My eyes are marbles
on the playgrounds of children.
Your hands are
electrical probes
soldered to a car battery
I want to attach them
to different places
on my body and
die happy
my ribs
encase nothing
there is emptiness
where my heart should lie
but
a simple electric pulse
wire- cut and sparking
gives life
just as a marble connects
with another
knocking it out of the circle.

Melody is the soul that binds us
wavering throughout space and time
the void
echoing with singularity
by closing your eyes
a state of full relaxation
mantras of intellectual *******
course through your pores
lightly touching the soul in every part a whole
rain with sound down your shoulderblades
as meditational medicine envelopes your physicality
sing together as one

My body is not myself
but an entraption forcing me
to speak and dance like someone.
Though I am always inside this prison
of human manifestation
I do not belong within myself.
every time my eyes close
I swallow
                           take a step
                                                    inhale.
­I fall deeper into the dark edged chasm
blurry and anxious shaking
I am not myself.

I am not a strong person.
self medicating with cigarettes
long nights of smoke and mirrors
liquor and dilated pupils
my days turn to nights before I know
the light is summer
yellow and warm behind your skin
you smile and cheeks
forget me my troubles
what am I standing on

everything is waves
you are a wave and I am a wave
caressing together the sandy shores
what hasn't curled over yet
will

Take a drag of life,  
it cleanses.  
Peaceful, nutty and tasteful,  
we are all dying.  

Death kisses our necks daily  
but life rapes us all.  
A sweet embrace of  
smokey taste-  
the clouds are my god.  
I **** myself every day  
just to see if tomorrow  
I will awake again.  
Crackling in my hand-  
when did this begin?  
Birth?  

Like leaves  
we all crumble.  
I am the universe's compost,  
golden sunlight, toes, fingers, tongue  
and all.  
Exquisitely dark we all expound  
to minerals and dust and singed fingertips.

The trees
are like heaven nowadays
surrounding us with cloudy cloves and
flipping spirals.
A tarnished orange filter is how I see
the dead grass.
Yesterday
I was alive and breathing
sweet, cold and crisp;
tomorrow, crepuscular, we will dance in rings
of smoke and imagination.

My heart is a library.
Not a large gaudy intricate room, with
Spiral stairs and frumpy armchairs;
It is more of a smallish nook
The walls covered in shelves of
The people I have loved,
and lost opportunities.
But you sit in the corner,
The only person I have ever let in-
the only one with a library card:
Temporary handling.
You can read the books, smell the bindings,
Flip the pages.
Maybe one day, there will be one written
Of you