El momento que te largaste,
la luna se colgo como espejo,
un recuerdo doloroso de tu existencia.

Güera;
brillando porcelana y distante
pero presente
en la noche de mi vida seguiendo tu partida.

Ahora que es invierno se ha puesto peor.
Caídas de nieve hirientamente blanca
forman tus costillas en mi patio,
manchas de tierra visible tus lunares,

y cuando miro por la ventana

lo tengo por seguro que mientras viva tu memoria’s melliza en mi cielo,

yo me morire con cada atardecer.


—


The moment you left,

the moon hung itself like a mirror,
a painful reminder of your existence.

Pale;
shining porcelain and distant,
but present
in the night of my life following your departure.

Now that it’s winter it has become worse;
downfalls of agonizingly white snow
form your ribs in my backyard,
visible dirt stains your beauty marks,

and when I look out the window

I’m assured that as long as your memory’s twin lives in my sky,
I will die with each and every sunset.

thin lips = cruel sips

at my resolve
and three quarters willful
need to do away
with your memory's
hips.

i
for anyone else wondering when it will stop
it won't
stop trying to fill the cup
bottoms been cut out
we'll always move across dimly lit rooms
and lick at our petal blossom wounds
waiting on someone to dress them
while ******* themselves

ii
if i could hide in the valley between your milky ribs
i wouldn't mind the sand
or storms
of stranger's fingers
i swear

a coatroom*

there are hooks where your words go
they’re hung every two of four synapses
and when the coats are missing
they shift and snag
on nerves and loneliness

where are your kinder syllables
and why don’t they mind
a lacking or longing

what's the matter lady
moon is always waning
smile fragrant paining

grind those whitewashed tombstones
into a fine dust and blow it my eye
so i might cry
over you
and the distance
and have it be half hearted
but still textbook lacrimosa

if the sun should forget me
if the moon should forsake me

there will be no need to worry
now that you're here

you
poor
naive
thing

city buckles under smog
while rat friends feast
on it's underbelly

tie back
those homely strands
with extravagant bows

you're nothing more
than
a box
inside a box
inside a box
inside a box
inside an empty
box

i treat you like i do a ripe peach
nuzzle smooth skin
and search for that scent
which tells me to smile
and sink incisors in

cause
you can't miss
what
you
forget

morning would come
and cast a shadow off your lower lip
the dark valley always
signals
for me to kiss you awake.

the constellations
i could
draw
with kisses
in the valley
between
each
milky rib

we can't all laugh off another's
longing
and
eye roll so beautifully.

por algún motivo
la noche me quiere matar
déjame en paz
oscuro y hiriente
encuentra otro hijo
malvada existencia

según tu me amas
que chiste mas cruel
dicen los segundos solitarios
que pasan entre nosotros
cada vez mas largo
y infiel a tu memoria

te mando una de mis manos
bésalo cariño
y seca tus lagrimas entre los dedos
devuélvame lo, da prisa

haré bien con lo que tengo ahora
la sal de tus ojos entre mis labios

i've only ever

wept
over welts
left by those folds in your sheets

creased and creased
one on each cheek

roll over now

play red and fed up

it's that natural light
while making friends
with shy dust

that makes me feel most happy
and less cold

as haunting
as the rigidness of your back
or suppleness of where that straight line leads

buy
back
the vast grey
and reclaim
pluto as a planet

maybe the martians
will better understand
those childish musings
that are your thoughts

lay low
in the grass
and laugh
as red sweeps your wrists
hands sway with stalks
of golden wheat

mother
watch me burn
through
these matchbook girls
all flimsy cardboard
and acrid sulfur
so dim
a soft spring whistle
blows them out

the world isn't ending
don't try carrying me away
with swipes of a double edged sword
verbose lunges
now that kisses aren't so quick and
sharp

my misanthropy
isn't as naturally
occurring
as the dullness
of your tongue

if only
just for two
or three
ticks
or
tocks
of the clock
you stopped
thinking of me

respectfully declining
an invitation
to have at
the pieces of your heart

overcooked, i would say

the windy city
won't let me light any cigarettes



no matter, second hand smoke rules these streets
and i'm already in love

we don't all know that sinking

feeling

thinking

nobody else wants to understand me

re:

we've still got our mouths

mine doesn't ever tread lightly

i suppose
now
i needed another mother
not a child that needed
looking after

frantically
retreating
like my ******* father's hairline

you're neither girl
nor woman

i'm a man,
you're a machine
i fed too many numbers

how well
do i know
that slow
heartache
of waking
to the moon
and not the sun

where
one
begrudgingly
learns
a cruel lesson or two
in
humanism

i'll never again
look at any girl longingly

the glint in their eyes
never means
come here

instead it always says
*i know

we're not here
to serve as a distraction
from the real ignorance
that plagues you
like jaundice
on a yellow moon

suffice
it to say

i don't care
for the way you sell yourself

in all illogical functions
and song lyrics

back
to
morning ***** tonics
and
*******
white ****** cigarettes

index
Ba-Be

Back dimples,


pg. 22-?

toothpicks
won't pick
the ****
from out beneath your gums

nor will
denial
cauterize the memories
off your nerve endings

learn to speak slowly
and deliberately

so that  my eyes
might understand you
better
than my ears

it's no use,
leave the earth around our tomb alone


there are no flowers left there
for bees to pollinate
with whispers of why we fell

morning
could come
and there would be
no way
to wring
my hands
of their
loneliness

i refuse to do what i'm told

shovel the driveway

why?
the snow's not doing anyone any harm
the concrete is no less cold
when bare
and buffeted by small, stamping feet

Player 1 Dead

syllables flicker
between
unrelenting self pity,
and berations
poorly disguised
as remorseful verses

you're a real piece of work
all rothko
and no manet

boring lines
keeping the colors
from conversing

what's the stupid smirk doing on your face

wipe
        it
           off

it's a disgrace

left & leaving

the sun ain't sleeping

tears thick on lashes
cloud one's vision

we haven't even reached tyronne street

           /the end of our lives

we've still got a block to walk

          /twenty years together

no perks to being this wallflower

yesterday
you said yes
and let me
come close
enough
to count
the freckles
i never
knew
you had