The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.

A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.

Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.

What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.

The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.

The life is still, but forever infinite.

Once in Earnest Doubt did my Faith Suppress,
The First Great Angel accepted my Prayer
Of Random Choice did in Honest Address
Took pleasure in Follow; And found her Fair
And why not from the Bard's State was her Birth
For she the Limestone Guardian of Plum's Prince
Took Seven more Wings; And produced their Worth
Have sung his Growing Concept ever since
You know how leeched I am on your Good Deed,
A Stunning Example I must pursue
Truth avast takes Life's Innocence for keep
Then land on your Incarnate good and true.
Please forgive me. This is all I should know
Now enjoy your Shoot with the Man of the Show.

Expect miracles every minute
Not.

Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.

Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.

I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.

You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.

Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.

Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.

What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.

This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.

Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem  
shall be my Epitaph?

Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.

so now im falling, deeper.. faster.. chased by stones made from the cruel words you hurled from your mighty perch.. so high above us all, you peer down your nose like an eagle regarding its prey. cold indifference shines in your once passionate eyes. how often those eyes persuaded me.. how easily they broke down my defenses, allowing you to burrow deep inside my mind, permanently attaching yourself to my soul.. you leeched away at my happiness, a parasitic infestation that left me a hollow shell of what i once was, far from the me i know i could be. it all seemed so worth it then.. carelessly giving you everything i could possibly spare, leaving you in control of every vital part of me.. i was strong once.. now, even i falter before the poorly concealed hatred that is woven through your words. i have all but fallen to my knees before you.. you worked so hard to tear me down that you dont seem to know what to do now that i lay broken on the floor. i have nothing left to give and still you take it all from me.. turn away from my screams, shield your eyes from my tears... dont let my blood stain your shoes.. ignore me as best you can, for you have learned the ***** truth.. even when i can no longer stand, i crawl on hands and ****** knees back to your side, where i patiently await a single kind word that will never come. so smile at my screams, smirk at my pain. it will not deter this pet from her master.
i am your prisoner..
i love you.

i.* It’s supposed to be poetic that our matter comes from stardust, but once upon a time we were shining holes in the sky and now I cannot ask how anybody is anymore without getting an answer like “everything is slowly killing me.” I don’t know how I feel about this. I just know it’s huge. A supernova waiting in the saddest pockets of myself.

ii. I got tired of always going postal and bought some painkillers, recomposed my blood: half coffee and half antifreeze. Half NyQuil and half spite.

iii. I hammered my fear into an altar, splintering between the steel pews and jagged teeth of bread knives. I’m so sorry. I burned us both up trying to be the light in your eyes. Let me audition again, I’ll crawl into your bed and rest my cheek on the collar of your shirt. I’d **** for the Heimlich of your arms, looping over my ribs. At least then I can write another poem about the way my heart seizes up like a clenched fist thinking of us like this. They’ll find me fossilized with my thumbs in your belt loops, fingers curling around the loose change and ticket stubs in your jeans.

iv.  I let my tongue swell up with relatable pop ballads, because anyone can write them when they feel so profoundly wounded that no one else will ever feel this way again. I never knew a heart could feel this cold. Don’t leave me here after all this, baby, no one hurts me like you do.

v. I never use the word “self-destructive”, but sometimes I still choke myself for decent poetry. I learn to be so numb I have to feel the gravel in my knees. Getting the words out is like when you force yourself to cough just to feel your eyes water, just to make yourself cry. I won you over with self-inflicted black lung. I’m so sorry. I thought maybe if I hacked up how beautiful I found your fingerprints, I’d end up covered in them.

vi. Here are seven knots. Here are seven sins. Here are seven ways to bruise.

vii. I keep having dreams I can waltz with God and all of his ******-up creations. That I can peel away whatever buried its claws in me and leeched away all the electricity. I keep having dreams you teach me how to dance. That your fingers brush mine and we light up like sparkplugs that learned how to kiss. My throat like a bottle rocket from the cannon of your hips. Plug yourself in, tell me the stars in you are remembering how to burn again.

imagination: the crucible of inanimate things getting the modern physics makeover of dynamism in quanta of crosswords and dalmatian; imagination: **** static without the fizz of carbon edging to oxygen in the nightclub; imagination, when you assume unmovable things can be moved not disgruntled by not seeing the image of such feats formalised for applause and a nobel on the clean sheen buttering the scalp; oh yeah, what else? ah! me shampoo steve on the maiden to scrap lanky, me talk aboriginal, continent to continent, me talk each cult dialect of tribe without chief, me smoke tobacco with glee, but back home, i'm like the aboriginal: i say socrates is pop, they say kerry katona is popper, i might as well be among the **** naked cannibal lepers eating themselves to the salt shake of maracas - mmm, extra flaky; chisel those fried pouts into ducky of chalky lipstick: originating without mirror but a stick; but to be honest? the celebrity culture was a way to cut off the famous from 2000+ years ago; well, that was the original idea.*

i wanted to correlate the fascination from astrology
into phonetics, i chose the oak tree split to be the y,
i chose the sun to be o
and the moon to be c,
but i lost the constellatory plot from there;
so a beer and cigarette on a sunny day:
england owns september if you want me to compare
it to a zodiac; england owns september.
then i dipped into a canto dry lipped,
ushering people in:
man will be more heartbroken losing
his dog to a stranger than a woman,
with animals there's no free will involved you see,
pat on the head to the count of two
and i was leeched to 5am walkies,
but then i dropped the finished can, stumped the cigarette but
and opened the book, hiroshima sunrise
of bleach white pages in the sunlight,
shadow those twenty-six digits in for the eyes to see.
i want literature, i don't want oration,
not the kind of politics of arson with pre-pepper sneezes
of applause on the cue, life, the automation of queues,
i want spontaneity and the outer reaches to shake
a banana into a pistol in a magic trick,
with the bunny turning into a rabbit-hare mongrel,
or a ******* left *** wiggle for the photoshop, you choose.
so i said: but i want literature, i want to read
books so complex that i can't incorporate them into
my cognitive narrative, and i can't even speak about them,
i want books like that, books that will
not allow me to speak about them, or join a book club,
or become a critic for a newspaper when the **** is hot,
i want... literature... pure and simple...
i don't want tea break talk folding a ******* into jam and cheese
benevolently housebound to smear cat **** on walls and simply
call it diluted beige.

I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an *******. I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.

Take a look inside my home:

I live in a Dream because Reality
hurts
leeched on by long tendrils and roots
wrapping, resting
around my nervous system
that plant seeds in my mind,

"She's so *fly,
perfectly alike,
On the call, on the go for
me,
no questions asked.
Our personalities
bare and unmasked."

But only inside my head
can this hopeless reality be watered.

the "mystery" of the transaction,
that's quiet legal in
Amsterdam...
      you can only actually subject
           a woman to "your" object...
if you're never made such
a transation...
            i guess you're left in the dark
with all the fungus-historians
that speak of the second "big-bang"
of an ape on hallucinogenics...
objectifying women...
            funny...
                           not even funny,
just odd...
              maybe the whole
    objectivity "vs." subjectivity is not
being allowed duality,
     that eventually becomes blurry...
and is instead
  this jargon quasi-intellectualism of
people afraid of Alzheimer's
disintegration of words from
words and words from ideas and
ideas from clarifying idea-neutral
narratives...
              perhaps it's an american
thing,
       since a stripper can't be made
        subject to the "objectifying" posit...  
make that's why there's really
only an objectification-of-object
and no, absolutely no
     subjectification-of-object-***-subject?
is objectification a reference
to genital "intrusion"?
      what if there is no genital "intrusion"?
******* crossword puzzles
that sometimes aim of exposing
working within the confines of
   the thesaurus...
                 a-subject made inconvenient
        by the-object?
     sure, given i was only the fifth
in line...
                        i actually don't know
what objectivism implies
with the confines
   of a woman who will not desire
to make me into a subjective
enterpire of, mothering,
wife...
                  and... what am i again?
object of an hour
    within the absolute lack of
subject on her behalf...
                 for some strange reason
she's more of a subject,
a canvas... than i might allow myself
to not be a stroke of a brush
and some, paint...
          but then public conversation
doesn't attach itself to
the intellectual murk of dualism:
                    it needs dichotomy...        
nice backdrop, a week ago:
   haven't seen a lightning storm like that
acting out parliament over
           london in a long time...
in the back of my mind:
      the subjectivism of women seems
inherently wrong...
   subjectifying could be deemed
more harroring for the idle minor-head
when turning blisters into
       golden flakes on the topic of
   ego                  body
           \           /           \
              mind                id
                                     cosine serpent...
given the sine serpent answer:
                id              mind
             /      \         /      
    body          "ego"
      i can only fathom a threshold of the point
of objectification...
        after the threshold
there's a breach of objects -
      unlike a guarantee of one
man, a hammer and a sack of nails...
       i'm just curious that
there is an actual legal non-debate taking
place...
                the sort of shrinking
**** sensation in english law:
    it's illegal to own brothels...
   but it's not illegal to procure
the act...
                       so what's the difference
between objectification
                    and necrophilia?
the former word isn't as fancy...
  it's not exactly equivalent to mana from
heaven for the Hibrealites...
    i can only undertand
authentic objectification
             as confined to necrophilia...
of what is necessary to express
the crude correlation of "fact" to act...
          since then the death-fore of
eating beef...
           but without actually *******
a cow...
                             so a dead end...
it's just a "problem" with too many
close-proximity words...
         namely the ob-        sub-
              prefix claustrophobia of attaching
a thought to explaining or:
   guaranteeing a decided congregation
on...
             2 years without
  having touched a human body in the way
that i'd like to be touched,
kissed, looked intently into the eyes...
   finding sparrows chirping
on gently toying with lips using
the bare minimum of tongue and teeth?
finding the gentle baron cartilege of
the nose also being gentle leeched...
                 and a giggle?
              just my luck to have synchronised
the two events...
   and written this a week later;
could never take to metaphorical *** antics
   in the known to me
               expressions of being *** starved;
i'm a butcher...
           not an Argentinian beef chef
                      or food critique combined.

1.
Princely I am, as Michigan loam,
as carefully turned mud,
as old, old dust––

my breaths are still and unresolved
and don’t dissolve in alcohol
like snakes or dead, bloated fish––

I am nothing monumental.

2.
Stuttered breaths lie in limp open circles around our feet,
hanging by threads of unmade promises––

symmetry was never my forte.
The bent nose,
the crooked lips,
the slow-ballooning wen where nitrogen bubbles––
my flesh is like untilled soil,
all raw and swollen with possibility.

3.
You asked me if it was probable
to find life on Mars
where the iron-leeched sand
crumbles like dried hemoglobin.

I don’t know about amino acids or genesis
or the first man of Dust,

much less mysteries of lovesickness, respiration,
really good ***––
We’re barren in different ways;

your dust comes from dreams, from heaven,
crimson and majestic
and dead as Olympus Mons

while I am like moon dust,
just as cold as your bone-dry lakes of carbon dioxide,
but paler, heavier,

and more remote.

It's odd to be a peon.
To sit in a grey Office.
Blue tucked in button up.
Red tie.
My opinion is irrelevant.
It's hard, it's rough.
It's not safe.
I am disposable.
All face to face is false.
My red tie doesn't help me.
It only stands me up.
I look left and find a man
both dressed and sitting down.
Whiskers ***** from his chin.
Teeth behind them smile.
A bit lip, a burnt tongue.
From the coffee on his desk.
He doesn't seem to have a soul left.
This cubicle has leeched it away.
I too have bit lip and burnt tongue.
From coffee on my desk.
I too am dressed and sitting down.
Am I doomed to a similar fate?
I wear the costume, blue shirt, grey slacks.
I look like I fit in.
But I add a flair to my uniform.
White and pink bunny ears.
Not too silly
Just enough.
My foot thumps the ground at excitement for my call.
My nose twitches at the smell of strangers as they pass.
I may not nibble carrots or hop around grass.
But I'm the call center bunny.
I'd much rather be different.
It feels wrong to fit in after so many years of being different.
I need to be looked at, laughed at, loved.
I can't be cookie cutter.
But I can cut cookies and hand them out.
Being ignored just felt so wrong.
If i do this right. They'll remember me.

Cannibalistic are the teeth jagged in curl and grin. They grip fastened between gums of grime and sin. They prey leeched to toys strung under webs so few. My fingers creeped between their eyes so suffice and blind.

Like storms choked in stark sky and drying rain, my views christen and bloom. Eyes bleached gold, lavish the corners donning streets and side shop. I myself lark on apartment edges and strewn roof tops, balancing death and door bells along my crooked spine. Wide faces swirl in faded lights along morbid streets blazed in night. They the oh so happy and innocent leech the drinks and sway the narcotics. Hand on breath, tongue on tip. It’s so heart full to stare from the roofs so grimaced.

All words muddled in dread, lick their rosy lips, as stare catches the late night shift. All the blossomed couples curl and constrict in arms so selfish I must keep edges sharp and dull in bliss. Balance sways in dim, darkest are the days flattering night and cursing day. I wait amongst the walls above wavering innocence to demand. I shift on roofs so frail and wary that life seeks no bounds as the heights do not scare me. I will slip feudal in their creviced minds, but merely of pity to all their credible crimes. Here the world cries and here the cannibal lies. I break to be broken, but never to die, only to fall within the world’s eye.