the backs of child,
rode as destiny manifest,
wrote during storm, through mild.
More words than shores coalesced.

But the words explode from me—
Like some powerful wave meant only
To wash things that should not be, away.
Every syllable hovering, quivering
At the corners of my mouth—
As they carry me to beaches where feet
walk less timid, walk with less freedom
than I could ever hope to possess.

If we must be in hope and wish for probity,
in the minds and hearts and waters at sea.
Lift from masthead our daughters and brides,
so they last instead until martrimony decree.
And when vows written in logs of Captain
are all we accomplish lead by sextant see.
All things are permissible deep in our dreams,
yet chapel bell is rung not by sexton, but me.

I am my own Captain—
Luring those splashing wanderers not to safety—
No,
I lead them to drown with me.
The extra weight needed, begged for
So that we may appear as a sixteenth century painting
Brushes stroked in the last sip of black tea
to mimic some reality
Ive only touched myself to in sleep.

We are agasp toward bottoms, and fall from heights.
Whereas one of us sinks,
the other heaves into dives.
We are without fathom,
as water stings our eyes blind.
Struggle, you cannot lack fight, it will happen
whether you wish.
We are both rats, a Captain between us,
forgoing a sinking ship.
You abhor tradition in lieu to survive.

Set it afire,
So we can watch from underneath
As through some television screen
The world we knew, we know
rise up in smoke to signal no one.

Imagine and it begins, the mire sired from mind amok.
May have at once mattered, now the imagination is stuck.
Non-commit to all your projects, ideas strewn prettily.
In notebook crumble garland filigree.
You remember, only that you've forgot.
All work you do is nihilistically for naught.

**** that mess, darling. You are the best.
Calm be simple and be ******, indeed.
Even now you work heart pumping chest.
But happy in finishing you're not so keyed.

Back to the doldrums and foot tap astray.
Knit fury with hands excite, colour gone.

Back from the dead, dancing with blushes.
Ego bruised snide, coy imagination rushes.