No more will I whisper my pain into storms in the hope that the thunder will hide the sound of breaking.
No more will I wonder at the beauty of death and its promise of release, the monotonous metronome of blood dripping onto tile nor how it would feel to slowly swing, my life ebbing away as my eyes wonder at the stars they create.
No more will I swallow the oblivion prescribed, I will not allow the erosion of my soul any longer, I refuse to become any less than this.
No more will I question my existence  within a monochrome world while all around others glory in rainbow hues.

I alone am the captain of my destiny.

There is beauty here should I choose to see it and I have turned my face away long enough.

I wear my watch on the inside of my wrist keeping time by the pulsing of overfilled veins.
If I'm honest, the seconds pass blurry when you are around, red pounding at the blue surface reminding my life of it's vigorous momentum as the watch face marks it's disappearance.
I can do nothing about it's circular cycle, nor the manner in which I mirror it, recycling threadbare thoughts and feelings in ostensible new purpose.
I am a walking contradiction formed of practical mysticism and coffee stained teeth, spinning poetry from numb fingertips onto the ghosts of birch trees, fleeing from my wildest dreams.
Meet me,
half way between belief and reality at the junction of duality and I'll reveal I have no true identity - no creed no name no history,
only chaotic shifting and angry bumblebees drilling sinkholes for visitors toes to curl into as they fashion temporary homes in me.
I am solar soliloquy.
Astrological antiquity curses me to orbit you habitually.
Eye of the storm, hand of the beast, souls of the many downtrodden and hungry, asking for shoulders to stand upon shaky.
Grant me your three wishes, and I will conjure infinity from our palms clasped tight in secrecy.
Tell me,
neglectful lover,
when did my beauty become a pleasurable void, to be touched
yet left unseen,
when did my spirit become matter
buried under the mind of desire and empty chatter.
Humor me,
say that the meeting of our skin is more than physical proximity say,
that you dream of my flowers growing from your ribcage say,
that the gods granted us an opportunity for greatness,
say that our kiss is a portal to Andromeda and that you could get lost there forever - I know I have.
Yet, even light years away I hear the tick tocking ticktick of my heart bleeding into itself.
I am fleeting.
I am deafening.
I am a forgetful timekeeper,

late to my own re-birthing.

when torn clouds bared blue holes
the river brimmed with ecstasy.

it had rained the whole day
and she was bursting in seams
to tell her side of the story
from the many
upon her shore's mangrove.

how the tiger guards her treasures,
prawns and ***** and honeys and woods,

pounces from the saline thickness of the mist
when dream of life is heavy on the gatherer
and smell of death far gone forgotten

rips the flesh cracks the skull open
flows the blood as silent night
carries the trophy for a bony rest
till devoured by her floodwater.

the river knows it too well

the tiger is her lover and loyal sentinel.

She gathered her hopes
And dreams,
Her loves
And desires,
Her wants
And needs
And fashioned them into a shawl of the finest silk
That they should keep her warm
Without weighing her down.

the sun,
the moon,
the both of us.*

portland to portland,
we are genocide: america.
we are teen murders & horror sitcoms.
globally tuneforked sacrifices,
with commercial breaks.
   land of the plumed serpent.
built on the burial grounds of chieftains tall,
but dead men.
public access: watch the tallest towers fall.
in them, men of manifest.
a beast shook.
   land of the war artifact.
our birth.
our thousand tongues.
our endless hovering demons/drones/droids of the bomb.
of the eye always watching.

destroyer.
a solar born son of aquarian blood.
prince of the death cult prestigious.
skull & ***** & throned with the boom-button ready.
aligned to die for great glory and bury the dragon one hundred thousand light-years into the dark rift.
heart of milky her.

history favors the bomb.
flavors the chip
dipped.

there was that death of the last cowboy.
his dreams returned to the stars.
his planet returned to chaos,
&/or love.
but both.

maybe we are a sinking thing
some white cliff eats itself until
we stand at its edge where it
kisses our feet good morning
and i open under you, another
young rose you’re gentle with
in bed we confuse tomorrow
with heaven sometimes you
ask me about the beginning
of the world when there was
nothing and i tell you what i
know, what i sometimes dream
about: you came from my
left lung. you grew out of the
mud and you kissed me as
soon as you could. we named
each other and the inside of
you always tasted like wine. we
slept every night in star shatter
we were alone in a world that
loved us.