I enjoy long monologues on the beach,
the warm grains and broken glass
beneath my feet. I can't help,
as dazzles of sun,
drizzles of spitting ocean
make everything
unique.

Hold your breath, children.
God is angry as the tide
rolls in high,
and rolls back deep.
He beats cloth into drapes
and wets the sand.
Once dry.
Cheeks as cherubs,
reddened from cancer spring.

Medieval statues and the moat is free.
Emoted servitude as you architect.
Hold your breath, children.
God is angry again, as father
treads water. Splash panic.
Too wide-eyed and bushy-tailed
to realize the spring Hell.
Of summer decline into
Autumn's work.

Speak to me in truth and I'll know by tone,
I enjoy long monologues on the beach.
Eternal sunshine,
no spotless minds,
as back is beaten by angry
tides.
Speak to me in ruth-less-ness and I'll know by
shone,
weather the weather, children.
He can't help his maddened drink.

I enjoy long monologues on the beach.
Wistful nostalgia too delicate to breathe.
Potent as ocean.
Tides are circumstances,
symptoms bearing no relief.
Bury me at the crest.
Flotsam and jetsam,
sea foam all alone,
no pretense.
Beat me, daddy.
It's okay to hate me.
You made me hate me, too.

Chimes bid farewell as the last wind to ever end,
blows its final charms through the hairs on our arms.

Walls, with bubbled fire gleeful for escape scratch-
out etches of their own cave paintings. I'll remember you.

Times hid beneath a soft surface the soul's foreign purpose,
to explore the alien that is land beyond here, a future mere.

Struck dumb, deaf, congenital heart murmurs and other gossips.
Fogged out windows bottomed at the last ends of an emptied quarry.

We dug the new digs and the careful resemblance to a rhyme we like to sing-
along to, in lieu of the high notes we contort brows and eyes high for a few.

This tumult of twenties gleam in stark contrast.
Made heavier with temptations, I forgot everything.

Finally tired of the past I find the future narrowing before my salted vision.
Too late to change course,
reef ourselves, then. The wind has harrowed a billow the last of its kind.
We are now safely where we must be, were told to go, were held and pointed
to by arms hairier than ours then, "That is your place in this world."
Carried across the sea in a pity as a great wind,
carried us, too, across the sky.

We act as rupture on this virginity.
A land with no wind is too new.
God, please, tell me what to do.
Guide me in, again.

Another whimsy, a flimsy summer.
A ******, another loaned heart.
The heat is beaming, the lake is teeming.
With a thousand tiny fireflies,
lighting up the world and dreaming.

A scatter of mattering, a tatter
of matted mating. Cheery cherubs
bathing; in the teem off shore,
a bore, a long lost dream lost
in the hills of your lore.

A fistful of live, a heartfelt of pound.
Woke in a fritz of too-loud sound,
a smitten bit lip bleeding and sending
off to the predators around the way,
an approximated coordinate.

Cordon off the crime scene.
The air thick with iron,
though she was anemic.
I breathed in what made her veins thick.
I shook in my hands,
my fingertips amiss.

For a while I wondered, where the **** was I?
Surely this is still a dream, lakeside,
and lit now were not fireflies,
but cortisol levels and adrenaline eyes.
Pulsed and bugged out, wide.
You never were to see my surprise.

You beat me to it.

Another clover. Three leafed and in dew and
silky webbed spider home.
Passed over for praise of wanting found,
and not plucked. So while flourish green and
undecayed,
here this clover does remain.
Stepped over or on,
once during dusk,
once during dawn,
and growing strong in the rain.

Wish it to be held highly as having four.
But it's me, a lowly clover, who is only having three,
no more.

It's no longer the heartbeat.
Echoes instead, cooing.
Placating me with serpent wishes,
selfish desires.
Succulent, sustinent.
Cheap refrains repeated as a bridge,
before the heart stopping bass drop.
Echoes again, belting.
Three fingers deep into a whiskey,
and mind you there's an e.
Cheap American heritage bundled together
like a plastic suite of day drives and night caps.
Houses made of stucco, sticking in the heat of the summer.
Another simplistic S-word statement.
Another coughing mind without abatement.
Another ******* poet *******.

Cough perfume.
Let's leave here soon.
Breathe with lungs wide,
diaphragm aflame,
nose wide open like only love can blame.
Let's set this place back a century.
Bring on the dark ages,
tug the heartstrings,
form noose from sweaty bed sheets.
Listen to rain on aluminum awnings.
Pout after you mourn.
Dream in past tense,
and use passive tone in your speech.

I'm with the trees in June.
Let's catch fire and leave here soon.

What a quiet indignity, the boredom of love emulation.
The whispered sweet bedroom nothings,
the romanticism, inundation.
First date, wide eyes, toothy grins,
and a penchant for wine bottles,
and pronouncing French words for sins.

Sloppy romantics get bedded quick,
but a quick witted clever girl gets her pick.
Rub your thumb against their spine, trace
from border to border of "What's mine?"
Chase.
Their sinewy hands and how they grip you.
Slip you off
the,
countertop. And slipped stiller and lower,
oxytocin grower. Just show her the prime.
The three little words that'll drive
that rise in serotonin, bitter pink tongue
clicked behind gritting teeth.

Let her bite you. Let her shed you of your earthly noise.
Let her feed on your supple, your moist, let
the piercings crucify you for now.
Consent, let, and allow.
It's a single night we can do without a fight.
Make breakfast together.

A new phone does not need to mean the latest model.
After the last firmware update meant to throttle your
speed.
I still have a Samsung Galaxy
S7, and no, not the ones that explode.
Those were the Note.
Mine is fine and every single day five PM sharp,
another update readies itself to start and download.
But I say, "No."
And push it off another twenty-four.
It's become my own version of an alarm.
A reminder that putting off what you don't want to do
is fine, too.
Fear of missing out?
**** that, my life is in my hands.
Which shake as they screen calls from numbers I don't recognize.

As well as any other anxiety.
Keeping pace with the Joneses doesn't interest me.
If it were organic, the push to upgrade and not be obsolete,
then maybe
I could find myself worrying about sending out faster tweets.
But life lived parallel to somebody speeding through on tracks.
Makes the living-now too blurry in a time when looking back
is called depression.

Handheld, free fall from the devil in the sky.
Whispering appendages,
speaking in tongues as mine knot--
and untie.
The best love of my life
lives in the clouds now.
Free fall from the devil in the sky,
lose all meaning of purpose,
and time.

Nobody can lead you to free.
Not a soul can rescue me
from selfishly induced purgatory.

I'm fine, I'll tell you from time to time,
but I am not believed.
So have faith in me, don't trust me to be true.
You are not the one I love, merely the in lieu.

Hello, my stormed out songbird.
In the grey halo of a power outage.
The darkness has blues and tinges
of tender outings within it.

The whirs of mechanisms and technology suddenly stopped.
The air crisp in our lungs and not scared of Legionnaires.

Autumn has begun and it is upon us.
On every cold shoulder of forgotten friend,
a penny underneath an old shoe.
Whose tread is worn thinner by the year's end.

Who are you, my songbird?
Where have your gay chirps gone?
Sing something fresh for me in the light.
The grey halos of the storm need song.