I'm standing at the seashore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets and two lines left in the letter. I'm standing at the seashore, bench facing the Squat & Gobble, the tin weir and we're near the roadside. The sky opened wide, this skin drawn with threat, Rhinoceroses, bruise bending the sweet ships of victory backwards into the backwaters of mislead moonlight. Guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos sweeping, the hum of percolated coffee on smoke stained night club walls. I'm standing at the seashore, my mouth is a ghost, I've seen nothing but death, I'm name-dropping God and there's nobody there.

I'm sitting in my room with my hands on my keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock. Riding horseback into candlelight on a wicked wedding of teary-eyed geysers and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder, I'm all alone but it feels like you're here.

I keep her clothing in the bed,
Fresh wet daggers of this concupiscent World. That is the standard. Don't you Hear it?
I watch the lamps and blankets singe
Cigarettes and Heineken
Nevermind, With the Lights Out
Everything is 'About A Girl',
And faking for no one.
'm too fuxked to know the difference
Stress is a knot that kills the young
I don't care about the other's wasting Their time isn't my business.

My sick is so short sighted. It carries a Black lighter inside its Gareth Pugh jeans.
Ann Demeulemeester top, Rick Owens Boots, an Obscur coat, Rad Hourani shirt
Henrik Vibskov socks, an MB999 tee.
Color is language for the body to read.
Inertia and energy protect me. I am the Opposite of a black hole. This vessel governs its own space, but I don't attempt To understand anything or any one thing.

This lizard brain keeps its ward and Wielding the almighty power of its Nightness, cosy's up near the Community of Death, Magic, and Numinous winter dirges, huffing Parfumes from her death-covered clothes.

You're back and I've only been asking four years and two days. My passion never left, it only paved your way. Outside it's gotten colder than the weatherman will even say. The skies may stay clear but everything is gray. I wait for you on the tarmac with bouquets, four years yesterday it was to be my grave.

Everything and its nothingnesses made me black and blue, I was just ink blotter on a finger's noose, nonsense and writer's gloom. Some of me was hexed by my work, some of my flesh became unglued. My eyes may have resurrected a figure, but I can't be sure it's you. I'm at the Bay Bridge with weights tied to my shoes, where even the water can't judge my moves.

People lie to keep themselves as far away from their truth. Many can't even talk to you unless they have a drink or two. ****** and benzos too. Skinny vexed spirits accrue, walking into the waves until their skins turn blue.

weathered fingertips in sensual crescendo
arouse blitzing keystrokes to commove
wild Js and Zeds, Ks and Is too.
harmony of the king's three-thousand acre jungle
swallowing the stormy orange cyclical stew

and tantamount to its feral cavities
thrushes whet jagged spinal bones to split
news of the no-rhythm, sambas of new religious canter
infiltrates the **** cavernous walls

This inner ear and greater sound
knew to find sanctuary here.
Lends its awesome craft to the next
And next, and next, and next;

beautiful unboxed melodies
new unused sweet single-reeds
threading that 20s centrifuge.
Saxophone. Incantations unfolding

Aloof in its ***** it unwraps
The veil of green, a costume of black coffees
Cigarette stained curtains exhumed to greet
Thick plumes of albicant sinewy smoke
At the heap of its glorious song

Uniting the funnel of eardom to consecrate
Bliss. Intrinsic and purple
An irrational knot of Portuguese drum
Met over by African toms and rattles

A glue imbued into those unmistakable
Chakras of this spell of mourning and reversed
Names of starlight girls and their other'd selves
These are the weapons of our new key strokes.

And upon the cortex it reveals this lift anew
Where death greeted me to intervene a place
Where sound and silence meet, and new strikes
Put my hands in halves. Pear-shaped birds pecking
At the joints, and where bowl-shaped tones bring

Their impeccable limbs to atone with auburn and cerise soils
Beneath the high ridges of doom- the empowering backspace
Does not exist, only new nothingnesses and their hooves
Splashing into each step into the next, and the next, and the next,
And the next.

Some say that I'm wielding the powers,
That I believe in a wood stick I found on the ground, I make magic.
Attractive or not it's all that I got, barely holds me together, with all of my might I'm not sure I can still hold on when the sun goes home for the night, will I wake up and lose my mind or go back to the nightmares I've been trying to let go for so long I can hear my own voice in the back of my head like the shadows I wear across my back, it's sacred but I wouldn't lie about it now, could it be the time, can you say it's the time, I'd move my hand but then I'd start to speak, the kinds of things I've been keeping you from, not because you're dumb I just want to ignore me for a few minutes longer, you're much better off with only my good half, I'd try to unwind within your eyesight but I'm sure I would crumble into the dust. You are the magic, I'm just a kind of catastrophe carrying this story about a boy and the girl who drew star maps on her arms, like wings made to uplift him until they could both fly away, yesterday she put a stone on top of his grave

if you ever want to come over and be sick and use my body like a doll-rod
I invite you to do so.
if you ever want to throw the rings and earn no points just to throw something
I invite you to do so.
if your pictures turn moldy and you can't face the mirrors, neither can I.

it's been three hundred seconds and I'm wondering if I should be listening for alphabet city or the sound of the Wilson's razor, if I should be curt or vowelless, glib and just a big sickening consonant or Occam's tired and infinite inner gesticulations- calculated but fleeting.

if you ever want to be you in front of that cemetery wall covered in the haze of eggy moonlight
I'd like to take pictures of the alms on your arms.

This earthquake is spicy and I am thrilled to feel some of the momentum coming back to my chest. I'm wishing for art too and believing in faeries and mid standing-ovation bringing my ears forward by cupping my hands, and holding ceramic mugs to the side of my head, listening for a dial tone or the tones of the dying.

you don't even know you make me write
into a black book or the white box, into the notes
onto the arms, scribbling while driving myself crazy at three-hundred and eighty seconds. Is this recording? I can turn it up.

what does it mean if I want to hang doors and patch holes, make locks and wear capes? It's been such a long lawn time, since I first got high on myself, met a new person and didn't want to drown or for them to drown.
Is this when I take the rocks out of my pockets and stop lingering by the water? Please let me know. You'll let me know, right?

If you ever want to talk serial killers over Apple Jacks or Corn Pops
I invite you to do so.
If you ever want to skip rocks or run from the cops with a second skin
I invite you to do so.

I like to dangle my feet over edges, while wearing floor-length gowns, while wearing ebony feathers, and avoiding being arrested. It's 26 minutes into tomorrow and we didn't give each other permission to die yet, so please don't go down without me. You're supposed to tell me when it's time to wear my rocks in the river, even if I never mentioned the plateau or the room where I heard the women crying.

Keep my secrets in your open-handed notebook
I invite you to do so.
Pencil new eyebrows for me to don, draw new shoes on my feet to wear
I invite you to do so.

Lock me in a box until I'm calling for the horrors, in a light-absent four-sided trap in the fetal position, I could be in a basement or on the 7 and a half floor of the Mertin-Flemmer building, but hum to me please.

I've asked you to set me on fire twice and you haven't,
does that make us best friends? I hope.