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mothwasher Jul 6
after an oil spill mowed the lawn
for eleven an hour,
tiny migrants crowded the greenhouse gate.
the bug ****** moonwater muddied
the steps of the tenderhearted
community (of seed undertakers),
and made its way by means of caked rubber
into the cytophotocycle,
where the moonwater volatilized.
liquid volery.
vivid luck.
awoken like post-dream nap perspirants -
oneiroceiving precipitate;
the greenhouse grew murals in condensation,
the accidents si quieros.
a misty opacity attrited
like deskinning a spider,
with a definitude of exo scaling tons;
memories shed,
shies misled.

        ⌂ the greenhouse stands where a glacier once
        slipped, clumsy as steadfast could be.
        foreign fruit fits inside it.
        it knows not what it grows.

        🌢 the moonwater was salt-lipped for a while.
        where it passed through, it was soiled.



you’d be surprised how many things hit glass.
the moonwater didn’t realize what volume
seizes space
until it heard its kind on the outside. from the inside.
Venus has a reassuring kiss when a drone is dampened.
there were three rows for puddling;
one for naps,
one for not naps,
and one for knotted gnats laying hot eggs
in lustrated bloom.
flume frustrated.
somewhere far up the chain, a worn-out manager
ordered inventory off-brand,
and enchanted a horticultural hobbyist.
the devil is ennui and god is curiosity.

        ⌂ there could be a greenhouse next door, but
        it would be an accident, a leaky shed
        with errant sprouts.
        as it would seem to my lustrous heart.
        lagging and callous.

       🌢 the moon was uninterrupted that night.
        mighty sky drifters never passed between them.
        like a parent with patience or a friend with faith.
        like a husk that stole your pose.



the maceration was mutual with leaky infusions
of purpose and imagination
materializing into groundskeepers
that tamed the pressure of an ever encroaching periphery.
one time the moonwater nearly fumed its way dry
after a political candidate entered the greenhouse
with scissors promising bonsai.
but pesticides pass by.
and pictures of fabric mean less than bird song
or beetle guides.
for the frame never mattered to the moonwater.
no more than a furnace in winter,
than a flower in summer.

        ⌂ when it comes time for the greenhouse to deracinate,
        to throw her vines like limbs over garden walls
        and access roads, eye to eye with cumulus
        monoliths; her moonwater sweat will slip
        through the glass glue and slide down to
        her fingers . . . to feel what she feels

        🌢 i love pooling here
        🌢 i love steaming and raining here
        🌢 i will love being the halo in your refraction
a love poem spawned from thoughts on meticulousness and maceration.
mothwasher Mar 25
i eat my grin and my stomach still growls, it’s hungry for love. i chew off my finger nails and swallow them to pick my teeth. i say ‘say ahhhhh’ in tongues.

i tell the cops i’d stop dragging my drugged feet if they’d let my hands drag through the mud too. a sort of camaraderie.

i take the wasp spray and target my shirt and huff hard enough. afterwards, i don’t feel a buzz.

they ask me why i haven’t been taking my meds. i tell them i take after i give, and laughter is usually what i offer them, which they take as an insult.

when the doctor comes to visit, all i hear is “it’s knife to see you.” and my stomach wants out. surgery is not the part where they take something away, but rather when they put the emptiness of living back.

remember all the games we played? you all were so ahead of the shame even though none of us could help ourselves.

if i could beg a favor, i would beg on my needs, without fear or forgiveness, to call it a night. but it has to be the last.

there’s a farm that hosts swing dancing lessons in the ballroom. we all watched the guests from the bushes and i felt my moods winning first place.

i drilled a peephole into my wall and wait at night for an eye to fill it, just to feel a change of seen.

i fill up the glass until i taste the rose tint. it’s thorny but i’m guaranteed to make my bed in the morning. my one regret in life is that i have known someone else’s primrose path.

knifely put. give me the nice back and i can prove all the questions you've been dying to ask.
mothwasher Mar 25
there’s a forest known with a wicker scent
woven tree line where we caught the snake
pull a full bottle from behind your back
rinse a clean slate and lay it on the track
                                                                             coal come stain
                                                                             nickel abstain
THERE AINT DAGGERS AT HOME WHEN iT
MEANS THE SAME
when i lean in vain

build a portal out of garden vines
taken on the precipice of hardened signs
stretched out over our memory seams (seems at rest now)
full bent spine over backlit needs (needs to rest now)
CUZ YOU KNOW i AINT LIVING
i’LL BE WONDERING HOW
   entering bow
it leaves
a
  compass stage

you take me back into those dimed up days
long at lasst quartered in century delays
give it two best like the nightlight’s dead
lead me to the outlet where i lose my head
dollars and cents
it kinda makes sense

LABOR FOR THAT FEAT WHICH ENDURETH UNTO
    everlasting
    it leaves
a      compass     stage
mothwasher Mar 25
diffeomorphic metal between bubble wrap and foil, acrylic olfaction in plastic ignitions, flat-iron physics in lice screams, integument with Guillain-Barré in extra steps; the annealed strands : immunity :: the follicles : nervous remains. cephalic solar panels and thermostat polymers protect against the misses and false alarms of signal recovery. there is time to think before the eggs hatch.

it dawns on me that the
rug of spacetime is being
blanketed in black paint
as distant stars blink finally

and only with myth under fingernails
can i pick it clean
mothwasher Mar 25
from its underbelly
my fingers traced infinitely like ants
climbing a castle
the stony crevices were
indicative of something provocative
of peacock flume
of simple reason

the dorsal side was too primal
parroting the same story
the same swollen shell

with aching speed
painstaking minds
spend 10 maybe 15
seconds

the jungle gym swallows
little children whole
and their little hearts too
while under trapeze
four legs fall in succession a hundred years old

pink paws don’t prance
after too many hops on horns
too many nights in cold blood

in the essence of feral flowers
******* roam freely
but the tortoise understood
yet I was the hare



<.> written feb16.2016
mothwasher Mar 25
If I were to write a novel, it would probably be called, “Big Words Capitalism **** ****”
It would make Nietzsche **** his pants
I want to make enough money to settle uncomfortably until I **** my own pants
And hopefully sell ten thousand hardcover copies
It’s gonna be straight up philosophy and drugs
So all the hipsters can pretend it changed their lives
And when they get old and **** their pants like me, I won’t feel lonely

In my novel
Fascism wouldn’t have lasted so ******* long
Facism makes people feel lonely
Makes people close their eyes

God is a fascist
His secret was the Copy and Paste function
He created the universe with Apple products
On his MacBook Pro
He held the command key
Commanding all his people to copy and paste that ******* bible
He shifted everything
turned caps lock on and capitalized on all the cold ******* that took it seriously
That’s how fascism works

In my novel,
When my gravestone smokes the nicotine in my ashes
The buzz will trickle down the economy
Until the grassroots stir crazy
And my ***, as it has always been,
Will be the **** of the joke <finish cigarette here>

Trying to live on philosophy is like paying rent with minimum wage and forgetting about food
You forget the basics and go straight to the hard stuff
Trying to **** with philosophy is like taking a sword to bed
If you get any head, it’ll just be the tip
Trying to fight with philosophy is like bringing a ***** to a gunfight
You might surprise the *******, but more than likely, you’re just waving something flimsy and obscene

Guess what God?
I’m gonna write a novel,
And you can try to hit control F
To find out how I made it “work”
And all you’re gonna find is that you’re a control ****

For those of you still with me
All it took for me to write a novel was to
blame God for **** I didn’t want to be responsible for
Smoke a lot
Trip on acid
And travel the universe

God bless capitalism




<-> written jan26.2016
mothwasher Mar 25
you ***** attention then slice off my foot fingers and press my toe prints into bile stains that will eventually be discovered. they will think i tiptoed disaster. we read and clean and leave corpses for the carpenters. there is a box for world-building and a box for world-ending. when i put my head in either, i come out wearing leeches named Charlie. we pour our gasoline stores in cardboard that will soak until the sun gets hungry and swallows all roads to dead families. come out in your best dress for me to slit it to match. let’s feign surprise when we unearth the bed bug hive as if meeting for the first and only time. i lick up the slug trails mid-air, mid-sentence. the bee frenzies about mowed and cut pollen producers.
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