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a photo collage of you walking away from yourself; a franken-
stein monster that is made from sundry parts of your ex lovers:
a looking glass for your **** psychology; serial monogamy,
like serial killing, that goes out with a "bang"; a recording of

yourself, completely in onomatopoeia; *** tapes, unlike their
VHS cousins, that are only incomprehensible gibberish as, say,
the unprepared student whose first utterance is always "uh";
you, neither, know what you are doing (or just as aptly, who).

DNA that twists parts of you into a knot along with it; e.g., a life-
blood leaving you to hang by your ankle, or maybe asphyxiating
you by noose; a myopia of hindsight, 20/20 vision that says "sike":

you as a polygraph test to self, in a language foreign only in feeling.

solipsistic silos where one flashes either photography or flesh,
as *** is merely the genital expression of Instagram--as if a "like",
an ephemeron that is as successful as it is phony in connecting;

selves ascending to a nihilism of themselves; for conscious is
the top floor of the mind--and this outlook excludes any "insight":
an eye inward, self-incriminating, so that liberation is possible

a subconscious, as if a dissident voice on campus, that is disinvited
in the hysteria of emotional illiteracy and spiritual obliteration;
your mental cavity as a "safe space" from self; you cannot protest

your self, even if culpability is the bedrock of the human condition.

blame that ripples outward, the way water does when you dive in;
waves that goodbye, without so much as a wave, for they merely
roll themselves into a cold shoulder; an azure of depression, blues
that do not gray with time; like U2, you too can find "no line on

the horizon": we are an abridged version of infinity // the end.
stylesclash May 18
at odds with
your conscience
you can't have con-
viction without a con
in it; "this house
has got a lot of walls" but
you're so stuck-up
with your stucco self
and you pave over every
hole in your logic

your pride means
you fail if you're honest;
"accomplishments are
just excuses to talk and
spit" so, you keep walking
like a somnambulist

a pedometer is not
a compass, counting
your steps--it says
nothing of contents;
you're more fleeced
than North Face and
you feign more than
a date that ends in fore-
play; you don't sweat
that you lie pathologically

you swoon over yourself
when you find a way
out of an apology;

weakness requires
mental gymnastics
honesty does not;
always up in arms
with yourself like
hands on a clock

negative vibrations
a subtle, but always
there "tic toc"

do you know,

everyone is glad,
once time is up?
stylesclash Apr 3
a ******* of smiles, everyone as the ***** of themselves;
broken hearts, like lesbians with a cutting fetish, ******* each other
and climaxing in catharsis; an **** of shattered glass, sadist ***

the "new you", only new as jaded to your jaggedness; your solipsism
spilling over your friends, the way silence does the early morning;
after the drunks have returned home, and the homeless are sleeping

whispers that you wake up to inside of yourself, zig-zagging down
your memories, as if the multiple choice on a scantron; the "right"
answers now all wrong; you ghosting you, yourself as your ex-friend.
stylesclash Mar 23
missing the ball won't
make you feel guilty but not
swinging the bat will.
stylesclash Mar 23
you as lumber, lumber that doesn't provide lumbar support: the definition
of two people as pine; memories that are prickly, like a porcupine; a crown of
thorns, a hammer head, a head up requiring the strength of Thor; a hammer
coming down the way kisses do, resulting in a low blow; a ****** that *******

you from the cockpit without a parachute; gravity, the gravity of the situation;
everything up in the air. the sky and your emotions as a gravy boat; a sense
of falling down, while being poured out; while being pored out into a cesspool
of blemishes; everyone as a spectator at poolside, in aviator glasses, peering through them like a View-Master: you are a scene and seen however they see fit

friends you count on, like sheep; except that you can't count on, once asleep;
this false sense of security, blanketing you with the coziness of your bed;
friendship as the bed you make, but there's a lie in it; so there's no lying in it

even--especially--among your nightmares. morning that excludes mourning,
morning that does not give way to night again; a lighthouse of the mind,
beaming out to at least one of your multiple personalities when lost at sea.

a fire escape in the water. a stairway you find only by sinking. what goodbye
means, if you survive it; God foiling the best laid plans, aluminum foil for
the soul; your self as soul food, your self as the sole food: you eating yourself

alive if your health fails and you have no one to turn to. a wheelchair that
time travels, because it is a vehicle that can only visit the past; your body as
a vegetable, your muscles evaporating the way water does; your eyes rolling,
the only thing on a roll; your eyes as what's left of you with a role; the time

for talk is over, for when time is all that is left talking, it's over; you holding a positive, as if a charge, and wondering how long the battery will last;
would-be outlets, out of "let's": will i find Walt Whitman again, when i am

up against my next wall? obstacles as my poetry, until the key stroke is a key stroke: until poetry is an obstacle. you singing me electric, until you can't.
stylesclash Mar 13
monuments that are made of moonlight, fading into the day;
a mind as an hourglass, sand that cannot empty; a sandman
who visits you when you are awake, rubbing an irrational dream
into the corner of your eye; a rash that is psychosomatic,
the path that cannot be taken, taken; the ****** path

your own Boulevard of Broken Dreams, your own Green Day;
a wind of lyrics pushing you forward, while you remain planted,
as if a plant; roots that root against you; ground that, likewise,
grounds you the way parents do; an eternal childhood; a world
you cannot grow up "in"; a world you can only grow out of.
stylesclash Mar 11
a body that acts the way broken English sounds; a body that is English
as a second language, writing you Shakespeare--when it wants to love
you--with a limited vocabulary; a multiple personality rhyme scheme,
where one ties a "not" together with a "knot", meaning both: you may
walk down an "aisle", although you will remain on said "isle" yourself;

a small tyrant on an island of one, you cannot relinquish your crown--
although you can supplement it, with a ring; an eye for an i, excluding
"i" in the ways "i" want to be seen most, because these are invisible;
a gluttonous ear that gains nothing, as if food for thought were
zero calorie; syllables that leave only silhouettes of their meaning:
the shadow of who i am defining me more, the more you shadow me

English as what exists outside of your brokenness; language that
does not languish, even when you must languish; genes misplacing
their syllables: if your jeans misplaced theirs, would you be panting,
like a dog, in the heat of the moment? a body that is always on fire

a house that burns only inside the walls, and collapses suddenly;
smoke that asphyxiates muscles, your fingers jittering for breath.
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