what is more gentle?

than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,


I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
youth inside me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.
Or answer an echoing voice
From across the gloom
Where nearness emotes itself
And I freeze inside my own cacophony
Of brilliant moods and total confusion.


four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I may never forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as youth and eves
Three drops of cuteness
Spilt against a human act of
Being.

A rolling coaster pitched onto the lawn of life. Echoing promises we ****** up on a Friday night. Each and everyone is a little child, even if they've won the lottery it still takes forever before they change their style.

Keep forever in the headband wrapped around your brow, leave your acid tablets there with some mistletoe. Under everything, there's just something they all seem to leave behind. Even if the stitches are out, it's the seams that'll leave you blind.

(I) Could use an apostrophe, or an apotropaic and a glass of whiskey. I could use the color of the war, all the drugs on the west coast, and it still wouldn't erase my memories. There should be a couple of things they sell at the corner market in the middle of town. Maybe one day all the ails will go away from the things that've ailed me all today. Maybe the rain will stop coming, and you will stop judging, how I chose to run away from every thing that ever scared me to an early step into the grave. I'm not going to write, I'm not going to bed, I want to smoke my cigarettes and light a fire between your legs, let's make falafel, you can tell me stories about your father, and the apostles you made a point to disobey when you gave away ******* to everyone in the 6th & 7th grade.

Tell me, where was I? I was eating crow and yelling in the street. Where was I? I was turning 17. Where was I? I was reading E.E. Cummings, trying to learn about loving, jerking off my eyes to Derrida about nothing, I had to teach myself something. Where was I? When you were auto-asphyxiating and choosing who would get you to come to, who would bring you to come too, I was in the next room with the t.v. on mute, pretending I couldn't hear you, but I wanted to tear you apart from the start. You've been the smartest girl that I'd always wandered apart from, until I turned into the guy that you fell through my arms, and I turned your pilot light on, and I'm with you now. I'm with you now. I'm with you now. I just hope I can choke you too.

Snake Bite

And let me down easy but do break my heart
Otherwise I'll never know if I should chase after y'all. And the longing comes nightly, the bourbon rings twice, every time I'm out living, y'all stop me from dying. But a man is worth pennies when his work is the dirt, and I've never known forgiveness I've only ever known hurt.

With my skin on the desert, my hands cut from the piste. If a man's responsible for fire, does woman make the stream. Everything is an eyesore when plague cuts at your flock, and the shepherd is aching to be rid of his cloth, the end of evil corrupts it, the sheriff he breaks his own laws. They take all that they want, leave you to look up to the crop, you can't sustain the pains of heartache, your words shorter while you talk. So please take it away, the flat and the plains. And only fires concern them, water drowns for them and cries. I don't need no one to listen, no one to soften my eyes. I've been bit by the river, it's taken my breaths. Filled my chest full of water, brought my time to new depths. I saw the valley, and I saw the moors. I saw the valley, just tell me, will she be here tomorrow? I've seen the valley, and I've seen the moors, just please won't you tell me, will she be here tomorrow?

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

May Is A *******

To people. Two people, imprisoned by interpretation, mistaken by mindfulness, truth hurts the most when love lying beside oneself doles empty shoulder pockets to ache and left-arm wells where women once laid play on the tips of eyes that only past photographs and dreams could doctor up.  

Old loves linger long. Old lovers' eyes ensconced amidst the taciturn untrammeled tracks of 8-track playing old memories in MP3 flash-backs like LSD astral visions from the mind dancing to eyelash trances over systematic dancers antics. Indubitably confusing youth with the modern mood antics to tear apart the current heart's sanguine and evolving romance.

Sleepless nights on stiff bed-boards, imaginary phone calls with devilish and venomous lost bottles with the notes that never arrived, but were clearly post-marked, in my collection of Rolex-Ex's I collect such humanity in an array of unorganized post-cards. But still the lack of sleep confuses me, until the immense sentiment of my lover's hand sparks my mind to drift back into a state where science and romance claim such verses in this dream dictionary to be dog-eared, glowing goose-pimples, and tingling flesh right before sleeping, like if Tristen managed to meet Juliet and Isolde met Romeo during recess and each revered the other's love card.

I'm still quaffing spit, and I don't know if I'll ever be sick of it. The seashore throws its waves, while the whales, sea lions, and hammerheads catch me off guard. Whet by my naive, following peanut-butter chocolate-coated M&Ms to where E.T.'s spaceship catches me falling from the plateau where I left Earth, traveling downwards, I let the rocks do the talking, and several of my best in friendships drown or be discarded.

To people, who irascibly need for one another, swoon and swallow each other, and cannot for a moment keep themselves apart. Who write daily, and stare quietly kissing one another constantly while the nearby mountains grow taller. And while one wakes up, the other wants so much to spend every moment together so much so he proposed to her, and vows are only words to a love that spines communicate not in speech but in neural-transmitted powers.

There are still letters. Those crowns for the kingdoms whose royalty never fully walked away. There are the kings and queens, that the servants sing to such sleeping beauties bright mornings, mid-afternoons, and until the ends collecting between them every day. Stars. Hours. Minutes and the minutia of dust-covered wooden dinosaurs deserving of better moons, suns, and oceans we'd cross together, and maybe memories are just memories and not today's unmistakeable love, that's here right now, that somehow I found, and who found that we should traverse this Earth forever.

Pain is something father's and wives truly understand. So long as I honestly share every scrap of brutal pride and ego trapped in my brain's collective consciousness, I won't have to sleep in my own empty arms, or in the spoils of hearts that confused hearts and minds, between a walk in the ocean as opposed to becoming the seashore, swallowing up the Pacific Ocean one miserable gulp at a time.

Nyctophilia

Undercoverism, teenage soot inside of dry and crusty eyes. When the morning begs alarms to die, and she brings that familiar rain again. Some one that unknowns us, sheds a brutal light. Where the hole inside each child's head, may be disarmed across a deck of cards. In an anti-climactic exposition, where aces climb the sleeves, young Caucasian children find themselves in minorities.

Bubbling voodoo-hoodoo, soda water succumbing the Oro-Quincy spillway until the men have wept and every other woman gleans her brow. When we wake up in the poppy garden, when we've fallen asleep to one hundred cowardly clowns lifting themselves off the heap of a Volkswagen Rabbit. On Broadway heading to 14th Street, avoiding the sidewalk cracks via a jog through alphabet town. There are self-righteous no-ones, famous, auto-inflicted vicious inextricably ordinary and sub-par, barely scratching at their own averages, and hardly shaking words out of their id-sized corner offices at Avenue B & St. Marks.

By the shivering hands can tell, of which lowly smoking dactyls accentuate their currish farce, and amidst a stack of newsprint and cardboard, boxes and the bothersome, the most personal stranger no person should ever greet. Nor mahogany or oak manifold shall ever be select, and the hollowing sheath- Earth in her brilliant hues of green should forever keep unbeknownst to any selves heeding their milky skies' retreat.  

The oder fresh, from digits bending, collapses on the archway round the bed. Its hardened crime, it fails in pretending, like a lust in a sand plume, an eight-shaped glass ornament, arenosely erupting in a drizzling circumstance. We call it time.

It is a noise that summer caught on to, a broken heel, running up ways and ways to concrete squares, like California was only just pretending.

Goodness knows. Godness never around us. Healing can't be done, no book or prose can satisfy her, inasmuch as she belonged, creeping up eyes leapt to their suspension. Nibs erode into the conchoidal zone, some pressure to the ilia fossa. Some work furnishes settlers to the hips, cool wool and linen make an aperture of threading. Dreaming when the moon begins to permeate a looming glow, in an arc during achronychal silvery mists, withering beneath this flume of fancy.

Some of the wet cuts a hole-mess into  us. Wethered nymphs introduce the suffix of their succubus, is this the surreality the ethereal vapors make for our nexus. Beasts in a bold way, crimsony gore-dom, comes dominating greens to overgrow in this show.

Water soaks into the empty breath of words wrapping up tonight's syphon. Some hours of the past inside an alarm's sound torture. Hidden by inches, filling up the glass, every minute, every poppy, all the numbers seemed to help her.

Covers that fixe anew such random sleep, brings the devilish horror to pervert absent beeps. Until  the dots begin to close on us, and in slumber we rotate the words to assemble an acute understanding of being sorry for  sleep that will always continue to be out of reach.