a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil

am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle

you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential

see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing

think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited

for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain

my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn

they, the residuals of a man’s ******* with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa

Who else?

I don't expect you to read this and understand a word
I don't expect any miracles or revelations to come pouring
from your crystalline cranium
I just expect for my broken bones and shattered moans
to be audible to the naked ear
I don't want you to come crying to me
or even call me your knight in shining armour
all I ask is that you see you've always been the rider
and I'm just begging to be your ******* horse.

But you'll never see me for what I am.
that **** witch used your resonant frequency
and now youre in pieces
and your veil is sewn
you'll always see me in reflections of your past
goggles of your mother's addictions
but I swear I'm just sitting here holding out my open palm
even if all you see is my *******.

Man, I'll stitch up your torn up mainsails
if you'll be my captain
hell I'll even steer the boat if you want
but **** I cant work with you if youre sailing on the opposite ship
I mean come on
I'll let you sink those grappling hooks into the **** deck
swing an army of men onto my boards and beams
and you can take every rope, wheel, anchor, reel
I just ask that I get to be your prisoner
because GOD KNOWS thats all i'm good for anymore

but ill always be hereforyoui promise.

Twist my arm and break my back,
let the salt and the brine Float into my senses
and the broken particulate spread into my toes.
Dig that oily mass into my flesh and deteriorate my cells
dissolve my ether
ooh
let the howl of your generators flush over the break of waves
and drill into my eardrums the winds of my mountain.
I just want your purple, smoky blues without
the greys and the sheen of oils on my skins
spread over my feathers
drowning me in my own element.
You're fire, metal
warped transitions of nature flexing your synthetic muscles in my face.
Sorry, bro, I'm just not into that.
Turn around,
take your auto-clogged
smelted bull to the sun and
incinerate yourself
I'm tired of your leering, thirsty eyes.
I'll give you water till you drown but
you'll still drink you greedy whale.
at least whales know how to keep the balance.

keep the window open i cant stand to smell your skin, you are shivering. youre cold
(you tell me so (you want a response (i nod,)))
(but you are still cold)
do you have any
fantasies?
this halting voice heaves in my stomach pressing against the walls, making
me sick, the snap of your blinking lids a pickaxe to my temple. i think about
fire
a lot. i think about forest fires. filling the tank in a dead town, dark night quiet town,
the gas tank overflows (your nervous eyes in your sweating sticky face {your twitching gaze stroking the lighter in the glove compartment} dry dry lips {your wet tongue only makes them dryer})
breathing in her ear you say tie me to the stake tight tight so rope burn sears my wrist,
burn me with the dry kindling,
condensation drips down her neck, sliding down the arm. on the sidewalk in the pit of her shadow a puddle forms, wetting the wings of the unhappy wasps, joints twisted, the gaps in the exoskeleton show something bright, something bulbous, with forceps and needles it could be reached? its delicate skin pierced, oozing thick light (do you have any
fantasies?)
[so there are two of me, right,
clones, equivalent beings but
individuals. some sort of sick
government secret. human ex
periments. its not important.
i grab my clone by the neck or
it grabs me, its not important,
the dust billows when my feet
skid, im choking, vision blurr
ing, i claw at my hands, we f
all, dust bursts into the air, m
y fist makes sick thudding sou
nds when it hits, bruising my
knuckles on the structural bon
es of my face, possibly breaki
ng the more delicate ones. im
straddling my chest and im s
pitting out the teeth that i di
dnt swallow. then the clones
****? im not really sure.]

You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the ******
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.

Do you still perform autopsies on our old conversations?

Or do you let their existence decay,

just like you did with your love for me?

Niacin formal chat night
She dont wanna hear about her grudges moving through the mud
In a crowded dinning hall
Shoves her platform sneakers between the path way
Locked ankles with the smite
You only ever bring in the neighbors dogs, if you only ever toss your cats in the trash

Abroad the mystical veil, neath me and mine queen's feet, firmament of wonder, a singing Nightingale. The Ring nebula, an escort in the ample ether;  none weather, to defeat ourn handheld excursion. Across we cameth, to an unlikely diversion; a black hole ******* the innard's of anything to it's course. Nothing couldst escape it, I hadst to saveth mine Reyna; I threweth mine rose to the side; the whirl pool galaxy, I jumped inside the abyss, none remorse. Tis, I hadst to protect her, from the unholy beast, it needed sacrifice, I Gaveth it mine life; so mine empress couldst liveth in peace. Though the end didst not draweth near, as the Stygian cavity sought; I Gaveth mine blood, for mine amare and wife, as the gloomy pit didst not realize, I was already a spirit. A spirit of love.


©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry

I'm just a hand me down friend,
You grew out of me like your loose split ends.