The whole time seen while staring at stars
The bodies left behind as markers
For the space to occupy (inadequate survival but seemingly infinite)

All these narrow bridges threaten
When walked at night, but terrify in day
Flanked by a cold moral morass
Tossing the past away

Light shoulders, heavy wings:

Grief as elevation
Grief placed in the mouths of babes and bystanders
Grief visited in sterile places
Grief spoon fed for weeks
Grief taken to momentary extremes
Grief as a diving bell

A 10cm network for all you need/nothing can ever be too fresh

the right kind of voyeurism: watching fields between two secret lovers burn in public conversation
always scorched with the threat of renewed fertility
always racked by a chilling lonely wind that gently brushes back the hair the manifest intimacy of a crafty doppelganger: in these spaces we live in constant mortal peril of discovery by an other or a spore

Divisible only by degrees of filth

The hated cohabiting the trash bin, the beloved just as broken (seperate and unequal)

Tie a noose for yourself with string theory, multiple universes just mean multiple graves

would like to look up but fearing reflection/the horror movie scene of seeing age pour down your face in the mirror/rivers eroding what you remember of yourself/spending your last grains of sand trying to cure the concept of time

je n'ai pas une femme
mais je n'ai pas une cigarette

j'ai l'histoire pour le manque extraordinaire
mais je n'ai pas une cigarette

j'ai vive sans un moment placide
sans le sang de les innocents
mais je n'ai pas une cigarette

je n'ai pas une femme
et je n'ai pas une cigarette

Desert air
dry and lonely, but not
without a desperation,
blows down tired throats
with kisses, which come
rushing in,
the heat of universal grasping.

It isn’t strange
given common speeches
on hearts eaten
and hearts desired,
recounted with a coldness
born of the same places
as the heat.


But it is strange
the inability to swallow the chafing devils
making sandbags out lungs.
These will not choke the fools
who walk upon them,
even as the one eyed hermit,
whose sand scorched feet
belie his travels, cackles
“Well, at least for now."