October, you are made of dust and I am a gun.
I killed men once.
When I lifted her veil I felt all of their features melt into one.
I smiled, it was all your storm in me.

October, you are a briefcase. You are six months long.
Tonight, there are tigers reaching out over my head
and I am your god out dancing on his weekend, say,
would you look at all your glass, bursting at the seams?
Would you ask him if I ever got there? Would you tell me why I keep pulling your explosive from my chest like a name label? Would you explain how metal peels as easy as skin with the right amount of madness?

October, I am no more than your casualties.
I am every sadness they ever said you would be.
Silver hands. I can carry these men but I cannot hold them up.

Mother, I thought I saw you standing there but it was just a bullet trail in the darkness.
I am buried in all of your letters, imprinting the both of us on the backbones of these papers;
they tell me I've become all the keys you sent.

October, you are a ballroom with all that break break break and I am falling but I haven't even left the ground yet.
When I rain down on you remember me, like the first sunset you ever wrapped yourself up in, and when they say
that I was never a stronghold, show them all the letters I tried to write you but never sent,
tell them about how the flesh ripped from my bones and left me a relic,
ask them if they can hear me breathing over all that storm.

October, you are confetti leaves falling under tyres on your wedding day,
and I can't be the light that catches them, I can't tell you that this world will wait long enough for you.
So tonight I am burning my name like it's the last thing I'll ever have.
And when they bring us home in our body bags,
remember that the choices we made were the choices we wanted to make.

October, you are a dust storm, and all your colour's left in me

Laying on the columns of hell
waiting for my turn to get molested by demons
I am being warmed up with fire and metal
The grotesque ****** is sharpening forks

I am in the Black of Inner Earth
The lowest point, not much life or vitality
Yesterday I was a man, the day before a woman
Now I am androgynous
They sent me intellect, had me believe I was genius

They traumatized me with images of evil
They eviscerated my chakras
Disintegrated my soul
they told me torture was my destiny
A working demon is better than a burning soul
You trust it to inflict pain, a burning soul uses you for its gain

On Wednesdays we are made to watch Minotaurs have *** with MothPeople
Now and then we are fed ants and swallow burning coal to digest

The Chariot comes and they transport a few to work in other galaxies
where planets are dense,
manipulation rampant,
loneliness a melismic  tune
The only Light is the burning eye and the lava beneath where it is a tomb.

I remember *** like a past life time
I remember love like a fresh knife wound
I have sensations in these pages
Scribes of feelings and dumb poetry

Loneliness is a privilege
Here I get to feel terrible and awesome at the same time
Listen to the passing moments of continuum
Reminisce about the times of delirium

Sinking deep into the uncaring
the wan zombie-state
are corpses wrong to often blink?
I go to the bar where dead men drink

here the waiters (waiting to pass on) influence the living
manipulating their lives
confusing their consciousness
I thought there were no psychos in heaven
but I stepped into a brothel of dead men

The wicked sell *** for reincarnation
The non-malicious offer *** to those willing to gravitate in altered heights of vibration
.... I could be just numb, listening to the lowly succubi whispering dark tales
I see no fairies, it cannot be a fairy tale, this could just be a personal astral conversation.

I have had several women in my time;
Disappoint, I've had lots of them
Heartbreak, seen tons of them
Rejection, she is on my list
Depression, she often visits
Delusion, I never got her
Denial, I know she thinks I'm a liar.

i guess I just don't understand
how she can hold your hand
and never have to wear long
sleeves or turtlenecks.
maybe to her you aren't a thunderstorm.
maybe it just hurts to know that i never deserved
the calm before the storm.
i'm jealous of her shorts and t-shirts,
i can never look at her without searching
for bruises and crossed fingers.

was it just that I never deserved
to feel your breath against
my neck without your hand
digging into my wrist,
leaving marks of your lack
of tenderness in the same shade
as violets;
i always tried to find beauty in you.

i'm sorry that i could never be enough

the days heat
and the langour
of loves sweet makings

has left me
                    undefined
       descriptively
blurred
                ..water
puddled upon
       a
         raked...  
            .....stage
falling
       slowly
            waterfall
                       graced

into
the orchestra pit

of lassitude's blissful embrace

.............
            ........
and in the wings
my little girl self
giggles at the whimsy

as the band plays
"summertime
..... and the livin is."

sublime...

                  
                .....to the prime...

It sits in my stomach / Resting, waiting.
Unsolved, / But not unwarranted.
A problem.

It stirs / it bristles as it sits up and stretches.
Yawning / pandiculating.
It's awake.
\
It begins to gnaw.
Eating you alive from the inside.
Encompassing the whole of your mind.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
You can't.
You run.
You can't.
You hide.
You can't.
You breath.
You can't.
You can't.
You can't.
It is there.
It lives on.
It cannot die.
It thrives.
It grins.
You collapse.
It wins.

The clock in your room is stuck on 6:46 p.m. & I think that's all the time I need to fall in love with you.

It didn't take much time for me to realize that your laugh was sweeter than every bakery in northern california , & that your teeth are whiter than my favorite sweater, & the dresses you wear could rehabilitate a ******* addict in the matter of minutes, & your favorite song is the same song that we were listening to when we decided that we're better off together than apart, & that walk that you have when you're wearing your favorite outfit could cure my severe illness for good.
It didn't take much time for me to realize that 2+2 could only add up to equal you;
that everything in the long run always added up to equal you.

Time is a funny thing when all of it is spent with you,
with your humor,
your simple sarcasm,
your addictive tickles,
your favoring voice,
your stupidly stimulating conversations,
your cold yet inviting arms,
your masterpiece of a body,
your god-like heart,
& most importantly your vivacious patience with me.

Life is all about time, trial and error, & taking chances;
& frankly
you were the best chance I ever took,
the best broken clock I could have ever spent all of my time with,
& the best error I never made.