A bag of potatoes and a baseball bat.
Is merely a sack of starchy vegetables and a sculpted metal stick.
But on this blustering evening a bag of potatoes and a baseball bat meant an infinity more than that.
In this fleeting moment, I felt solidarity with the fact that life doesn't make sense.
I looked at you in your adjacent flesh ridden essence and smiled at this opportunity to connect.
The bat clashing with the pock eyed potato skin.
Our existences colliding with ebb and flow of a maniac pulsation.
This is not merely a hackneyed show of baseball bat on a bag of potatoes.
This is a boy and a girl realizing that this ever sacred moment holds more gravity than merely a bag of potatoes and a baseball bat.
It's just that we can't conjure what makes it so rich and ever splendid... so thus it must be
rich and ever splendid as the potato is launched into flight igniting the curiously enraptured mind of boy and girl witnessing baseball bat on potato

Our love is like a microwave
We nonchalantly recognize its presence   And we happily utilize it everyday
Yet we rarely sit and ogle upon the magic it contrives.
The beguiling beauty of the zappy microwave.

Cadaverous crotchety gouged out eyes.
Scalped trite and malnourished minds.
Where am I? What has this land become?
My vessel is gutted galled and splayed out upon the enflamed remains of our democracy.
I try to embody the equanimity peaceful   qualities of the lulling Gandhi characters before me...
But ****, I am angry, jolted and saturated in shock in fear.
Being an advocate for the people so dismissively marginalized, is what brings substance to my life.
I look into the eyes of my mirthful clients and future students, my heart winces.
How did I allow this to happen to you?  
A man who so boastfully incinerates and debased the citizens of our land with his farcical vitriol, is no man at all but merely an unsightly shrew, cozily cosseted in his world of soot and pooh.
The bosky gorgeous land we inhabit sobs in noxious fright.
To be despoiled and berated as some "natural right" splintered and tainted to allow the green cash river flow into the dubious maw of the man with no dignity to show.
A man who preens such a degenerated mindset is only aptest to a society in shambles.
Our global haimish home yearns for the equilibrium from which it was born.
In such a seeded tumultuous time my heart is seeped in reverberating sorrow.
Let your love and purity coat your vessel, do not let this barbaric man permeate your soul.
Hold steadfast to the testament of our land
True revolution is budded from a web of genuine connection, not devise brandished weapons.
Don't shroud yourself in misery, break free and be prepared to encite love with your authenticity.

divot discoloration blemished imperfection.
The storybook of my flesh is peppered with these pockmarks of life.
A secret connect the dots maze on my body binding the story pages together.
I grin as I examine my body and all it's protruding oddities, how beautiful  it is as I crash course through this crazy ocean my breath still ebbs and flows in synchronization.
I love the nooks of me no one else could possibly understand.
my peculiarly chipped tooth buried in my gums as a reminder of juvenile fun.
I tuck myself into a bed of comfort cradling these imperfections, a grand testament of life.
The girl with the electric smile and lazy eye.

When my body is broiled with the crispening macabre glean of anxiety; I imagine myself to be a buoying loaf of cornbread in a torrent sea of acid.
my custard colored crust being licked away by the ravenous maw of the current, this is no terrain for a loaf of cornbread in the first place.
Ludicrous.
Perhaps if I joined the sun swept crystal island of idealism, I could be drenched in honey and bound frivolously in nectarous orchard fields.
But then, even here, I suppose a Raven may  spot me and adorned with a vulturous sneer gobble me up in my blissful state there.
So where shall my pappy crumbling loaf of an existence reside?
In the trenches of unbridled realization, lapping me up in a despair riddled prison?
Or the land of beatitude and glee unfettered from the brutalizing truths of reality...
Perhaps there's some bridging ground between these two polar opposites...
but how should I know?
I'm merely a cornbread I can't declare cognizance.

Society, the nectarous drenched **** of gregarious giving.
Or so we think..
One must be diligent to not consume to the point of overweening upon her intoxicating milk.
"You can be anything" she coos delicately stroking your forehead.
My bleary scruffed state prevents me from feeling her venomous *****.
I am rendered limp set agog by the hypnagogic melody of society.
Then there is you...
Your Wild renegade eyes pry me from my cemented prison.
Your Voltaic energy seeped in the poetry that coats my marrow and enamel, the substance of my soul.
Such beauty estranged from society? How can that be?
Was this matronly epicenter all farce and rigamarole?
I clamor in search for those eyes to appease my pain.
I search in vain..
until I face the mirror.
Those eyes belong to me, the remedy to society is the awakening of yourself, the claiming of your poetry.

You're thighs are like tree trunks how did they get so enormous?
Perhaps my thighs are the sponges of ancient secrets destined for some grand portent.
Maybe One day I will awake and my thunder thighs will be glazed in lightning and I can do every citizens grocery shopping in a flash dash commotion.
Or perhaps this was something I was born with, and we all know the most bosky beautiful foliage isn't supported by gingerly  meek and cowering twigs, but by Herculean genuine esteemed appendages.

I cannot fathom how any pleasure is elicited from puzzles and arithmetic, it only offers me pabulum and disdain.
my brain is constantly harrowing me with effrontery begging me to solve the mystery and puzzle buried within the pooling eyes of people front of me and gnawing at the foundation beneath me.
Why should I concern myself with what x equals when I can examine the wrinkles upon the curbings of society, the brimming confusion consuming me. People are the equation of reality, the flesh ridden manifestation of the most perplexing algorithm.
I would rather torture myself with the infinitesimal existence of humans  than the numbers created by them.

In our world of clamorous wailing and insertions our entrails are left out on the curbing bloodied and useless.
If only we could fish ourselves out of our own wistful delusions.
Every creature has its role in our worlds tropic cascade, but our true delineated roles are being the cogs to catalyze our machine.
Never dethrone someone of this quality; Sometimes the seemingly most meek are the most mirthful and life changing.
Don't render yourself a graggled block in the machine due to your insecurities, love and love indelibly and you will be set free.

My soul was scorched.
Excavated of the soft and tender leaving the bitter and dismal.
Days after this grand liquidation sale with my gutted contents crumpled up in the remains of used tissues my ashen lips were clamoring for you, the boy who set the fire.
I had skinned myself of your touch, each day nurturing the tenderness back into my cheeks. Seeded under my renewing flesh was the devil of animosity begging me to hold on to a fragment of you.
My healing process is fueled by the grueling fire of disdain.
Even with your presence gone I seek you to be the platform of my existence
The ember of softness and genuine essence weeps inside of me, if only I spent those days searching my hollowed body for the fire simply waiting to ignite inside myself.
I realize now how repulsing and selfish I am, you pour so much into someone so they are pooling at the brim, but if that burning ember inside of them isn't properly tended and respected, their kettle will never brew.
I am sorry I couldn't have coaxed your ember
I am so sorry it had to be you

There I was cradled beneath your warm freckle embellished flesh.

This should be comfort, our vessels nestled so tightly against each other.

But I feel like an alien ship afloat in ominously calm water.

My body twinges in discomfort as I turn to face you.

"You aren't going to just disappear one day?" I meekly ask gingerly caressing your face.

Questions often times serve no purpose just to display the words your heart has already accepted.

Your lips whispered "no" as they drew closer to consume me and glean my cavern of any lasting sliver of hope.

You see, those who stay never have a reason to reassure you, they just do.

Dear Bukowski,
I can imagine my embellished rupturing fondest of your works makes you feel sludged with rancor. But I do assure that my adoration only spawns from your purity of disdain and fervor. All things rise together in epic sanctimonious swells. You are not the midwife to poetry nor is poetry the bolstering mother of your life. You are as impenetrably intertwined as the first fickle breath of life writes the verse to our poetic life. While this is true, you acknowledge the infallible doom that consumes our world as people search for definitive answers. As you tackle the affronts of our world you embodied your poetic sinew accepting the fact the world could readily eradicate you with slight cadence alteration of the wind. Bukowski I do not grovel to you, but I will endlessly cherish your paper encased testaments of life. You aren't afraid of painting the inner creasings of your mind you are the midwife and the executioner you are poetry you are life.

I feel like a frowzy of a freak, I lounge upon a grizzled chair and only joust myself awake to
EAT
I jimmy I jam like a ******* clad scintillating ham always clamoring to find
MORE
I am a syringe of honey; I make love to destitute with campy glamour always leaving the foray smelling like
BEANS

Hello world,
I like to imagine I could encapsulate you in my palm so my dewy lips could whisper you a secret and convey my twittering hearts contents, the message would succinctly read: "Well world you prolific matronly majesty you, I must confess I don't give a ****."
Now let me clarify, by saying this I mean I have accepted the temporary condition of this life.
I sling shot through your streets and meadows in an endless gambit of emotion. All I can hope for is to be as open as your halcyon skies allowing things to come and go and connecting with the inhabitants below with every ounce of sinew that my body can produce for our fickly allotted moments.
All we have is each other giving a **** doesn't bring us any closer, connection is found when you release your idea of self to the ether.
Stop giving a **** and only connect.

Your crescent eyes look at me moist like a marshy pond.
All the pain and beauty those eyes have ingested glossy and confused.
"I'm a **** up" you say as you drop the news.
You search so desperately to find a title to straighten your spine and give your story a purpose your flesh cannot find.
You are tremendous, a testament of life. Your eyes are a chasm of brooding emotion, utterly human.
I know how ravenously you claw and peck at the festering flesh of others searching for the nectar the cloying sweetness you miss within yourself.
But you are the golden honey ***.
You mistake the swarming bees for tasteless wasps.
You are horribly misconstrued.
The boys that bask themselves in synthetic sugar are simply hiding their innards of soot and poo.
I forgive you, but this doesn't matter.
You must find the golden honey gleaming behind the spackle of false propaganda you call your marrow.  
You are complete.
There is nothing dead inside you, things simply need tended to.
You are human, please never forget.
**** up is simply the veil you wear to hide this fact.

A slab of flesh, a big lug of moistened meat poised perfectly behind your teeth.

How does it know to stay there happily enclosed behind the primped maw?

My chest swings up and down as the uncertain wind chimes melodiously drone on

My toes curl as they anchor themselves to the manifestation of reality which is my bed

Release yourself of desire and your perception of self and you are free.

I am not merely DNA strands or small dainty hands.

I am unfathomable and that's how I know I exist, exquisitely undeniably present

Snowflakes feather down from the sky in delicate ferocity, not knowing their imminent destination, but certainty hurling towards their death.
I wince as the mass slaughter of snowflakes is gruesomely displayed on my windshield.
Amongst the blustering winds each snowflake is traced and clustered with it's own design.
But the meticulous sculpting of these snowflakes serves no purpose as they all meld together creating the sugar kissed veil of whiteness.
I trust that if I were to be a pinwheeling snowflake that your peach caressed skin would preserve me for what I am if only for a brief moment to absorb my recherche crystal formation with appreciation.

When cold days leave you anchored to your bed what is it to           Live

My Grandmothers creased and gregarious eyes radiate                      Life

Just as the shoots of grass reach to kiss the sky oh so               Simplistically

Heathens gyrating and rhythmically thrusting their pelvis through the streams of sleepwalking flesh.
I suppose if I followed in suit with this I could be enchanted with some ****** liberation.
The thing is buried in the back of my cheery playground mind remains a lonesome tree swing chirping the romanticized idea of a genuine love.
One that would cleanse me of my misery and caustic taste in my mouth.
People often ask me why I refrain from nosediving into the pool of greasy lipped grinning men.
The truth of the matter is it has less to do with me not believing in love, but the indelible truth of desperately yearning for such a love I fear is extinct.

I am a vessel, a vessel of churning vomitous nectar, I'm seating inside another vessel of metal and plush.
Behind me is several other sandwiched vessel creations.
The man stationed behind me..I wonder if he's a ******? My mind implores endlessly trying to separate from this present vessled state. He dips his pinky into his nostril fishing for a crusty mucus nugget.
That nostril of his connected to his flesh adorned vessel, I wonder if it has felt love?
I have ruled out the thought of him being a ******, a man confident enough to excavate his nostrils in broad day light has surely had ***. But has this furrowed brow vessel of a man felt love?
Have I felt love?
The mechanic vessels blare on their horns. Green light. We all move in fluid motion again. A sea of mindless hopeless vessels.

My lacquered black nails absently trace the outline of my lips.

My thoughts slowly churn until they whir out of control and send me stumbling to your bedside.

My body is frigid and stale laying beside you like a vacant vessel.

When your thoughts become this unwieldy  the wet streaks painting your cheeks are your only solidarity.

"I will always care for you" I say, as I slowly grab grip of reality and exit the realm of memory.

It's just that..

There's no sense in watering grass that's already dead, when you have a forest inside of you begging to live.

We were Impervious:
Two perfectly poised bodies buoying each other through the **** of life

Then the mass Conflagration:
A fire consumed and incinerated what I thought we could be.

I should have realized worship isn't a vessel of transcendence , but a ship fettered in servitude eagerly waiting to drown me.

You ignite my picnic of a body, bedecked with an assortment of foods too pickled and procured with oddities to ever be pillaged.
You plunge your fingers into my vinegar ****** potato salad and athwart my melonous cantaloupe thighs.
I indulge in your embrace as you engulf in mine.
Two terribly beatitude lovers emboldening the picnics within eachother.
The simonized delight as your hands are the midwives to my parted thighs and my glazed love drenched eyes.

The sputtering world of eudemonic merriment often times feels very illusive. Just as you begin to feel nestled in equanimity with the essence of sunny joviality, blustering winds topple you off your blissful leisurely swing and back to the gravel strewn floor of reality.
Happiness is something I insatiably seek, yet happiness isn't a tangible thing, but rather a spell of beatitude enshrining my body in gold, aligning the world to the euphoric filter of my desires.
Happiness spurs a smile so fervid that despair can be muted if only for awhile.
Happiness manifests in various forms percolating through all stages of life like some iridescent amorphous syrup.
I must accept that happiness intersperses through all things as the duality of our world is etched with ebb and flow.
With that being so I can't deny the reverberating enchantment of this moment.
Your scintillating broad smile eradicating all laws of gravity leaving me buoyed in the milky sky of pooling happiness.
I am here, as are you, flesh robed orbs  radiating in saturated pools of happy.  two pulses united among the masses.

We are here now
now is good,
and this is happiness.

For the girls that were requested to send **** photos at the tender age of 12.
For the girls that have been spoon fed a false reality of what love is.
For the girls like you, and for the girl that is me.
Don't let their poison taint your iridescent waters.
They have fallen victim to the filthy hands buried beneath the glaring screens of falsified truth, pulling them under into a sad existence.
The chanting voices of their peers solidifying their soiled mind.
You don't need to join them in this existence you don't revolve around grime you are a gleaming star on your own.
They will attempt to groom you, and if you have no healthy version of love to compare this against, you become ensnared in their trap.
You my dear, are everything. Your skin embellished with the wonders of life just as the silken sky shines under the veil of night.
I know it is hard, but you must learn to love yourself. Your mind so brilliant should not be ashamed. Here you are utterly human.  With this acceptance you become invincible to the malicious maw of our world continually trying to consume you.
They will call you stuck up, *****, along with numerous other incendiary names. This won't faze you, you love yourself.
It takes time though to place yourself back on the pedestal where you belong.
The grating words of these boys will likely whittle you down to the victim they can feast on.
You may begin to wear your encounters of ****** harassment as a pendant of pride, to disguise your disheveled and crippled insides.
It happens as you lay in bed and realize how barren you are, this body you are tucked in is no longer yours.
The men have feverishly devoured every ounce of you. who are you now, but the next mans fetish or toy?
You must reclaim what is yours, I am not merely lifeless limbs for you to sink your teeth into. Here I am sinew and brimming beauty I am woman and you will respect me.

I have fashioned myself a cosseting nest of denial to protect me from my earnest yearnings.
I sit atop my stoop in cavalier crusted pessimism lobing over stones at the passing pedestrians enraptured with the bliss of romance.
"rigamarole dimwitted ****" I huff as I examine the fluidity of their movement.
They bob along as two flocculent clouds set agog.
Such dulcified fools; they see their lovers lips brimming with nectar and skin dashed with gold.
"Such farcical magic musings, who needs such things?" ; I question  rustling in my scathing bed of delusion.
One day I awoke to see a frenzied nest stationed next to me with a peculiarly pristine fellow bellowing.
The days following my eyes were deterred from ogling at the lovebirds beneath me as they grew curiously closer to the voltaic man vexing me.
He didn't pass his hours feeding from the disdain and self deprecating disarray, instead he perched giddily reading books and pacing incessantly.  
This mans marrow doesn't reek of lovers idealism, but his eyes lift a veil to show me utter perfection.
Owning the vessel he inhabits he doesn't allow room for preposterous inhibitions.
As he unrobes to show me the mind wrinkles fueling his insanity, I began to wonder if his lips are coated in the same sugar doused divinity.
As his hands gingerly caress mine, I decide to retire my stones, It seems about time I let myself learn to float.

This dimension of living is endlessly shrouded in mystery.
We are the midwives to our own platform of living and we have the authority to liquidate it and start upon a new tier at any moment.
I know but only what my eyes have unrobed  to show me.
All around us isolated winsome lives of their own fabric and hemming are kerneled into the crust of our worlds existence.
We are so distinctly separate yet intrinsically connected.
We tend to weave our lives in a way to circumvent the albatross that is free-floating and searching for a host.
It is so simple to sector yourself away from the things that pose fluster to your character.  
But we infallibly need each other, we must uncloak ourselves from the throttling labels.
Once you make peace with the construction of this world you are unfettered and free.
All of these sumptuous luminescent minds quarantined away serve no good.  Live your life with decorum and ease and let this light scintillate to invigorate others. This revolution is not rooted in vociferous speeches and affronts, but by merely emitting your unadulterated authentic self. Excavate yourself of the toxic of society and you will become the voltaic entity.
Make haimish comfort with the idea of uncertainty and live life simplistically.

Oh hi there fellow!
I see you there dwelling, you darling dew drop.
I see you! No, not just your presence I recognize your iridescent essence.
Wow, aren't you remarkable with that cascading flesh, supple and prolific!
Your wild dragon fly eyes moist like a glistening tile floor at a high class fast food restaurant.
And hey check out those morbidly ***** brows, all flurried and bunched neatly upon your forehead stage.
You are a masterpiece every nook and pitted cranny, a glorious castle of cells and excrement.
Now my suitably silken friend lets strut out of this bathroom and let the chasm of life consume us.
Oh so exuberantly.

A leisurely stroll, two feet plodding through dandelions in hypnagogic droll.

A walk in the park is nothing of banal matter, but some sumptuous production engendering the staring feature of  the gambit of life.

Old folk hobble, young ones cuss and scramble, children giggle.

The park is a nudnik creation while awaiting the charades and demonstration of the chaotic equanimity of this human population.

Life is not a walk in the park, the park is a magnanimous showcase of lives we embark.

Oh dear, say it ain't so
I have tumbled once more into the Ensorcel rabbit hole.
Such beguiling charisma and perplexing dexterity wound up inside the man seated next to me.
Perhaps he has broad branching toes like a stoic Tarzan type, nesting in foliage and kissing the stars goodnight.
Or maybe, just maybe he's a beatnik poetic pulsating with the rhythm the earth has bestowed in him.
His finely aligned scruff and quaintly poised glasses may suggest his love for musical classics.
Oh treacherous day, what ever shall I do?
This man of such illusive origins glazed in nectarous morning dew.
Logistically you could precipitate more interaction to decode the cryptic fabric  fostering this bizarre attraction.
But...
Enshrining and alienating yourself from said object is the best way to circumvent its truthful product.
He is feverishly contaminated by the condition of human, fettered by the society's rubble and ruins.
Ah, no matter I say. I can jowl upon my pumpkin pie and wistfully ostracize the pestilence shreds of reality away.
Anyhow, I do much prefer the aggrandized lofty plot of land transcended from our fickle mortal hackneyed plans.
A throne of land so void of reality my fabricated man could lie beside me in all his Tarzan beatnik classical music glory.

What an exquisite mess we are tangled in sheets..our bodies together the midwives of all things magical. Where our bodies connect waterfalls and enchanted forests come to life... Or so I think. Upon this box spring stage, I forget that you are human. Who is this man who's body drapes over me pouring his music and luster into my being. Who are you? Why do I say I love you? Love is the only magic I've yet to see manifest in this life, I guess it's just ***.

I want to pray.
Feel a beam of light expunge me from these anxieties
I want to pray to know that you are happy
or at the least at peace.
In some glinting meadow free of your sorrows, drenched in weightless freedom and endless smiles.
I want to pray, but I know I'll never be sure.
So for now, I'll make this  world a place you'd like to live.
where compassion radiates ferociously and your inedible love fuels it endlessly.

Why I am like this?
The taddest stiver from what I deem aptest is excavated.
My skin is pock marked and discolored like a poorly laundered sheet.
When I run my fingers across my flesh ridden vessel my fingers read the incrusted  imperfection.
Divot: you were never worthy
Scar: who could ever find you appealing?
Blemish: your existence is repugnant
I ravenously pick at my skin, hoping I'll find some scintillating suit of beauty lying just beneath my robe of acquiescent reality.
Tear: I fear intimacy because I let my imperfections blind me.
Heart: palpitating panic, I've grown accustom to the small nibbling self loathing.
I harrow my skin not only as a result of my OCD, but as a way to keep me corralled from all the potential I'm afraid to see.  
I feel much more safe sundered away from all the beautiful things I once aspired to be.
Scarring, discoloration, dead skin.
I don't have to fret rejection when I've already denied myself the right to be accepted.

I want to know I'm loved with unwavering certainty.
Crisp clarity.
As if love was a bubbly boil pasted right in mid of my forehead.
Constantly reminding me of its existence, bumptious and irritating, but ever present and glorious.
I want a love I fear is nullified buried in the graveyard of childhood fantasies.
For in all reality No man will love you for you in unadulterated vivacity.
The real world is tainted by the mind of biology, terminating the dream of true love and all of the accompanying fluffy stuff.
There's no sense spending our days mourning the falsified dreams of our youth.
There's only one person on this earth that can make you happy and that'd be YOU

In a world of gorged overweening wobbleston folk, it can be difficult to allow yourself the reprieve of natural existence. We all arise in the same cadence and our attrition follows in similar suit. Release yourself into the infallible manor of mystery and truth. Escape the life of perpetuating death, by finding solace within yourself.
There is nothing that needs cumbersome labor, let your body rise in the manner of a child. Accept the world and free your shackles of desolation.

I hate to admit it, but I want to feel special.
I entomb myself in the reality of mundane dribblings but truly my heart is wrenching as it can smell the fantasy.
The thought of someone wanting to know my favorite movie and memorize it like their sacred duty.
I'm soft; a kettle brewing with pang splintered yearning.
I want the waves of people to pander to me surrendering at my feet collapsing with poised beauty whispering "you are worthy"
I want to feel special, yet I know that I am not. I am amongst the innumerable flesh ridden boats of existence buoying about in angst and desperation.
I am alone and am pleased in this pod of solace.
But a broad stroking mansuetude hand that may caress my face and help proliferate the love I hide within myself.
Well, I guess that may be nice...

The bold and delicate trees bow down beckoning me.
We are all in one bundled in a grand emporium prolific cornucopia.
My pudgy feet make acquaintance with your smooth clay ground.
The understory of shrubbery demure and quaint basking in the sun.
We are all in one.
The inhabitants below the ground tunneling and supplementing your crust with nutrients whilst my furled brows arch up towards the halcyon sky.
I can't pin a denotation of what life is, but I can utter a word that resonates in my purest of minds.
Connect.
Only connect, and all will be fine.

We know it's a buggery installation to the condition of human, but here it is, fervid and frazzled,the green glowering vein of jealousy.
Some ration it by diagnosing it at it's roots. It's merely our biological will to proliferate our genetics, "Mate guarding" they will call it.
But I fail to see how  this is anything but capricous as instead of helping me carry along my genetic line jealousy warps it into a suitable noose to adorn my neck.
Jealousy is simply an insatiable itch that flares up to feed my insecurities when they fall all too silent.
After all what good did security ever offer me?

What a cacophony of a man.
You inhale upon your sagged cigarette in a banal matter to bind together your facade of a nonchalant man.
Man man man..
What makes you a man? I see you and your gratuitous gestures, but what defines the substance of your manhood.
I'm going to take a drumy roll of the dice and suppose your ****** anatomy is the typical sad prune like elephant of your fellow males. You keep on insisting through your bolstering language that you are a man. "I am a man *******!" Your words go launching out of your unrolled jangy car window.
Is that all it takes? You simply yawp out these proclamations and it makes them true?
Well then, I suppose every fellow that has cut me off in the treading pool of traffic, bares resemblance to a donkey.

"You're magical" he murmurs beneath his furls of bounding hair, his breath laced with the cooing cleanliness of a spurring romance.
I cup his face to examine his scintillating grin entrancing me to believe neither of us are human.
We are two slices of the universe haphazardly but precisely aligned.
Two flesh curled folk relishing in the moment of magic.
It's not I who espouses magic, but the amorphous entity between us.
The bridging between two worlds embedding a sliver of your entity into my universe.
Inextricably connected this little dash of magic will be buried in my flesh, a patch of milky iridescence, igniting me to seek the magic in a world riddled in havoc.

Every story requires that character.
The zany tenacious fellow brewed so fervid in the condition of human.
Their genuine existence so present it almost feels incompatible in our world so driven by the lacquered shell of "image"
As I watch the corners of your lips lift in fluid motion, my body is splintered in waves of awe.
You are the broth that adds substance emboldening all the buoying ingredients amongst it.
Unbridled by the delusions of society you make the simplest things ignite with magic.
You are the character enchanting my story.
You are the character who is teaching me how love can flourish organically.
You are teaching me to become the scintillating character I want to be.
Thank you for helping me accept the unadulterated character that is me.

If I hear another commercial glaring on in toadying fashion about title loans or exorbitant jewelry, I do believe by belly button will suction myself into a mangled flesh raisin.
We are just marionettes in this abhorrent charade of a game, indentured servant to the very thing we lionize and worship.
It's laced with the portent of hope but made with the intention of despair.
It's the reason we are reeled out of bed in obsequious duty and fall asleep in existential worry.
The thing in which can establish an empire yet eagerly turns around to act as the executioner.
Overweening on the stiver of promise you plot the grave where you will soon rest.
They tell you that happiness is a biological setting, yet how can this be when the seas of  currency are what determine if I am able to eat.
You mold a throne for some by using the sinew and soul of the others.
You are the reason our economy functions, and the reason for humanities destruction.
Nonchalantly buried in my jeans, the crumpled green paper of misery.

Vacant houses upon lively streets lay ashen and withered with neglect.
Once there was life inside that shell, floorboards creaking in late night passion, or more often then not the sluggish patter of feet searching for a midnight snack.
The Windows are now boarded up refusing the light of the world to dance inside the dusty chamber once more.
This cluster of wood is a giving tree of nurturing, a wobbly toddler once learnt how to walk upon the flocculent carpet, growing right from the core of the foundation.
When I gaze at these houses I can't help but think of..
Mother.

My head makes home on your silken bare chest.
I listen to the bumptious show raging beneath your flesh.
Your heart oscillating like a finicky fan, your hand stops to rest at the nape of my neck.
"What are you looking for?" You ask in an anxiously fettered tone.
I begin to smirk at the ambiguity of the question, although I very well know your intention.
I decide to stay ginger and ask "what do you mean?"
The cacophonous swirl begins to whir in your chest, like an overloaded laundry machine.
"...with us?" You finally suggest.
"Yes" I answer in curt fashion, beaming in certainty as he draws me in so we can meld together.
An anchoring connection leaving an indent in the earths crust and between the both of us.
The answer is "yes".

Today I had a needle pierced through my flesh to adorn my vessel with color.
Today your flesh may be grey, peppered with the proof of decay.
I am here and you are not.
You shared your luster and love with abundance, but something you gave so freely you couldn't possess yourself.
But while your body does rot the love you shed does not.
It shall bloom in the innocence of youth and pulse of nature.
I feel you.
I love you.
I miss you.