so,

i saw a piece of you
the other day.
i found you out in the yard.

and. i used to find you
                everyday,
but,

we are the inside of a silverware drawer when the lights go out.
We are an old can of soda
we are the underside of a frying pan.the hinges of medicine cabinet mirror.the back of a fake hand gun

a pocketfull of chemical hand warmers

The washing label on shrunken, favorite, sweatshirt-
storeboughtstarmarketpumpkinpie.
Brooding at the breakfast table.
a telephone that rings when you don’t want it to.
we are nylon down vest- reversible-  tucked inbetween
arm and
oilskin hat.
We are dead houseplants.

homemade radiator covers,
feet under the covers
we are  waking up
we are slacking off in class.hating other people.wading into bathtubwater. I. hurt her daughter

polished like a powderhorn.hurting like a can of vegetarian baked beans.
like an old pocketknife.

we are
pantsless in the hallway. we are backyard garden. we are tripping over the recyclables on a sunday.    
we are good radio song.
we wanted garlic.butter we got hotdogs instead.
That’s supermarket poetry. It hit us.
golden and radiant-
as the smiles in the   cereal aisle.
And it was cold outside.

the milk froze in the car

as the thighs above the knees burn through tears in the jeans. as the
belly
burns. as we think of something nice.
as jet trails droop like wet knives in a daylight shooting
.
we don't make wishes on them.
we just wish that the a/c will kick in when we
step through the door.

summer like chapters of mangled honey.
fingers like attitude problems.          she lept in front of the bus [and broke her
legs.]
i stutter for you.
here comes my:
fur lips.   storage bins.facilities.knuckle dragging. shouting lisp_
it's rough like
tweed-belly-hairs pushing up against soft earlobes resting on them

in the afternoon.

Hanna Montana is dead and we are happy now.

and
some call megod.          
my best fetishes are a housewife that wants you dead for wearing spaghetti straps
and a hairy chest.

she watches the news-
gets off to it.
as
her son and step-daughter **** in the basement.
they lean in place in nothing but those white cotton socks that get wet and sticky from the laundry detergent spilt across the rubber-
mat.

the *** stained push-up will get left down there.
the machine will tear it out of its wire armatures.

outside the sun is burning the lawn.

outside
the fat black flies are *******.
they drop, heavy- inside the windowsill
after 4 days of fury. the good fight
is lost.
their wings are sparkling


like gems.

you're my body
sticky with
tar like black rust-oleum
that won't dry in the cold sea air-
the pitch that the gulls drown in,
the way you part your hair.

there is passion and there is numbness
and there is something inbetween.
something that's alotabit a both-
that's all mixed up and frantic.its quiet on the outside
but unpredictable

there's the meanness in this world
and there's the not

and there the winter time

and an old LP of houses of the holy jammed up at the cardboard corners and worn down to the white  along the spine

and when you can't close the door hard enough
i am the sharp-ribbed man under the bed
that wants to touch you
and through all the sheets that wrap around you
i can still feel you
with my
fifteen fragile fingertips there's nothing to understand there is only to listen. or try to ignore
and you swear you can hear my shallow breathing
my slender arms bristle for sensation
your slender body
twisted into blankets
i must take away

the radio that sits in your belly

fills you with ****.
uncomfortable,
in the yard



like the last information
taken from flesh burnt into the backs of
wallets and anything still stuck to the building itself
home at last.

i could out you.
      in an instant
but.

lay not in the grasses- for the listing of the world(s)


wash the backs of your knees

prethunderstorm, arm-deep into the buoyant ions
wet molars      slipping backwards         drying out
girls running track
(in and around buildings)
>throwing up everyday

acid backs of teeth decaying me.
like the mold on the white windowsill-
out in open airs
the film you think might be just
dirt.
like the unexplained black things under your fingernail anatomies

like grabbing the wrong towel

putting on a clean t-shirt
a necklace clasp caught in the back of your hair.      cutting it

gentle and godless
head-damp in the big nowhere
like an out-patient gun   waiting to send its children home





/

her head wilted into the crook of his shoulder- waiting to be taken apart
for diagnostics.
the circuitry was buzzing quietly. only the blue lights
and one orange switch
were left blinking.
outside the window, things were trembling billions of years away.
outside the window- the vacuum drank slowly
from what was left inside.

they had arrived at destination.whatever that means.
she didn't look up.
he couldn't.

a quiet kind of clean soon followed
away in the crematorium
kings and cool lovers danced slowly
a quiet kind of clean came suddenly
we followed it closely
but it got away

you were buzzing in the bathroom.
slapping yourself against the tall window

i thought to myself,
            i'll swing open the hinge and set you free
but when i went to wash my hands, you stopped buzzing-
and i stopped caring.
   and i walked away

but remember
every hero is somebody else's scumbag
and if that were good enough. we'd be home
and yet
twisting me,
greedy-
bleeding like a baritone.

still,
beggars can't be choosers but killers can get you
if they want.

it's ******* you over like the memory of a 7th grade dance.
lissome where it hurts.
dreaming like a hallway.running hot from throwing up over the railing.

chest-wet
and dripping into the ringing of my ears.
your slender limbs fold over themselves for convenient storage.
i'm
running out of options in the smooth outside of your fantasy
                                                                ­                                rings- many digits a-caged
i've fallen down before you.

stuck inside the wills before you touched your lips to my fingers.
i am repeating in your forests,
dark as they are.
before the world is lit,
i stumble, blind enough to the lake. and the
unshod calling that bids me
                                      to you.

and even now, as the grey waters wimp away into the other side of the opening - the frost that stays close to the dew          takes lives.

sitting here,
i know that look in your eyes
like culty mattress store fake zen music.
ambient as ****.
and you were waiting for the radiator to burst-
explode, **** everyone with
chunks of cast iron hurled through their heads
like nothing.
you,
listening to the hiss and whur - lazy and calm
like nothing was wrong.

even if things get better
           -even
       if
             they
      get good,
we can never be the same.

even if i can reach a point when i can say "i love you" again, (which by the way i still do- even though mostly i wish i could stop.)

it can never be the same.

even though no mater what happens, i'll still care about you for some reason- and i'd never wish you ill,
it will never be the same.

your name upon my lips will never be quite as special.


don't take comfort in any kindness i extend.
that's just who i am.
how i'll always be.
i'm still taking everything in slowly.

i never yelled.
or called you names.

not yet.

though i don't think i would- don't think i could-
that's not who i am.


i've tried so hard.

i wish that you had tried just a little bit harder
- a lot harder.
it turns out you really didn't try very hard at all.

it shouldn't have been that easy to bury 4 years of me giving you everything i ever could and more.
-for the love of god, you were the first girl i ever kissed.

that was in highschool.
that seems like a long time ago.

i feel old.

i can never be the same.

hair in the shower drain
lets the water sit
in a sick kind of peacefulness.
blissful
decay
scares us into dormancy,
just before spring

it will always be emma's room.
(no mater who moves in later)
and on we go.

in time my dear,
the soft,whining sound of

hours
slipping
past your open palms and through your moist fingers

will cease to amaze.
or even feel the need to take in a breath for your presence-

.you look like rain and slow burning cigarettes
blank check. ink wash. arson-ette.

shutting the door on another night of angels-
and other fiery things

meant to complicate
us,  
here in this city of
children.

.

its amazing what bodies can be

from one moment to the next






























.

everyone thinks themselves the hero of their own story,
but that simply can't be true.
for those of us that accept the comfort of villainy,
it is much more liberating.
its not  that i adhere to any great evil,
its just that i don't care for such vanity.
heroes ****
villains simply walk away
god kills like a hero.
I watch and walk away.

and when i'm overconfident,      i give away things that i shouldn't
i will miss them someday when i'm in bed-
the nails still growing
no mater how short they get cut. keep cutting
them shorter and shorter

looking down at it.
hallway-stairling 
bleating,
unsated.
perambulating this



/

i dream
of

my hand pushed through your hair like a gasp of hot air- the chemical burns cradling your head upon impact-arms like a limp nylon belt to strangle out the painand your neckbrokenand twisted around the words you could never managetosay
-or even muster up the courage to believe
we collided
on the way to discover a new piece of beautiful

we collided.
you feel to your knees.

i swept you aside

and whimpered for
new religion

it's 2oclock in the morning on election night.i am driving over to the east end
projects with my mother in a blue minivan.

my nana
is having  another nervous breakdown. she's already called 911 twice about a rattle snake in her kitchen closet .
we get there to find a
peanutbutter-and-jelly sandwich cut into
three uneven peices
it's
wrapped in clear plastic,
set aside for a nonexistent maintenance man who fell out of the bathroom window
  while painting it.

we learn her very living daughter has died in a motor vehicle accident while in transit to see her husband, my grandfather- who died when i was in second grade.

she explains to me how she shut the closet door in such a fashion as to make the enclosed space entirely    airtight.
she
won't let us open the door.
she
laments the ****** of the snake by her
deeds.

the conversation turns to the positioning of
furniture.

we spend an hour and a half there.i
check the results on my
phone
i don't think i can go to thanksgiving
anymore.
a few neighborhoods away,my girlfriend is

crying
my nana        explains various recent births
in
the family that are untrue and
biologically
impossible.
most of the stories involve people  
supposedly
   next door.or in the basement

she talks about Elizabeth
who doesn't exist.

we go home after she finishes her peach
yogurt

i spend ten minutes outside my house , zigzagging around the block.

i catch my first snorlax
who
is my favorite pokemon.

it is a foolishly low cp

on my t-shirt , cropped in
set against a text explanation
lit by the sun
and
singing through the air like electric
                arrows

but for the span of this
     /rolling/
        fall : we
may yet

shuffle.away
at the end
     of

      i
      t



p e t a l - s c u f f e d ,
yet
s t e m - s u r v i v e d .

what
stands between
a man
and a plan_
crinckles amidst children.
their hands clench to it like funeral-
fingers around a showroom rosary.
no-one believes in it.

god is like paperwork

and you are tiptoing now.
but i can hear you
i am coughing up weatherstripping.
i shoot through the gap in the crowd☆
i am reprimanded over a can of soda
she is fuming.


my dress-watch is broken. with nothing to
look at, it turns.to remembering a certain pair
of shoes and an asian supermarket we
used to go
to.

stepping soft by the pads of my feet
***** water pools around the ***** of my heels. as i dig into the moist earth
as i leave holes in the mud as i step away.
and
a bitter gurgling sound crept out of your mouth
your lips burnt open and split apart from the things bubbling there-
from the back of your throat

i'd like you best wrapped up under the axles of my truck
but i'd rather not have to pay your brother to clean it up.
get the **** out of my home town
your driving the real estate value down.

in other words:
go back where you came from.

we don't
need that liberal faggy ****
i'm a man.
i'm a man.
i'm a man.

but i love the way my baby looks in that white summer dress caught around the warm summer air,
with flowers tangled up in her hair.
and the amber sun looks good in her eyes
i'm a man.

**** a ******, stab a ***
make my granddaddy proud.
love my baby, she's WASP like me
we're gunna start a family.
i **** her good, god gave me seed
you know i sow it as i please.
ultimately-
i'm good.

got a gun, bring it to school
always with me. i know i'm cool-
in case i need to get those sunni-shiite *****;  
shoot my teacher if i fail a test.

it's okay.i'm cowboy.
i'm good.

jesus loves me, he told me so.
******* Hey-Zeus, he mows my lawn.
-be ****** if i let them use the good bathroom  
it's all right they'll be deported soon.
and it's good.  

back in the city, jesus-  girls' ******* drop.
filthy ***** and cherries to pop.
but blondie looks good.

follow her home. i'm a really nice guy.
don't understand what made her cry.
just keep
*******
her anyways.

feminazi ******* wanna blame me
there just mad that they're ugly
jealous of my success
there all just ***** anyway.
*******.

and all those ***** livin' off the government's dime
handout *******. all of them should just die.
time to rise up
time to be
family man.
i.

oh, i'm a
good ol' boy,
i'm good.
(you know i'd **** you if i knew i could.)

but i love the way
my baby looks in that white summer dress caught up in the ******* air,
with flowers -like a promise- all in her hair.

the warmth of dusk,
cold science of night,
holding on to the promise of
changing,  with weary fingers
tracing shapes on
invisible seconds,
that came before:
-improbable.

I was entranced to begin with.
nothing you could have done would've changed that.

I was her boredom
As the monster cut up the city

We ordered food. and sat to wait out our imminent destruction

Disassembling  art installations that had grown out of my hair


Going to and from.


There will be no Magical  girl transformation sequence .
There will be no battle. And triumph

I was the summer.
Burning other people. while we stayed inside
For most of it

and then i realized that i was from the future.
and then i realized that we are all from the future.
and we all know whats about to happen next. but we think we are the only ones

so we keep it a secret from each other
and play along




-
and on the busride, an entire lifetimes worth of existence-  the rain hitting the window and actively listening to the screech of rubber against highway. dissecting the beautiful low rumble of different hums. falling asleep in the carpet covered seat with my hat puled down over my eyes. waiting to reach destination. waiting to be halfway home,

i wonder where it is your ****** metaphors come from
when you say things like    "she tastes like strawberries."
i am disenchanted         miscarried
by what you are trying
to say, if anything.
this
social significance of a tangy fruit ripe for harvest- tiny for your convenience.   connotations of innocence   to sensuality, ***, lips

if it is literal. evoking a certain tube of tacky lipbalm that finds itself applied tastelessly and often-

a certain perplexing exclusivity of diet.
or at least a strong penchant for the thing, that.

or if virginal.
recalling imagery of children's clothing- characters and franchises similarly swimming in the same shared canon of bad symbolism.
if you try to push us
into displeasure. violence. or grunge.
to challenge the peacefulness or comfort of normalcy.
shock us.
bring me somewhere

that would be better poetry.

i've read you like: all of you-
a thousand times from anywhere. any time
some might say the universality is its highest honor-
sign of its perfection and
truth.
it is not.
lazy.never real
long bereft of impulse
it makes you feel good because you are told it makes you feel good,
brought up with it.
watered down by it
like many other things.

devoid of specificity or idiosyncrasy
and the imagery of the DD/lg goes wayside.

though fetishist art, at its norm, becomes insular and self pleasuring
(just as fresh strawberries)
it can still be used as a tool when used to break away from expectation
as long as you don't let it become itself.
for it is just as average as anything else:
falling into a bad creepy pasta.
reading the news on a phone app.
unjustly scolding a cashier.
telling a girl that her skirt is too short at her bestfriend's father's funeral.
parents driving offspring to suicide through religion and therapy.

they belong to you.

you waded into me like aflame.
floating atop paper.

you flickered and danced as your sparks tickled the air above you

you sank into the river. as if there was nothing about you.

when i stepped on a dead mouse- or a crushed leaf- or something
and the milkweed was long gone
and my hands were wet. and fingers cold.
i stammered onto the edge of the opposite curb.

we all have a box of cigarettes stashed away somewhere
whether that's a metaphor or not.

but i was walking to the reservoir on another one of my nocturnal visits.
and i wish i could remember all the things that i've learned about the night sky
or at least see it better by the spotlights on the side of the d.p.w. building.  

and i forgive you like i forgive the mothers washing the last of the dishes in their kitchen windows
and i forgive the low, traffic-lit branches on the way back that cause me to crouch to the side
for fathers must scold their children.

and in 1955 there were black and white movies about madness and ******,
a man who comes back to find his father dead.
and at the end he discovers that he himself, had killed him.
four years ago.
forgot it all- fell to pieces

no one will notice
but at the restaurant
pressure treated wood stuffed under her sweatshirt
her frame soaked up into my ribs
pushed together hard
like the bones in our hips against the seat
to feel her guttural pulse.
in the space we share-
dive into the slow-burn stove in her voice
a flashlight passing through the red edges between your fingers with your hand held against it.
catalytic cells in tiny metal boxes breathing on the back of you neck.
nothing left between us but our elbows on the polyurethane-killed table
nothing happens.

we imagine splashing our faces with cold water in claustrophobic places- under pressure- pushing down into submarine voyages-

we take our time-

we open up our faces to the sleepless weeks, lying on the floor to stretch our legs

there is want of words between us,
but languages can't do enough to satisfy us
and looks can only hold us for so long.

and the contents of my head is old refrigerator meat-
leftovers found in the back after too long

[she doesn't  see.]

the smell of hemp rope
in a storage closet.
running around church basements- irreverent of upstairs.
small fires in the parking lot to prove we could.
small ****
behind card covers inside our heads.

i think future history will show PewdiePie as Marcel Duchamp
and the ideas curated will be
something.

god made man to re-caulk the bottom of the bath tub for his daughters to splash in,
man made god to send his stillborns someplace nice.

i saw one little blip

on the  

sawtooth wave




it must be me

whereas ****** and hate are more palatable than ***
and art.  

and the music of the world- you ****** up with your ****** voice:
you felt things hard but not well
and so were not worth
anything.

(and it was as
just
as it might have been.)

morbid is the mouth that tamed you to this loveliness
where it's cool to be sick.
and watch our arms wither back to the
lips bounded by vulgarities unspoken:
all the while they deserve far worse.
best
friends long since ****** over
scream out for eternal homes that fail to exist.
sick enough to the soft stomach. folds over the belt and hangs there just
enough to feel
shame. hair caught in the buckle and
pulling. 
fare free-er than the other ones:
the violence of the stock photo.
and of the clip art.
and of the godfearing people.
their curation was
like a goodmorning to the legs that carried you, homeless,
out of my caring.
like the salt, kicked around
by
boots that don't get taken off at the door.
like the trimming of a fingernail.
like the moisture of a breath.


but all this you embroidered into
the murmuring

to escape the fat sickle of the crop that hung lowly to the warm air
-out of the shower, ready to destroy us all

all the while wanting to be knotted
by any beast big enough to devour you

and combing through it all
i heard you crying

and i might have wept too
save for the bitterness still kept between my brows

your greatest gift all.

and by the
sores and the soles of my
encroachment,
we might build cities to that

like tasks that will be accomplished //
_my newly distended belly stakes me to the
  ground , having
overfed upon [virtues.]acrest  this
        windblasted highroad
which exists ,
     t r u l y ,
nowhere upon this
Earth.


our hands
drip
out from hiding
and into eachother’s hidden place.

[we live]
these
days
eyes, raw ringed: mauve.
dustcurtains. lung-still
and                 dry



cover gasping-
fingers sanded down, dusted away
to later be inlaid
with something
else.
grappling clever-
broken bird feet.
the gaping is wide enough down here
even
for you


wanting to be a victim of something good-
lapping up *** of(f) belly hair
entangled.

and

as every human speck
fights for selfpreservation- without clairvoyance or beauty.
as the mud pumps.
as carmen plays.
as we die again in less than convenient specificities.


we will be replaced.


like furniture.

and those who seek to optimize everything
right down the efficiency of shampoo in the shower-
will leave with nothing  
                           more than a clean head of hair


to fall from these, slowly
or quicker than that- depending on the mood of it. and things like
cancer.


and when the chemicals
find you
laying there alone. and sleepy
they will know to carry you outside into the yard. where the grass is
waiting
and the road is waiting
and the rain.
and the sound of cars.
and of   trees.

big-*******-trees.
roots gnarled meanly into the dark.rotty droppings of their boughs.
cold. mighty- dragging their bruisey knuckles against the
dirt
trees with ghosts
bigger than your thumbnails.
older than the grossest things in your
waste-basket.
tree-er than
tree.

and when the car swerves
and hits
i will be there.


sinking with you
into the the reservoir
doors closed.
belted.
and good


.but
i will be

and we
fall apart
don't speak
for days.


learn of the other too late.

there is the
creeping up. like a pale yellow blanket strangling hairless limbs
when it's too hot outside for us to brood properly-
and the oppression of the sun sends away our nuances in favor of a blunt
summer glow.
with all the neatness of a flat wash on the new sidewalks.
we, dumbed down and desensitized.
our fingernails sleeping at the bottom of cracks in the hot cement. like ants that crawl out of the dead grass and up under your skirt.
just as the wind tosses your hair nervously under the ugly sun.
just as you laughed at a harmless car crash.
just as the makeup running like a thin slip of tar.sliding deeper into the slits of your eyes.
just as Hemingway's tobacco-stained teeth gnawing at your ear.
just as my words forgot to feel around in the dark of my mouth to find you.
just as the razor-burns on your legs started to itch.
just as i cut my thumb opening up a bottle. and wiped it off on my shirt

i want fingers that trap you inside minuscule breaths.
the
shorter the better-

dragging down the seconds like shoes on in the lake water.
these
that threaten to tear off with each pump of the legs.
as the arms stay thrashing unawares, as they reach for a hand-hold that isn't.
as the ring around your mouth spits across the magazines on the coffee-
table, leaving marks.
as the pillows on the couch come misshapen to the point just outside of comfortable.
as the moisture gathers in the armpits.

dawn breaks.

heat rises from the roofs of automobiles.
eyes readjust to light that puts gunk back into them.
the city is like orange glass.
your hair
is hair.
i let drool slip across your ****.

we've had it too good to (****)
we sit in soft bedrooms but
feel like we are freezing in the street
with a hard fistful of hairy knuckles and bad years
we talk like we've been there,
we sing like we've cut our lips open on the wind-
pushing our hands into our pockets down to the elbow to get out of it.
walk tall or sling low by the hold of our railroad boots.
sharpen our pencils with swiss-army-knives,
pick out our splinters with it
but we have too few,
       we've not learned to hold things carelessly enough-
not learned to hurt hard enough.

:
is just fear of the unknown -

but it remains that only through
questions
that we can take any
actions
at all

master of virtues no longer called for.
master of virtues not yet called for.

a hero with 1,000 faces
fights a faceless monster
in a field of ruin    and
  beyond observation

caught like a row of
selenium pillars holding up a
prism
earth

encrusted in
skittering moments w/o time

heaving a blade
into
salt-silt flickering slit

([]}        (  •. )         _

Amsterdamiss is
typing into an internet comment section:_

but she's gone.
by the look of her little square
picture.
Her blip in the fetish
It's a costume
leaking through the build up for it>gumming up each pixel> disappointing us.
and don't forget      
          to bite down
when you' chewing gum.
or just scraping something historic from the front of a nicely shaped
building

our fingers
are
red
as the blood flowing through the veins of our revisionist
history.america
can ******* babe.
we are exceptional.


and they're showing it on the disney channel  
and out in the street-like folds that peel out doing at least
45
without looking
on the places on my body.
if you
scroll down, some kid calls her a ******.
but i'll let you hate me
if you want to. as i correct the dead smile of the news reporter.as she
feeds some sort of loaded question into the
screen
like: "you just have to thank god at times like these, don't ya?"

.
"it really is a miracle, isn't it?"
as we stand
in front of the fire that's taking just about everything.
in front of the shot-up restaurant.
in front of my shaking hands.


******* savages
all of 'em

it's the middle of the night, babe.
don't you have anything better left to say to me?
at least
give me something to feel shame about.
it's coming
down
to you.

     -
I say something mean.


not yourbabe. might be your babe.
**** like a snapback-
Melfina tilts her head back
i'm garbage

with a fresh grasspour
fade to green,  as the sun beats us senseless .with shotgun shells from the center of orbit
to breathe as this. as the saltwater beads up around the
little wrinkle of her
nose.
she can save us.

but
there's nobody to hold your love for you, when you're too ****** to grip it.

  _/ _
\       /
/   ^  \here's a lucky star for you, babe- you're gunna need it, here at the center of it all.

i can't.
when trimming the calico hairs on skinly jaw.
like trip-hop leaching out of your pearly *******:
like magic-jesus.
with porcelain around her
animal seeds.
where i can find:
the swirling of Listerine flushing down the side of your throat.
like swabbing for cells from the floor of your tongue

like swapping girls.
or
(like) picnicking       deep inside
flower-bait.blue
trilling Gatorade apology/  
simulating love.

and even now. inside the folds of dead house plants  
i would be okay if you stained my teeth
with anything
you
had
to offer.
horse-whole in the water-
milky for you-
white as cuticles.

like the /**** me/ hum of the A/V cart
hooked up and left running:
nothing.
stuffy
in the boxed we built

i am more perfect than camouflage
like pipilotti rist screaming her lungs to pale ribbons.
as kimono as Kiki was real
she- as brave as anything

i found it out.
as fragrant as
the deepest rooted thing-
blissfull as the afternoon.
as
red
as good cadmium.
and that is ******* red

the nape of her neck
smells of soda and leather  

she rubs her eyes.

my hands are raspy hanging around your breastbone as if it were
a
trashcan
from which i seek vantage, looking out across the grass for a
familiar     face.

bangs tumble over her brow like rain on a
tin roof-
a soldering joint that comes undone after years of dissatisfaction, a broken arm.i am left humming an asymmetrical tune.  no longer familiar with the haptic feedback of my palm against your jawline-

i
find you the way i find the tone of a bell shaking  in my belly.
inside there, you are
a chorus of drips from the faucet
                                      a room away.     
filling the basin.

around the circumference of her wrists are thin red indentations where elastic bands have been
removed.

i can trace like-marks around her waist.
there are pink shadows between her shoulderblades that
              show me
              where
to apply pressure.

i do so and crack our spines downwards


the hairs on the back of my forearm are taken between her lips and tongue
       so as to
     moisten them at the breach of her mouth

we modernize
and carcrash into eachother

we are there dangling on the ground

Like severed limbs
as
Uru as
Uuuuuu

the sailor-scout of your head against    m  i  n  e  
              fades into silhouette
(like something    good )
your brow  is beating better than the oscillating fan sounds
   that
we think of in moments like this..

learning that ******* is beautiful
when lies are shared

--the [****** ]in her breath presses skin outwards

.slipping off like goldtone wristwatch
like.flipping through polaroids of people you don't know anymore.


the best is over as the bra is unhooked and falls to the floor like a bad parachute
.
as if it could
slice through cities


you shoot a look as
bulma thighs bounce
like dinosaurs in the forest.
a long pink shirt
is enough to **** them

.reclaiming history through ******-death
one pink imprint left behind at a time.

focus on the clouds
it is better if we don't know what happens to the marks