i) You talk about soft-serve ice cream in summer and all I can think about is the way your hands tremble each time you touch me; what are you so afraid of? You shake your head and lick cone-crumbs off your lips. I think I like you a little too much.

ii) Lily once told me that you were obsessed with aliens; fascinated by the idea that there were other forms of life in the Universe. I lie down on soft grass, look up into the darkness, and wonder if there is a possibility of ‘us’ in another galaxy.

iii) You are all curves, soft edges, and electric blue hair; so how exactly do you manage to cause this ache in my chest each time you take off in the morning to be with him? My brother sees me curled up with bottles of bourbon by the side of my bed, and says that I should stop loving you. I don’t know how to.

iv) When things finally end, it is one in the morning and we are sitting on the boardwalk, sipping coke from glass bottles, pausing to taste each other’s lips every now and then. You tell me you’ll miss me and all I want to do is disappear, into one of those galaxies you constantly think about. Instead, I grab my satin camisole off your lap, pull it over my head, and run.  

v) The whole way home, I practise letting you go.

We speak in tongues, you and I.
We sip coffee from old paper cups and talk about the afterlife.
We bring our scalded mouths together and I taste the entire universe;
I hear static; everything around us is drowning in hot, syrupy light.

what have you done to me?
My hands are coming undone, my legs are wrapping themselves around your waist; I want to melt into the night sky;
I want to morph into something bigger, something whole and beautiful, I want to sink deep beneath the ocean and feel electric blue water flood my lungs.

There is sea-salt stuck in my throat and you are spilling aquamarine;
you are rolling waves around in the palms of your hands;
you ebb and flow gently against scarred skin.

I rest my head against your chest and
you say; here and now is safe
you say; ‘stay and we can paint stars onto our backs’

I run my fingers through your tangled hair and think about how much this feels like coming home.

Mute little bird crying on the sill
where is god?
drowning in the river neck choked on weeds
ribs marked with blue bruises
inward outward in

little bird little bird
swaying through the wind
where is
rising to to the ceiling fingers
devil come riding through the
frame of the world

flitting flitting berries thorns
somebody smiles at the torso
tea cup stirs the black streets run
sun sun no sun sun sun no sun
devil through the alley

it’s going to rain little little
falling from the sky grey it's all
streaks down glass wooden frames the
clutter clap of shutters and here i thought
god was slitting our throats

some nights the black torrent
holy mouth opens wide
breathes carriage horse
arthritis
tombs cracked like pristine teeth

where is god? where is god?
walking down the square walking
hands holding empty air and
silence

blood against the window
head lolling drinking corner masking
salt along the tape bounds the
end of time

out keeping light erosion
bulb eyes burnt the devil riding
heaving shoulders hands encasing
strangers set in motion

little god perched on the tower
devil riding shotgun strikes the
bell the evening opens
temple
sickness
hands through flesh

blue cheeks end of time
world speaking maw the heft
oh nothing wasted comes the river
bird rolling brine

where i am
  the skin of   yesterday
an empty trellis—

and here
a slate cover
—over   nothing

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

What kind of man
though never planed
would feed his family
from a garbage can

The kind of man
that has struggled through life
the kind of man
that finds it hard to survive

What kind of man
would rather sell his soul
than to take his family
down that rabbit hole

The kind of man
that never got a break
and doesn't want his kids
suffering from his mistakes

What kind of man
could this be
though the struggles are real
would never think to leave

The kind of man
I would hope to think
would do the very same thing
if it were you or me

That's the kind of man
that I want to be...

the shore washed up and fell right into your rose filled bones and all that your said was that you're changing your heart again, i dont understand why your favourite flowers are daisies but your hair smells like lemons and i guess yellow burns in your eyes, every time the sun sets to golden tones you pack your bags to run again but nighttime will come faster than that 9:07 train and you'll remember your date with the moon's craters and spray paint cans that hurt your back with the weight, except that graffiti doesn't have much weight to you anymore, paint over the scars, under the bruises, and lick your lips in the light of a streetlamp; there's a ripped up parking ticket in your back pocket & 19 ways out of that burning silver feeling that you can solve in this city by noon tomorrow

-you rip up your coffee cups after you're done with the drink just as an excuse to stay and talk longer yet the thought of spending time unchaining your fears fights the red in you to conquer them in groups of 2
-did you forget that you were once an artist who could move mountains into valleys just to brush the snow off them?
-whoever set fire to the blooming flowers you holistically grew in your heart was only doing you a careful favour because you never liked orange roses and now you're watering glowing daises that suit your vibe anyway
-brick walls aren't as blocked off as they seem but the cement keeps them together like the sky is willing to do for you
-stop picking apart the petals on peonies and maybe the stars will stop picking pieces of peace off of you