There is no hope.
We walked in circles round the worm, its amorphous purpose lost on us. A sleek, black, rotting corpse, buried within skyscrapers and city streets. We could see no end to it. Everyone had done their best to avoid mention, even as traffic backed, markets stalled and entire city blocks went down.
The pier was bustling at noon. Sweet, burning, haze of smells. Business men wandered out for lunch, laughing to themselves as they secretly wondered how they’d pass the black mass. Children scurried round it, morbidly curious. Their parents would wring their hands, shooting sights at everything but the worm. A throng of oblivious teens skated into it and were knocked flat on their backs. A business man stepped over the moaning mass, eating a hot dog.
Three days passed and nothing had been done. The smell worsened.
The media continued their daily fluster. Weather. Sports. Local news. Farmer John had gotten pink eye again. They held awkward smiles in their teeth, and deadpan concern in their crows feet. His meat would be safe once cooked.
The government were curiously absent.
Conspiracists were already calling it Non-entity 012. The world worm. The dead god in the room.
If we close our eyes, will it disappear?

-- Anonymous Male. New York, USA.

I hear your hollow words
Laced with doubt
Sharp tongued, dull mouthed
Inattentive love

Your heaven is paved with
The shallow beat of empty hearts
Your heaven is a fortress
Desolate, apart

Closed eyes, closed ears, closed mouths
Closed minds, closed hearts above
This is a hell
I can’t reside

If ignorance could paint the world
No greys would hold
And your whites would grant passage
For only the sold

No promise

lost ash blurred skin lips emptiness there was something before but it has fled departed in out something important meaningful run into the ground through streams of bitter ache i was a memory caught in its own remembrance straining to be heard now i am nothing returned to the vessel womb death it is six and the heater does nothing air like frost father telling me that the future is positivism there was a staircase surreal void morrow the edge of the world lost between something i could not perceive trapped in the moment flashing with red tumbling seeking losing words sinking through my own flesh to the earth dirt too far from my head to tell grains apart split like atomic what did i want to remember i have spent days losing too much on purpose bed soaked a matted waste of sweat and the hours **** splitting futures like a prism where i find myself a stranger i cannot stand she us a wretched heart on a couch sitting all sudden a boring cliche lips running along salt severed skin fingers head the bone breaks the back arcs itself in an unending whimper a voice escapes and i’m left trying to catch it in the morning teeth the sliver of a smile haunting the air like a phantom fingers trace smoke sunbeams and feel nothing i fell into her like ash the breaking end of a cigarette all cold and irreversible a collapsed worthless wake and now i am alone

catastrophic death of all meaning
semiotic structure picked
unto

putrescence
bear the haunt of nothing
all fingers and teeth
down your neck
sister mary without her veil
narcogenic

i’m worn through my nails
i’m sick of everything.

my skin is peeling away
soon there’ll be nothing left of me

long long ago
there was light dancing on the windowsill
in the dim quiet of
eyes closed to the sun

it’s a lot harder to think
now

sometimes i see my hands and i wonder who i am
trick of the sunlight
fizzing apart
at the blue red edge of my shadow

today i saw children playing outside
spinning their umbrellas
casting
light across
the parched earth
and it hurt

it’s the feeling of forgetting the air
beyond your room

i just wish i had the grace
of motion without intention

of sunlight
and absence

I crawled through the dead spaces of old houses
Just to breathe in years old memories
Brimming with adolescent thrill and reveries
Picturesque sceneries in glass-encased eternities

Withered limbs broke apart feinting apathy
Parched and cracked, my lips bore silent screams
As I disintegrated, filling the negative space
That resides where loss and ache form dead weight

I am the calm that breaks your heart
I am the still that never departs
In a frenzied world of dead spire loves
Out of reach, out of luck, and out of touch

I became envy, firing sparks across cold skin
I became adoration, pulsing and sun-kissed
I yearned to hate
I yearned to love

Do I dare coalesce?
What will I become?
Knowing all that’s gone?
Knowing not what’s to come?

Do I dare coalesce?
What will I become?
Knowing all that’s gone
Is all I loved?

Lush draped the walls
Gold freckles cheek to collar
I shook the dust from my lips
And lost hours

I left kisses on dead children
Old as the houses
I grew friends in the field out back
Under dead forests

Guilt
Shattered glass
They’ll cease existing
When I pass

Some hurts feel too often
Like old love

hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus.

Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the

In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands.

i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery

THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk

THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS

Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus.

the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.

are we just remembering?
mobius unravelled;
the universe in origami death.

[act one, a crossing in Akihabara]
lights blur, hands shift, flesh, pockets of smoke
cyberia, the world moves like radio fuzz, no purpose
wires swell, words leak, *akane, tokyo-3
before a neural blackout hits—

existence is like
a flat sheet of paper
time folds
in infinite ways.

[act two, cyberia, a thousand years in the future]
children play tag.

Deathshaker
Twenty one years
Crossed hearts and hoped to never die
Slept crooked, and woke deaf and blind
With pins and needles through the chest
And foot, and mouth, and ******* head

Deathshaker
Twenty one years
To wake to dust and rot and ache
To once loved noises, long replaced
By crushing silence, bitter debts
To lovers long dead

There is a deepness here
I no longer recognise as my own.
How do you laugh so effortlessly?
Mouth so small
all teeth.
I used to have nightmares of you
reaching into my lungs.
You’d draw my breath
on a cold August morning
and I’d suffocate.
People are a lot like homes.
There is laughter at times
but for the most part
there is silence.

I've missed this soft hum of night
where passing cars blur indistinct
and I with them.

Life is passing, and so am I. Cars pass through the night, the quiet slush of tyres on wet asphalt. The air stirs softly through my open window. I’ve been passing all day, through empty straits and the static of a dying storm. Earlier in the year a flash flood came and burst through the walls of half the buildings in town. Nothing changed. The store on the corner that sells teen clothing threw out their wares, cleaned up the place best they could, and reopened a week later. The flood was on everybody’s mind for a few days. As weeks passed, it began to dissipate, like steam rising from hot tar, or puddles in wake. Today everything was as it always was. People gathered at crossings, walked within the white lines of their existence, and stopped when the lights turned red. Cars moved automatic. Blue, white, black geometries, smelling of earth and blood and rot. People shuffled past one another. They moved in circles, repeated phantom gestures of older times. The present reorganised from the past.

I sat in the shopping mall and watched people rising from escalators. Those without friends stood motionless, like mannequins. They barely breathed, fixed their eyes on the nothingness of automatic existence. The mall is a place of noise, whiteness and stench. A pale layer coats everything. The thin sound of radio intermixes with the chatter of nearly cafe-goers, the heavy slam of a cash register cuts through the harsh hum of kinetic machinery, steps without the need to step. Everyone is passing, but going nowhere. Commodities line the windows. Electronics, homeware, food items, travel plans—experience packaged into desirable aesthetic arrangements, to be consumed and forgotten. Western empires of capital exploiting the human need to feel something during their short existence. I was here—walking the same stretch of space a thousand others have walked.

I pass in repetition. I wake, shower, eat, study, binge, sleep, fall into existential despair and contemplate jumping off a cliff, but there are no close cliffs around, so I fall back into rhythm. Wake, shower, eat, study, binge, sleep, wander the commercial district wondering why anyone moves at all, how anyone can stand these mundane repetitions, the same social greetings, unfulfilling meals, temporary binges that leave you empty of your self. I thought knowledge filled, but it empties out. It displaces—it fragments you into tiny pieces, until you find there is nothing left to grasp—intentionality turns outwards, but it’s already too late—you find you can no longer connect with anyone, or anything—they try to converse but all you can hear is their stupid voice filled with phantom lines cobbled from movies, games, sports, family events, supermarket visits, patriarchal bonding discourses, the wet tongue of capital individualism, or perhaps teeth, biting into consciousness—so you turn away, or stay silent, too afraid to confront them of their non-existence, of their worthless chatter, of their niceties, because in the end all they want is to connect, but all you hear are circuits of repetition and capital, and you wonder how they can live this way, and you can’t.

Time passes. I stumble back towards university. I jack my headphones in and pass into the nothingness of another’s consciousness. I displace myself on purpose, because I’m sick and tired of what’s left. The man at the art store tells me I get a discount for being a student. I steal a pencil. I pass through the cold air of fall. I pass an endless strip of vacant motels. I pass into my room, try to read, drink a bottle of alcohol and pass out.

Jesus came wrapped in paper and coated in tape
Saw the sender and fell to my knees
Felt my body sink right through the earth
Felt time reverse

Was a child crying beneath the bridge
Watched his mother and father pulled to the sea
Stopped for a moment before pretending
I didn’t see a ******* thing

Should have opened my heart long ago
******* wasted on my own problems

I crawled through service
I collapsed at the grave

Can’t shake the sweat from my tips
Can’t wash the guilt from my sheets
What the hell happened to me?
What the hell happened?

I wake from fading dreams
of soft hymns
and summer skin

Perhaps this is what it’s like
to be at peace

white snakes the gallow
perdurance // a mottled core
three hundred galloped
tocsin! klaxon!
adorned with horns of yesteryear
tar and lynching rope.

If only lovers lasted
As long as mistakes

Come away
She’s adrift

Kissed her shadow
Dozed the district

Did you really think these ghosts would vanish?
Mr. Mrs.

Wear me white
Wear me white

There is smoke between your braces
My teeth shatter on touch
It is dry ice; a phantom
There is a blur in your speech
Blood trickles down your gums
And onto your tongue
Stop
Please, stop
Sometimes I wake
To your mouth sealed shut
Because you'd clenched your jaws so hard that blood filled your mouth
I haven't figured it out, but I think
It is the wisp of a nightmare that haunts you
It carries into morning
Settles in the crook of your teeth
To spill long into evening
Look at me
I’m sorry
I bring out the worst in everyone
I trace phantoms into corpses
Long dead but still living in me

my body is filled with cavities
little pockets of rot

it’s an open frame
where you stick your hand through
to feel nothing

i think i caught the plague
the doctor gave me pills i
spat out the window

you can’t trust anybody these days.

this world is noise
broken ceramic
the head of a pin

sometimes i dream about a pin going through my neck
my head rises like a balloon
and i

if you place your ear against the ground
you can hear the earth hum
it sounds like rushing water
blood

Swallow your glass whole
Nothing will
Burning through your open closed
Swing, miss, swing

There’s an empty grave beneath the park
Where smiling children sing hymns to a silent dark

Who was suffocating
Once here, or nowhere?
Yellow toothed maniac
Down, dead, dying

I’ve worn my neck right through
Thinking of you

Pathetic poetry
Dissection apathy
Lull without breath
Passive aggressive

Self-defected, self-replicated
Pull out the year’s save
There’s ******* nothing
There’s ******* nothing

Intoxicate headless
Suffer indefinite
I’m going nowhere
I just don’t give a **** anymore

THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Staid quanta of individuality. Phenom asks if they can go. The Big Mouth replies, babble babble. In a fit of rage, Phenom shouts, I’ve had enough of this. They wrench themselves off the dissection table, fetters flying into the air, but a sudden bout of vertigo sets in. They lie back down. The Big Mouth sticks a thermometer into their mouth and begins heating a can of corn soup.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Professor Kippotkin takes the stage. She coughs into the mic to quiet the audience, but they are caught in sordid *******. She coughs again, managing only to project a trail of spit onto the shoulder of the nearest security guard. He turns immediately, a perfect ninety-degrees spin, automatically signalling the first in command. He has been trained since seventeen for this one task of momentous disciplinary precision. The first in command bellows, Let her speak! a phrase his colleagues repeat in serial down the chain of command.

The crowd soon catches on. An isolated few nod in consternation. Let her speak! they yell from the pits of their lungs, Let her speak!

Thank you, thank you all, Professor Karlpoppins exclaims, cheeks flush with amazement. More and more of the crowd join in. It is a rousing spectacle, a poignant display of human decency. But something is awry. The professor’s gratitude is swallowed into a cacophonous whole. Let her speak! The carnal grip of the big Other’s command unleashes the crowd’s jouissance. United in the master discourse, the crowd fragments into a bewildered totality. Let her speak! they scream at one another, arms jostling, heads tilting back, necks bared to the beating pulse of the earth-sky. LET HER SPEAK! Their combined blows begin to generate an ominous om.

Pl-please, Professor Kibbiezsche sputters, please, everyone! but the crowd have already forgotten her existence. Reams of toilet paper fly through the air. A crashing plane sounds in the distance. Crops burn.

The security team are forced to intervene. They close in from the sides, wielding riot shields and tear gas. HYPOCRITES! one of the members of the crowd screams. OPPRESSORS OF THE WORD! another follows. Footage of security guards flailing on the ground circulate on social media, tagged with the phrase WHO SPEAKS MY SPEAK?

Within twenty four hours, the whole country is ablaze with media coverage. Political scientists gather with literary scholars to speak the unspeakable into commercially-viable forms. Semiotext(e) sign a deal with Hollywood to write a docudrama about Baudrillard’s turbid *** life. Professor Kubblebutts is flown to Hawaii to give a speech on combine harvesters.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
I desire, therefore I am not. Incantation of the other spills through my greasy fingers as I fumble towards the hot sauce, dollop dollop, chicken salt strewn across the nommy wedges. That’ll be $4.50. They have already handed me the note. Our fingers touched for the briefest second, an anointment of the greasy chicken, the wedge fingers, the have a good night mister gurgle bop.

The taxi man sits outside in the cold, back heated by the friction of the smoothie machine, an indefinite spin, western civilisation’s meltdown. The turgid heat breezes past my neck and I sigh, almost in delight, but mostly out of convention and solidarity with the other workers. I hear the pitter pat of my shiftpanion as she scoops hot chips into the fresh night; it is so fresh, there is still so much night, why are you giving me $5 dollars, there is a bug on your face.

I take a break. The cool taxi man glances over just as I put my hands down my pants to shift my boxers into a more comfortable why is it always like this.

Everyone blames Foucault for destroying agency, but agency only arises in the gap between discourses, which is never a gap in power, but rather, the transversal of one power relation into the discursive matrix of another; what appears original is merely the same performance in the wrong site, that’ll be $24 for your **** and condoms.

The crumbled fish is shrinking with each passing day, little gasping body beneath the heat lamp, waffle waffle, waffle waffle, I am suffocating :)

WHY WE OPPOSE:
|||||FEeling BOLD? FeEL BOldbous ;;;; new Paracetamol Jelly and the KINK-CATS tour out the last week—
Thank you for holding. Please note this conversation may be recorded.
To continue, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
and again, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
Please note that this conversation is being recorded for the purposes of confirming your identity.
||"thanks"

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Slowly, slowly, Juniper sinks into the bed frame, the draughty window, the rotting sink. Hibiscus coveted for its prophetic dreams, pale steam smites nostalgia for a vision of the beyond. Streamlined entry into New World, an endless reshelving of family-value Mi Goreng, stormwater through the hollow vessels that twist beneath Juniper’s soles.

Juniper climbs the Garden steps. Pale trace of past motions set to automate at the slightest incline. The cloying rot beneath the pines pulls her closer and closer to the vital cache, the hidden excess. Another hedgehog climbs the mound; it admits its body, it expands in putrefaction.

Exiting onto the street, Juniper is greeted by a sign that reads “Caution. Night Shooting. Stay Out.”

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Steam creeps the mouth of the lid. Pallid flesh of yesterday’s body, settles the kitchen table, the hand, as motes crumple beneath gravity’s well. Mottled refuse, tied with a plastic ribbon, thrown into the street. Keys digging trenches, grandfather, the hollow behind my knee.

Last summer I waited for the rain in the dry concrete channel of the Leith. I was alone with the kayaks and the road cones and the fish, holes festering, showing their ribs in the walls of our flat, legs spread wearing high school sweaters, unable to breathe through cling wrap.

The summer before that, I watched films of myself bashing in the heads of strangers. Every night the ceiling of my mouth would transfigure into a doorway and I’d force my tongue through its serrated edges, waking with a new face. The cassettes would arrive soon after, testimonies of a brute physicality I could not remember enacting.

Earth grins, death strides. Hydraulic incisors pry the dead awake. At the smallest unit of life: phones, condoms, water bottles.

Blunt ****
Your grin brings the whole world down
So shallow you turn your guts inside out
Come bury your teeth in the gutter
Headless ****
Privileged ****

never wanted to feel a thing
blunt my skin on the door frame
sink through my sheets

an open mouth for candescence
friends you lose touch with
acid and lost time

Tastes like death
Tongue to the gallows
Winter in her veins

All flesh fails
Maggots run empty
Gorged headless
Enfolding
Imprinting

Limbs twined to the bone
Reap nothing
Limbs twined to the bone
Reap nothing
Limbs twined to the bone
Reap nothing

I have walked this earth a thousand times.
Dirt. A loose aggregate of particles, held together by gravity, and moisture.
Rain. Water suspended. Resurging. Cascading in plumes, like sheets of smoke.
Sky. Blue. Stretched like canvas. Abstract. Nowhere. Everywhere.
I exist. Here. Standing. Thinking.
I am dead. I am being born.
I am existing across all time and space, but I do not know it.
At this moment, I am trapped. I am unconscious. I am unaware.
I have walked this earth a thousand times, and cannot even remember.
Because it has not happened. Has yet to happen. May never happen.
Future. A nonexistence on the horizon.
Hope. An ache. A nothing replaced with nothing.
Misery. The wretched face in the mirror.
A child wears my eyes. She drifts through life.
Scared. Alone. Free.
She plays in the forest. Her small, sap-covered hands grasp branch after branch.
She enters intermediate school. Is called freak. Is judged by her skin, her eyes.
She realises she is different for the first time.
Alien. Deviant. Other.
Her eyes fill with self-hatred.
I have watched this moment a thousand times, yet can do nothing.
Disintegration. The act of separation.
Loneliness. A billion strangers condemned to live together.
Existence. A billion billion billion particles, shifting beneath my flesh.
There is no death that can end my being.
I have felt the atoms of my past collide, and spark into biology.
I have felt the atoms of my future shred like fractals, spiralling into a dim, dark nothingness.
I have felt all this, and none of it.
From infinity I came, to infinity I’ll go. Forever cycling in the pantomime of existence.
This pretend construct of space and time.

He buried the arm.
Black dirt, cracked under a blazing sun.
His bones slid stiffly into one another; shovel slipped from sweat.
He’d covered the face already. A pale mask of serenity with burnt black sockets.
Dead leaves blew past his legs. The house shook. Boards rattled against the wind.
A paperboy passed by.
What a stupid waste of flesh.
He waved.
******** stupid.

Bright and cavalier
You wring out your neck
With heavy hands

Show me a tongue without an anchor
Glistening eyes without glamour
Are you filled empty
With crowd mentality?

Your swell of bitter laughter
Is cruelty incandescent as fire

This city has become so familiar.
An endless refrain.
Sometimes the sky pulls away.
Sometimes I feel I could slip through the earth and disappear.
Nobody would even notice.

The other day a crowd gathered.
Bunched together as their paths narrowed.
Then fanned back out into space.
It was an endless flow.
Faces moving so fast they blurred into one.
I sat by the river afterwards.
Unable to stand.

There are seven billion people on this earth.
Drifting through themselves.
And everyone around them.

Train.
Cars pass one another.
Smoke.
They cross the road when the lights change.
Living is effortless.
Invisible.

Two of my friends' relatives died this year.
One from suicide.

There are small moments of grace.
That do nothing to stave off death.
Or the unfairness of existence.

I’ve been moving my hands a lot lately.
I’ve been learning to sew.

Sometimes we fall into dreams.
And lose sight of the present.
Because it’s too painful to consider.

The crow recognises itself in the mirror.
Along with everyone else.
And breaks it.

renoir black canvas crook bag after breaks apart and drifts a nothing warmth o’v the carpet open drapes renoir contemplating death //closed loop: <over> <over> <over> <over>// renee skirts breaks brittle dash ******* blood flesh [****] all down the road [schizophrenic laughter as i bleed into my dead phone] and pieces of light opening scattering—no end! no end! no end! no end! no end!—holding her hand keep the wetness out the pieces of hair the cold sprawl the hollowed bones the old tradition the new teeth (across the road children gather and renee breaks into sobs uncontrollably); now Y2K turned and renee tucks a golden coin so deep into the ER room barely breathing first with asthma now renoir.

Perfect little ******* crowd
Laugh your lungs out
Swear humiliation
Sweat indifference

Salt your licks
Sever empathy
One death rattle
One night only

******* entertain me
Entertain me
Pillow talk massacre
Conscience guillotine

Wilt my lungs
I’ll breathe in bitter bloom
And fill my chest with concrete tombs

At twenty one I exhaled tar
And covered my birthday cake

Ribs for the skyline
This city built a church round my heart
Before some gutter punks spray painted the side of the stained glass
With the suicide rates of middle-class citizens

Nothing has been the same since

When I was young
I was raised on Disney
And taught that my bones were living things

At thirteen years old
I nestled a heart within the clouds and smoke of my chest
It suffocated to death

I’ve never broken a bone
But I’ve trailed plenty of marrow

Tell me there’s a purpose.
No.
A severed head.
The self in departure.
Crossing a river.
Light beams fall through.
There are four walls that make up the emptiness of this room.
throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing throwing
Language writhes.
I fail to find the contours.
Sharp and brittle, like the hop hop sting of minute glass.
pitter patter
arms thrown
out out, out out, out out, out
The word is power, signifier of a real that folds into itself irrevocably, perpetually.
I construct that which I speak, divorcing the imaginary and symbolic with a plunging knife.
God is born in ****** revolt.
Entangled in the penumbra of becoming, I birth the stranger that is myself.
Who are you?
A static noise.
Father breathing snow onto the mountain.
Hair, grey matted, a coarse empty palm.
Tell me the tale of withering.
White abyss.
The bifurcation of light from darkness.
The power of speech split totality from the world.
Purged death in freezing time.
brittle bones
circulation
a shutting door
still air
winter passing
A cool current that stutters like the clap shut of death.
I run but go nowhere.
Child crying in the empty hallway.
I speak the word but no one is there to hear it.
I circulate like blood.
Face pressed to the floor.
I repeat.
The word is power.
Tears staining my cheeks.
I am nothing but a swell.
The empty drone of the earth.

canvas creep blown split idiot boy
like amber fell
che vuoi? che vuoi?
haunt me, **** me
whatever.

I’m getting used to wearing sleeves again
Some hearts I draw were never meant to mend
It takes two to love, it takes two to hurt
It takes the whole world and more to gracefully lose

These wandering patrons
Lie asleep all day
With the stillness of night
Clouding their heads

It’s a sunset with no sun
In the sea it’s dead
Been like this for years now
We elect to forget

Waste your care
We all lie in parallel lines
And one step over
Can fray the strongest ties

We all break
No one suffers indefinitely
Vices sink
The strongest voices in the sea

Without love
I’ve withered apart
And watched my former self depart

I was kinetic
Tired, frenetic
Wasting alone in my room

Three years gone
You hooked my attention
I braced for affection
Flooded the halls

I was so blind to the care in your voice
All I could see was your hair and your throat
Gripping to sever my lack
I bit as deep as I could

I wanted your blood
Because it glowed with warmth
I just didn’t care anymore

Hope is an addict
Roaming the attics
Of memories long gone

Love is relentless
Lust is wreckless
I’m selfish to the core

I am slowing
Down
And watching myself
Speed up
Away from here

Bile grips the gasps of every self-centered ****
They spill the tar out of their hearts onto ****** pavement
Lifeless limbs descend hollowed rooms, to linger over dust
The passing passions left to die in fake laughs

Finite space within the palms
Of two celestial halves
They brought their hands together and cursed our eyes, and mouths, and hearts
Imaged us in self-belief
Perfection in the unity
Of lesser mortals, incomplete, forever searching for the second piece

She paced the gaps
Spun and leapt
A half circle
Slipping through the cracks
An arc entwined
The empty divide
Too short to reach
His side

Incomplete in death as in life

He tied a tongue around
To make a noose of himself
So when the noise finally died down he’d found himself within a crowd
Laughed the loudest at the end
With no breath at all
Attention at the precipice, from misfit hearts. A lifetime gone

I’m still surprised by change
Of half a dozen deaths
A crooked spin towards new age
With dying cells, replenished skin
And if a body can be replaced
Does the same apply to the mind?
Are you gone completely?
Or do you relapse from time to time?
To a person I know
With yearning touch and softer eyes
Remembering our lost lights
Suffocating silence with muffled love
Hasting the future
Stretching reality thin
I’m gone so far from comfort
Forgive me
Forgive me

That dancing
Lover
Is empty
Caress
Faded
Photography
All encased
In memory space
By ageless
Glass
Over ancient
Death
Waded hands
Over welts
Over
Skin
The tightness
An heirloom
To your
Troubled
Breath
A rasping cry
In perpetual
Iterate
Recursive
The motion
Of ending eyes
When all lights flutter
And die

Blood come, blood lust
Pulse and closed trickle
Pledged and disloyal
Come beckon her closer

The red grin dismantles
Flesh as well as the cleaver
Pain left drowned within
Infinite desire

And heir blackens and boils
Skin softer than petals
Split apart for the curious /
The insatiable

Come beckon her closer
Come beckon her closer
We all die in the moment
And live for nothing.

life seemed safe
stab yourself
the harbour would be a nice place to die
if these ******* couples would just leave
leave me the **** alone
my resentment is my resentment is split the city in two and ride your body through hell
some people carry bukowski never read and spill their emptiness into the world
what do you do?
sleep and sleep until everything is worse

Cruel saints
Spoke like whimper dolls
And wished the world more
Than what it was

Loft and mind
Comes crumbling every dawn
When the bell tolls morn
Reality shakes our walls

Those hands of a dreamer
Calloused wrists or fitful lids
Fit in that hollow
Of your chest so easily
And warm breath rather suits
Cold air, rather than lips
Tender sleeves never could
Keep our fingers from wandering
. . .
The pages of your soul

Decipher
And fall apart
What terror
Lies in our hearts

Decipher
And fall apart
What terror
Lies in our hearts

Heavy weighs the death
Of childlike ideals
Their hollow corpses rotted
With severed wrists

The media says “tell no one”
Sleepwalk through reality

I cannot want
I cannot lust
For faces
In a world of masks