I hope your blood vessels strangle you all at once from the inside, slowly crumpling you to the nothingness you are -

A biological trash compactor of cold, sweaty immolation.

As
All the lies you tell yourself are laid barefooted across the burning ashes of your self-ruined world.
As
Everything that you are disintegrates into the vile sludge of your failed human existence.

As
The violence of Man’s hatred turns on itself, for once.

I hope your god obliterates you -
Or someone else’s god -
Or I’d even settle for a Big Mac truck,
Or
A chicken bone in your

     Meatless
          throat

when you do it:
i will make a decision     between the button sleeves
and the shirt that needs cufflinks.
i will pick the the buttons
because i will be able to roll up the arms
if i want to.
i will pick the shoes                                      that shine.
i won't be guilted into praying at funerals anymore.

honeyfly.

drumming out claval basins
in bruised thigh meat

in cuneiform
        claw marks down the
rib-collapse path(way)


embalmed in slurred
                wish
as the slush-rushed
                 outflows

        crystallize
       slikker than
           waning

stones
not lain to

carrion cairn
hillsides

food for glaciers
belly for trinkets .


_a clearing [mound] for mourning its unmourned nature

legs for
leg things. (and catching teeth.  .. ,..)

The world around you is not everything all at one moment and in the same place.

It is separated out into compartmentalized steps :

Understand what step you are on
Chose you next one you will take,

Look up at where you are going -
But don’t forget to watch your feet at each
next
     Step.

The things that are here, are here now
And you are here now

All the thing that have been, or may come to pass,

They cast shadows from themselves that we can watch dancing at the back of the cave.

But we are Now.
And Now needs to be dealt with now.

what’s left of of a girl
/
i’ve found her  

/

won’t be giving all
won’t be missing the wisely dog-eared
places

:

the moment the portrait
became

cauldron

.
evermore



.the dreams, as they were
.the un-scrubbed, literati-***** genius


a trial-and-error machinegun lunge-forward kind of loving

a kind of loving .

  



                a kind
            of loving.



//the sound the housegutters make when they beg the rain for mercy .
the rain .

/the well-threatened promise of “now” .
the softened blows of its passage.




the blacktop, swimming (and the music.)

your fingers    find answers like old magazine
pages.get turned into puppies

i'm yellowing   w/i/t/h
                              them
i had more but i lose it when i lose you to the floor
like chestnut-husks against your skin
like failing to ******* .
   flowers faking it in a field somewhere-
it's enough to

.

c-u-t bangs off.impulsively
shirtless
outside in the/end.november
pre.noon

buzzing the side of a silent head

out there:

burn on

Is to be life

To hold fire
Is to be human

First
Keeper

Of the flame : first human

Ancestor of all devils

.

hands of hate

those who seek to brand knowledge as private property
prioritize destruction above all else

do not let them

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

.



.
hellhound famil

falling

cybergoth princess

go do something better and talk to me in about 5000 years when we chance by eachother in some deep pit of whatever next hell welcomes us so openly

\\






///////
breath is stopped
and teeth, like glaciers_ carving scar-like channels  in the earth
  
know


i “I’m”
and i am saying too much

in answering, i hold us up from getting at the meat of it.

seat of it. sitting there,stinging me.
too afraid to get so    clear

I push sky and space away

Rumble  me into landscapes disconnected from my feet
And my head is the only thing with me that had got anything left to do with it now .
Bouncing back and forth on a too-thin neck
Not holding upright
Crumpling in like  . foil
     Like green moss drying in the
     Sun
I learn to be real
Appreciate
     Like how every knocked over telephone pole
     Happened.


If



It will happen still

///////
breath is stopped
and teeth, like glaciers carving scar-like channels  in the earth .
  
With soil.
ringing in the ears,



Swimming in rivers without bottoms.
Cooling me down in a fever, in time

I “I’m”
And I am saying too much

In answering, I hold us up from getting at the meat of it.

Seat of it. Sitting there,stinging me.
Too afraid to get so   clear

your mouth is a wristwatch. i stare
impatiently. noticing strange things,
folding the corners of my page-wanting fingers towards you.
the breaths taken
say so much about the situation.
killing children in other counties
while we wait       
              _
my leftovers get shoved behind your
seat.
it takes a moment to stabilize.

you sunburn like antarctic summer.  eyesglazed inside

+plastic
+basins  

catch it like big pores casting texture from raking angles
you glacier
spark white against cobalt glass

silver ring
oil skin
metal pen
[dishes in the sink/everything]

the dog, crated, waits patiently for the coming of morning:
and with it, breakfast.
still in her red jacket
delivered today
she lies somewhat uncomfortably in it. but not
angrily, as before.

the dishes pile up in the kitchen: not caught up from the week_
they will remain too, sleeping until dawn
standing as evidence of time passing
and of bodies being fed.

minds will wander to other things
but bodies have been fed
and they push into tomorrows (because of it.)
[.    ]

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

dis/belonging ,
The broom-swish thrush (******)
curtain.fall of

your
lash-filled
scan

hits the side of
  my .  body      like

        [  ___ ] .






   zip-fold me  .   into

jackets
     full of
It .

humbaba-house
torn down
for ill-gotten cedar

and other spoils of
war

you find things
that are worth finding .

I spy with my little- I
Spy with my little eye

a sleep cutter
red sheet maker
wet pillowcases and
wet pillowcases and
blankets.

.wet as

long-sound
footsteps on the scuff of downturned sidewalks

estranging.
distance
.from us

as wrought iron bridges
meeken,

aching.
like a saxophone

.the
pin-patter

the roadrash of the path ahead
mars the viable skin graft of
her tender side-
haunch forward,
too towards the future to care and

resurrection



animal vegetation, visitation rights and eight days of blue sunshine

on a red.
window.


bird feeder world washes yellow sparrow birds sundial weather watch the water get so warm

isn't it beautiful to know exactly where the bowls are in the pantry cabinet,
and the way she kisses each gummy bear promptly before biting off its head.

grooves grip
the road and wet
                     fistfulls of brainmatter
schluffing-off
idiosyncrasies
like a culling of
outside voices
in
favor of
deadguys in sunglasses

ditch-skid kid
doing what he’s told and
following directions

and the grass was ******* green
and the land unfolded into an ancient
suicide pact
it thanked us.
like a kettle that spits hot when it pours-
like a ring finger that shrivels in the cold-
like plastic that splits open at the seams-
like a goblin's sabbath-
like blood where it belongs-
like rust-
like any sky seeking a wall to shine on.
inside of a room/
but what they don't understand is that i am
cool.
and under a strawberry duress-
honey-drop guns fell down to the earth
drinking me.
i
found you there
hiding under an old chair leg. in an indentation left in the rug-
long since the table gets thrown
away
and the world gets remade again,
and i took the old bodies and hid them.
and in the end again,
(you are choking)
i met you there
under all the promise of a yandere moon.
gleaming pale as your voice yet faltering into the
shadows grovelling at your feet.
wanting to peel off its ugly skin.
standing dumb
in the absence of news.
and
her
hands fluttered as he crumbled through the door
she smiled like a ballpoint scrawled down the spackle of the front
hall
the landing creaked as you crept.

we wanted to wade down the hairy stairs and outside-
see the the stars whipping out their **** down at us
from above
.
you touched your arm

Looking through a stack of old Nat Geo’s found in an art room cabinet is
probably
one of the most sublime and authentic human experiences .

It,being untouched for so many years.
I, being the fist to cut it up for picture projects .
I remember
The
Transience .

And the dusty ficus
By the window nearest the closet in the further-back, less used part of the
space.

The very aesthetic that I’ve been searching for
Since

i will spin your flesh like wool
just for the morsel of your heart
i will stop the music
and look at you

i will look at you

/and at the wet extremities
we dine together.

bone.grey blanket
under shines the night,
casting longer stares into the tangle of looming shiftsleepers.and.groaning.boughs

It’s always trash day somewhere pt. 6

Like convection currents sitting atop pavement in July
Like white slices of paper dragging across the air between your words
You write me off like -
I think I can wash you from my fingernails but-

A new perspective on old music videos I always hated
Not that I like it now but just that I’m different.
I jot you down like
Growing up doesn’t stop
Like a fathers shirt in a picture

I bury my self in my head
Mouthshut and wanderlust wonderful
The wonder years
Are twisted


A couch in my mind
Plush and rough like old stuffed animals


The shore sheds me and sands me down to size
Like a frame on the side table I
Sit tilted to the sun of the window knowing only cool air from the vent while outside cooks the earth with grease and greasy hands
The diner fans push air but don’t let you breathe
Stuffy and heaving
Like
****

Apolo comes dressed at the night

They call him, lantern holder
They call him, light bringer

He comes
He ****.

like.a call from inside the house
their          prickling
    sediment
  deposit
upon
              her.chordate lineage.its
                  taxonomy.it’s
                    telling time. an
   

e x h u m a t i o n     of
    pores:
       pathways


                     she,      the
=part.hungry
    receptacle

         as
.they rake all delicacies
                            // pressed        
        backwards \

as willing substrate

in howls
in smoke signals           and
in trembling lungs.

frominside
  the heaving molecules
gargles,a new lament

for courage, they cry out
as electrons are forcibly
stripped_

leaving art-****
nuclei
in voyeuristic
[ display]
for hungry
magnetic mouths   to
                   s p li t

a shower, like a casting away of minuscule multitudes
singing along and misremembering the words
a dredge into origin
a deluge of removable things

a distorted reflection in the soap-****-nickel-alloy-plated places

a chance

God is an urban legend
More dangerous than a creepy pasta in the news

And youth is less corruptible than nations.
And the stories
The normies
tell each other are comfort and exclusion of fault and responsibility .
Sensation spreading
I play with my ribs
Thumb side pressed below shoulderblades
and skipping in and
Out
Of grooves

I move
Towards you
And in for the
****


If
******* can hurt it
Then do it.

Barcode sticker on the shower wall wet and dripping ink like one handle hairy bandaid from a leg

mitochondrial moves
make out . dance steps
by the stairs

i push past your cell walls
grinding on something sticky ,
that
in that
basement brain
is
storing stories .

like
a promised need for later;
like a cupboard full of (china glass)
:lipids in love


performance .
red shoelaces .

concert for a clawfoot tub .
*** in the hair .

bath, breakfast, breaking ******* .

.for all the fires i’ve put out
.for those i’ve failed to
.for the embers that i will never seek to extinguish


.for _

keep pushing on ropes .   instead of untying our tongues
keep touching .   our sleeves to the table
like accidents in waiting
like breath on a bad neck  .i fight to remember     the touch of grass
i keep down
it's dust. it's talking behind the school yard
it is.
sunn beating down

unga bunga ,
and other short stories about everything that has ever contributed to what it means to be
Alive

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.

morning breaks like kissing god with tongue her hairless legs are squirming under the earth the long wait is over our privilege is returned to us we pass it along like virulent youtube
comments

the greedy void hurries away precious, hoarded vapors into a quietly latched  chest    

     full of hours. days. weak-knee, stormfront months and whispered lore of the return of canopy cover to the pewter forest .

the same paths traced out with each rut in the road lines
a cycle of scars in the world like the thirsty, reaching tendrils of a dry riverbed

the skin bunched across my finger bones
splits open.in pious sacrifice to the nascent frost



pebbled gully,
shambled stone hands trying to hold up the
wholething

how do right things get
done_



a  calling card
comes
home.  the mouth of a dollhouse.

a department store with all the lights turned
off.  

the sound of splashing without
source .oh, what  
mud
we
    might     have
       been.

it’s a dark, wet morning
and the city inside you
sloshes
to attention .

dragging pieces of the world
down
quiet
highways - and

through uncounted chapters
of all histories :


the food chain.
the great exchange .
the plain way things happen
[that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  

[that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that ]  [that ]  [that ] [that]  [that ]  [that ]  [that][that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that ]  [that, which

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

sung longer lungs. bromide cut
sun sought - sight asunder
save for later slaughter

smug ****, of
var.
necromancies .
push-pin, him

he who swims,
he who begins
with pointing out the
wet opacities of the
        churning
        sky-sack
inside which, we are
tossing
like a baritone rumble-**** of dreamfood.


all garnet and dark, now.
all garnet and **** dark .

stinking like a wet jungle flower
******* balled up in her fingers

the
clouds swimming across the sun.  casting a thin iridescent shade
that exists only in the obligatory beach trip episode of any decent
anime.
you treat me like
       a
holo[graphic] card waiting to be found in a foil booster pack


.i am rotoscoped by your gaze



hum.
hum.
hum.