there is nothing here, much fill of
the vacuous – just tired mesh;
a precise ruling
of chaos, like how my mother told
me over folding clothes that i have
my own way of destroying things.
dizzied and then clamped by my
way of default fixtures past furnitures
and a break on the lip of the wound
having knelt on a shard of glass
age 7 in familial entrails —
knowing how heavy my steps were
by looking justly at worn-out shoes,
pieces of the Earth jammed on slits,
their countenance earthen, exhausted
from the mundane. walls chaffed
from childish gnaws, drunk on turpentine.
stock-still hands of an old watch with
dents for portrayal of agonies
in the dresser, clothes pretending not
much to do
and when it started to place its
affect, i have learned enough to love
was commonplace for hurt,
and that there is a false horizon
staring back through tough heads
of protruding nails, giving back a dignified
image of contrition — in the mirror
a furiously slaughtered conjuring
of what i once held in my hands
vivisecting to discover evidence
fingers painted red, running the fugitive,
rogue without emphasis,
hurrying back to home
photographs nailed to their stations
with cases fractured, deep into halved
smiles, mother locating me with
an old chipped drinking glass, telling me
i have my way
of ruining things.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
there is nothing here, much fill of
the vacuous – just tired mesh;
a precise ruling
of chaos, like how my mother told
me over folding clothes that i have
my own way of destroying things.
dizzied and then clamped by my
way of default fixtures past furnitures
and a break on the lip of the wound
having knelt on a shard of glass
age 7 in familial entrails —
knowing how heavy my steps were
by looking justly at worn-out shoes,
pieces of the Earth jammed on slits,
their countenance earthen, exhausted
from the mundane. walls chaffed
from childish gnaws, drunk on turpentine.
stock-still hands of an old watch with
dents for portrayal of agonies
in the dresser, clothes pretending not
much to do
and when it started to place its
affect, i have learned enough to love
was commonplace for hurt,
and that there is a false horizon
staring back through tough heads
of protruding nails, giving back a dignified
image of contrition — in the mirror
a furiously slaughtered conjuring
of what i once held in my hands
vivisecting to discover evidence
fingers painted red, running the fugitive,
rogue without emphasis,
hurrying back to home
photographs nailed to their stations
with cases fractured, deep into halved
smiles, mother locating me with
an old chipped drinking glass, telling me
i have my way
of ruining things.
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