This door leads you right
where you are.
Scents and sights arriving
here are affirmation
of dying chemistry
between you and the world;
Therefore you sense them
stronger than man ever
has. Prophecies melt for
this inhuman moment, not
Unfamiliar to your spirit.

The Barista cooks you a
liquid meal, a brat hums
your favorite tune, but the
aftermath is they all leave.

Through a door which leads
them back again.

Daughter, son
Whatever  sensation
keeps them here with me
keeps you standing
stagnant
Ungasping, in need of
Gasping. A goner,
secret front-runner
This door leads you right
to yourself.
Scents and sensations
locked in our fish-eyes
Relinquish blindness, as is
your job.

Soufflé light massages my eyes
A cool oven breeze puts out the lies
I am a Goner,
no lives

Lived this day as
boredom gallops through.
Its hooves are in need of a deep clean
They don't allow the light to gleam.
So the light lets off steam

Horses halt, dragging thief feet in hope
of defeating this power,
wishing the paper would jam

But the sun, though none the wiser,
paints the walls and the faces.
Cooks a most creative meal.
Brings the stampede to a kneel.

Paint my lips
Scorch my soul, bring
Me ointment for the burn

Don't mind the gradient--
Colored heart swooning on
My shirt sleeve

It is supposed to be in
My breast pocket. It leaves
Quite frequently--
This is a woeful truth

I wish it were not so
But bear with me, dear, and
Don't forget the flowers.

I like flowers.

Describe It accurately

Once

And give It a twirl of hair and boho skirt

Describe It once

with love full of hatred or

strife

Until your arms & legs

Shiver, until your gemmed rings

SNAP!

to pieces

Until, when your glossy

fingernails melt, a monster's

heart burns with sympathy.

Call It on the phone, don't

apologize if you hadn't

used

the right

Words.

I sold my soul for a memory of you, one not
even long enough to be recorded

on vinyl and small enough to trap in
the empty pen I used to write

down these words. In a sense you’re now
eternal since souls are boundless and

yours is now my ink. Don’t warn your children
of strangers or drugs, rather of soul buyers

on street corners at 8PM in July. Rejection
itself is enough of a drug.

(Sold/lost: a reverse connotation where one letter
is enough to overlook the mistranslation)

What am I?
Mother, father, (ladies first)
Can I be pretty?
It's warm in here, a green-
house of orchids. The ladies
& gentlemen come in to
have a look, woman's always
first.
At least,
give me the benefit of doubt;
Will I ever be pretty?
Doesn't matter much to me,
only, ladies first,
describe what it means to be
...human-god.
Human-god, human-god.
Jesus, and
I can carry my doubt like
a knapsack
through the cloud of eye-ful
bodies,  (fellow gods)

That is a lot of gold,
Missy.
Everything is metal,
it attracts me like the
reflection.
That is a unique thing,
Darling.
It brings me to
introspection;
is life vast? is there more,
for instance, than
that shiny--?
The word jumps from my lips
but you,
Sweetheart,
are bought for a high price.
The bidder is my heart.
Please try not to  object
to my being so objective.