the crack of ice beneath a footstep as light as a feather,
how thin the ice?


albino child,
******* daughter.
white hair, red eyes, outcast,
no one wants her.

she's graceful, and kind,
her beauty is fulfilling enough to curse you blind,
though who would see it?
no one wants a ******* daughter.

so she will grow alone,
and die alone,
no family to love,
no place to call home.

no funeral,
no burial,
no tombstone.

just death.

hey Rosie Im just calling to check in
gimme a call back okay see ya bye
I heard you're not so okay
I heard you need a hand to hold
its hard to sit by a deathbed
and pretend that you're fine
Im kinda lost in your shoes
and I know you've walked a hundred miles barefoot
I remember when you were happy and wore my old tee shirt

Hey Rosie its me again
I don't wanna go home
not until I hear you say Au Revoir
its kinda lonely without your rock n roll blaring
and the smell of your incense you always leave burning
I know you're not so okay
its scary to watch someone die
Im kinda empty in your absence
and Im probably playing the lottery
until I here you say Im done with you

Hey Rosie Ive got a bad habit and its leaving you voicemails
since mothers day is coming up I was wondering if you want me to go with you to her uh.. funeral I know i didn't really know your mom but anyway, either way come home Rosie I miss you, and I wanna kiss your freckled neck and listen to you play the piano





Hey Abby its me, Sorry I haven't taken your calls Im sorry.. Its been kinda rough..
I need to leave, I know this is your home too and I know your family is here but what is the point if I stay
I don't wanna ask you to go with me thats unfair to you, but I like you
and I love the tiny details about you that are kinda irrelevant and it has nothing to do with anything but I miss them and don't wanna lose them I like the way your shirt kinda hangs off your shoulder and I miss the little scar behind your knee
sorry Im rambling, what I mean to say
Is I gotta do this now and I don't have many options and I don't wanna stay so I dont wanna ask you to come with me but Im going
and If you wanna come with me it would be an adventure

Abbs its me dont come with me you have a life here and I dont want you to leave it behind for me

Its me again, come with me Abby I don't wanna go alone and Im standing on your back porch now come out please.. wait no don't I'm being stupid Im leaving






Rosie its me Im On my way

i just want to go some place nice,
somewhere the sky is pretty- like you.
i want to be like you.
you know, i have a lot to give to the world i just-
don’t know what it is yet.
but i’ll get there. i promise i’ll get there.
until then my heart will be in that pretty place
there, the trees will be tall,
and it will always feel like autumn. warm,
but cool. and the leaves
will always be in those orange-red hues,
the water will stay so clear and blue, that
you will see little minnows when
you dip your toes into the creek.
i’m not used to living on the edge, i’m just living
and that’s alright with me,
because i don’t want to be someone
i am not.
i am careful.
i am not reckless.
in that pretty place, the sweet little people
will be in their sweet little homes.
although, some of them will not be home they
will just be in a house.
a house they wish was a home,
but it can’t be because
home is where the heart is and as pretty as that
little place is,
their hearts are not there.
their hearts, like mine, are elsewhere.
perhaps with the stars and their blinking lights,
or at the bottom of the sea,
where the pebbles are rough beneath your toes,
and you try to hold your breath forever
because you are no longer
in the shallows.
you are somewhere deeper.
i want to go some place the water is deeper,
and the people think clearly
through all of the fog
and it’s all pretty
like you.

i spent my teenagedom
checking on a book, in a deep deep vault in the basement of a library
yellow lights, with 1900s girl scout manuals
it is immortal. i am responsible for it

i've got my eyes set on the sky but my feet are nailed to the ground. gravitational pulls and cosmic love are contradictory, what can i say?

you can't see where i get it from though, all this love love love love, and babe neither can i. it lights me on fire and tears me to shreds, it makes me scared to go to bed, and all this thinking of the love i can't get to rest when i do, it keeps me awake at night.

i have no time to die, i've got things to do and people to see and nothing you say can stop me. (except for those three words that blue eyed wonder has said to me lately- but i am his friend, i am his friend, and he love love loves me, so you can't stop me, you can't.)

these days i have become well acquainted with these facts.
a. i am not loved
b. i can not be loved
c. i am broken
d. i will always be broken
and e. no one wants to share this madness that drips from the words i speak when i'm sober. (i'm always sober the only thing i've ever been drunk on is love love love. god i have so much. oh god, i can't stop.)

i'll swing like sinatra, rock like a rolling stone baby, and remind everyone of the mixtapes they used to love love love when they played seven minutes of heaven in their mother's closets on a saturday. the closet i used to hide in, but i'm clean now, wearing green, and my name is blue blue blue.

i'll have a little baby girl one day. i'll call her baby blue and she'll spit fires and cry snow flakes, and she'll remind everyone of how they used to love love love love love.

i say tell me

you say el

i say please

you say okay okay okay

i say stop stop stop

you say i love

i say no one

you say well yeah but

i say okay okay okay

you say sorry

i say *there's no need to be sorry i did this to myself

this feeds me: http://tinyurl.com/hvz44mr - sure, when you see flowers pollinate more frequently, and pigs slaughtered more so, you begin to wonder: this gentlemanly approach to things is really paying off... sure is... oh well, why are they born to necessitate such matrimony kindred to sadism? why?! by now i'm in the refugee camp: i really don't care, just get me off this orbital **** of pathos.

when bass and drums merge,
and soon overpowered rhythm guitars
all long gone...
                                    i don't have to be right,
or wrong,
                      Sacha Baron Cohen and the Cohen
brothers (albeit distinctive) and
     Mel Brooks still understand comedy:
has to do about something concerning genitalia,
but feel the rhythm,
                      it's slightly dangerous,
it's thematic according to a rheumatic
piston sharpening to pulverise you into
a state of being brain dead, that's dangerous,
skin-heads aplenty, with the fake dodo-extinction
of the left leaves the right ripe and open
to invigorate itself... just like
Urban the 2nd launched the crusades during
the first crusade... my ethnic cousins were not involved,
we waited for the Teutons, then the Mongols,
what a magical ethnic diversity,
                         you end up discarding English
media, even if or whenever they come up with a story
akin to *all the king's men - whoop d d'ah:
               helium filled balloons...
                      because what you're speaking is: i'm not
discovering as a legitimate differentiation
basis for either Lenin or Lennon -
                            shoot the dummy,
well: you're all Clinton and California is orange...
                         you see, techno punk is vague...
i'm vague...
                     i loved being in brothels,
they told me about black boys with elephants *****
and tried to get me angry,
         hell, i passed the test when one ******* stole
my bank card and the **** showed me an *** array of
stolen cards in his plagiarism wallet...
                                many more examples...
why did i retire my youth and beauty to
encounter prostitutes?
                ever tried courting an English girl?
i dare say, gnarl?
                                             you'd sooner find a *******
leprechaun than **** an English girl...
                               the bony **** of my own extensive limb
curled got boring, university wasn't the 1960s,
               i didn't want to ****...
i didn't want a Clinton reputation...
                 what's the answer? am i gay? no!
brothel 999.
                          well: if you're not going to **** me,
and i'm tired of yanking the doodle and saying
*** is actually Switzerland, where am i to go?
          the only way is brothel-land.
                                  **** a nippy chicken off a supermarket
shelf? is that your idea of currency?
                  oh i heard, two guys drugged a girl
***** her then impaled her like a Polish-Lithuanian
          Commonwealth baron speaking Ukrainian
in Argentina... then the street protests...
           i'm convict for rightfully paying for ***,
paying an extra £10 for eating the genitals out,
         making a Jewish joke akin to Balaam -
getting what i want,
                                    telling the British girls:
oh here comes the Pakistanis, curry kebab dab in that?
sure!
               whey hey!
                                   Sinjit's your uncle!
why the **** would you wonder why i designate
myself as being misogynist?
                                   i conceptualised the idea by
splitting the Cartesian Siamese distraction
into two: ergo doesn't necessarily precipitate into
the arithmetic...
                    i coordinate otherwise...
                                        going to the brothel liberated
me from dating culture,
                          from dating apps,
                                  from that i call pork trimmings.
easy to say you're an atheist but have no atheistic
thought to back it up... and few hardly do:
    because it's easy to assume you are something
but have no agreeable thought to manage the throttling
being as such.
                  a man can masquerade his delving
into lost genital interaction for only so long,
but when you live in a society where women are deaf
and blind, and prefer the company of perverts...
hey **! the ****** are parading and knocking on your
front-doors...
                      because they can, and because they will...
            what, you want to date?
                       is that eating a date while breaking
the Raamadam fasting month?
                      you got to be ******* kidding me...
don't bother...
                                      you'll die a *******-load of
squatting ***** exercises that's politically merely a
handshake... if the English girl don't give to a man:
        then let the perverts come -
i'm done.... Bulgarian ****** taught me all i need to know,
and i even decided to pay an extra £10 to slurp up that
excess of Isaac's necktie on the altar of Abraham -
funny how the Aztecs built pyramids but where not
interrupted: 'cos they were palaces of capital punishment
not trivial tombs!
                                  they taught me more than
i could have ever learned...
             when it comes to dating these days?
i can't be bothered, should i be bothered? probably no.
well, there's that case of drugging a girl, ****** her
and then impaling her in Argentina...
                       with so many insects roaming the place,
you're bound to feel a desire to ****,
  and when not gratified and not interested in games,
you go the source of your woes and
                    desire to buy salt,
and you buy salt,
                 and oh god, it's so impersonal
and yourself so intact,  and then you leave,
                                      and then you have very or merely
little concern for keeping certain things memorable.

what is she but a hope or a wish
a dream or a penny full of bad luck
a butterfly wing or a switchblade knife
placed with precision between two ribs
delirium and delusion as bride and groom
but not girl and boy
just bones and bones
husband and wife
without any parts to tell who's who
just a spark and a flash
of lives lived and loved
loves loved and died
death dreamt and slept
dreams slept and cried
tears flooded and drowned
flowers drenched
whiskey drank
porcelain chipped and cracked
last kiss of the first
death of reason
birth of madness
suffering murdered
pain given black wings
a heart stiched with the vane of a lost feather
once used by a god to write a letter and draw a map
while spending a life wandering a road under the shade of a tree
or was she sitting beneath the mist of a wave waiting for a bus to stop somewhere between eternity and oceans end
she was so long ago and sometime soon
that I can only hope and wish
that she will be the dreams of a penny that is all out of luck
just sleeping in the sun
waiting to be loved