according to King Nothing,
father’s day phone calls
are restricted…
i live in a world where
foot-rest make better supports,
and broken beer bottles fight
the most perverts away.
i’ve been homeless
three times, and "abortion"
was crudely drawn
on my forehead.
my love for
Frankenstein’s monster
knows no bounds.

the whole apartment
was gutted of its copper
two years after that.
the ‘first woman on Mars’
dream he had was sold for scrap;
threw out half of my books,
called me the reject.
a childhood tomb, raided…
the Queen was pleased.
she doesn’t believe in aliens,
and most stars are dead
according to light-years anyway.

everything i've wanted to tell you
i will tell you tomorrow
and the wait of it all doesn't even give you sorrow
these dilapidated sentence structures suffocate us,
they drown out our intricacy, our noisy illustrations
and i don't even want you to resuscitate me

You are the sweetest of my torments.
You're the tangible torture of citrus
The bite followed by the ****
Fresh and unbearable in the same instance

You're the lemon zest scent;
Sultry, as I quarter fruit
In my hot summer kitchen.
You're the juice in the cut
As the knife knicks my thumb;
The sweetness meeting the wild coppery tang
of blood in my mouth.

You're in the twist in my chest
That exists somewhere between my heart and my stomach
Both organs being wrenched apart...
When I see your picture
And remember that we haven't spoken in months.

At the same time
on the other hand,
I got the same time
on the other hand.
Too bad youre too good to
be.
You can't be not where
You are at the infinite - 
Momentarily there.
Forever scared and frayed
like dad's Broke hands
and dad's broke heart.
And it steps on my dad.
Smothers the invader
with a Catholic hug.
***** fly trap of a man.
The Warden swinging moods and keys
in the face of staring trees.

Throughout her adult life
all of the land shaded.
Feverless islands where the
aged couple sleep.
Never once have I hosted a party. Not once have I
told you, I have
been hurt.

I was skipping on the concrete tight

rope when the wind swirled beneath my tipping
parapluie and I took flight into the loosely

hanging telephone wires and my voice suddenly
cracked through a handheld, reciting the lyrics of a favorite

symphony.

No matter how many miles separate us.
If you never speak to me again.

At least, I can take comfort in knowing
that when you've had your fill.
Faith lost, hope vanished from your heart
without a trace.
I know,
you'll look to the stars.
Only to see tens of thousands of them;
shinning brightly on the darkest nights.
Just for you.

And if this life is just meant to be a realm of torture.
A realm of apathy and discontent.
I find peace within my heart knowing
I'll be looking at the same sky, too.