.

vapor on vapor moorings
your lips end when the smoke fades
brunette ashes on black tile floorings

(lit from above)
mascara tear ducts' lathe
eat a blown glass dove
with halos of smoke rings
the angels resurrect then bury
stock and store
nicotine for the winter
2 moths between doors
and 7 leaves of cherry


you
lift the latch
and slip inside
knowing
no one has heard you
but me
turn out the light
and
be my pure fire

hair bleached, blonde, orange, ginger
(it's funny cos i'm not quite sure)
she brightens the rooms' darkest corners with just a mere twitch of her lips and her bright blue eyes and her giggle
it's perplexing how she doesn't see
(then again none of us do)
that she's as beautiful as the girl down the street
in fact even more
with every inch of skin and scar
it makes her prettier than anyone else
but the best part that no one else had
was the heart she held within herself.

tucked away and hidden,
like her arms always were under those huge school jumpers
she kept her soul and eyes away
from the nosy ones and lovely ones alike
despite them caring or not.
she always thought she'd never matter
to anyone else or even herself
but she failed to see the hearts and arms opening up to her
because she refused letting anyone in
(why katy why?)

so no more scars my lovely girl
put the blade away
don't even store it for those bleak rainy days.
because you're better than that all of this
because eventhough something in life may be amiss
there's always a gorgeous yellow sun to shine down on you
to light up your freckly face and your fluffy golden hair
and the scars are enough
so even though times are rough
your skin just needs a break
and so does your heart
though it may break apart
it will eventually come to its senses and piece back together.
you're oh so strong and one day a guy will come along
and you'd probably punch him in the face
but I hope that day would come soon
so I could see you giggle and swoon
over some white boy
(you better have good taste)

this pretty little flower
is such a blessing to me
and i'll never forget the trip we're going to plan
and i hope when we meet for tea perhaps
we'd still gush and laugh and rant
about things that mean too much about nothing
and we'd still be somewhat best friends

stressed and depressed but well-dressed is what they say
but i've only always seen her in ripped black tights and a short black skirt
*is it weird that we've never met but i feel like i've known her for years?

carved you out of me
and the cancer is gone.
i'll deny every word of it but
(i know we both look at the holes)

you dug your hands into my heart,
to plant your tiny seeds,
they blossomed beautifully.
the soil in my heart was washed away with a flood of tears,
and the plants you buried inside of me suffocated my soul and choked me.

only the good die rough
homies in the hood have tough ties
wrists cuffed in gold lacking its prismatic appeal
fashion how to ride the wave without an ocean
slaves to the potion addicted to it’s drips
fill my veins with conspirators
I have lies inside of me
but I will die an angel
cause when the reigns change hands
the beast dies first
never cursed to the verses of your past lives
there is no drug more pure than clarity
when right and wrong was a double entendre
communicated a dissonance to duality
sly peasants moan to support their guilty habits
an empty chalice grasped by calloused hands
cancer ridden epiphanies that maybe
this really isn’t your fault
the vault has been empty for too long
don’t take advice from any more fortune cookies

they took my man off the street
the other day
he wore an L.A. Rams sweatshirt with
the sleeves cut
off
and under that
an army shirt
private first class
and he wore a green beret
walked very straight
he was black in brown walking shorts
hair dyed blonde
he never bothered anybody
he stole a few babies
and ran off cackling
but he always returned the infants
unharmed
he slept in the back of the
Love Parlor
the girls let him.
compassion is found in
strange places.

one day I didn't see him
then another.
I asked around.

my taxes are going to go up
again. the state's got to
house and feed
him. the cops took him
in. no
good.

I'll settle for the 6 horse
on a rainy afternoon
a paper cup of coffee
in my hand
a little way to go,
the wind twirling out
small wrens from
the upper grandstand roof,
the jocks coming out
for a middle race
silent
and the easy rain making
everything
at once
almost alike,
the horses at peace with
each other
before the drunken war
and I am under the grandstand
feeling for
cigarettes
settling for coffee,
then the horses walk by
taking their little men
away-
it is funeral and graceful
and glad
like the opening
of flowers.

from my bed
I watch
3 birds
on a telephone
wire.

one flies
off.
then
another.

one is left,
then
it too
is gone.

my typewriter is
tombstone
still.

and I am
reduced to bird
watching.

just thought I'd
let you
know,
******.