Twist around your own bones,
and sheets,
and moans.
My mouth is no longer yours for the taking.
Twirl around your own selfish woven
cotton candy,
because I have no sugar left for you.
Just sand.
Small, weathered rocks.
Gritty between your teeth,
instead of pleasing
and melting on your tongue.
Your grumbling stomach tells you that you want more,
but you'll starve.
Starve on single packets of **** you bought at the grocery,
on **** you call for,
but are never there to receive.
I went fishing for compliments.
A good night, a good week, a good ****.
When I caught you,
I didn't realize the insides were all rotted out,
or else I would have thrown you back into the sea.
That sea of whatever's and
candle-lit dinners.
Of, "Let's just go with it".
And, "Woah, woah, woah, this isn't what I signed up for".
You drank milk out of a flute,
after we slow danced for the,
'I can't remember-ith time'.
I watched your lips cradle the glass,
my ***,
and then your knees.
After,
you told me you didn't want to anymore.
After you said, "I made a mistake".
After you said, "I miss you".
After you said, "I know you cursed me when the bells rang".
The curse is tasting sand instead of sugar.

It's Friday night,
a still blue dark eyed sky
a band plays

It's years removed from the time I wrote about
the bells and how they swing
in the tower to my left
I still hear them
how they cling cling BANG
and I am with you
and I am alone
                          tomorrow is coming
and in two years I'll be here with the bells

cling cling BOOM

and there will be a woman or a man
sipping on coffee
or speaking
                    softly,    and the bells
                                                        
cl­­ing cling BANG

I heard the bells
From where I laid
And they kept eyes wide as they loudly said
That there were things the heart forbade
I prayed they spoke not of you

I heard the bells
They rang for me
The hand I held falling with the leaves
As noctuous tones rang to the sea
And told me unwanted truths

I heard the bells
Shook them away
Howled at the night, mourned in the day
Spurting hatred to drown out what they say
What mind pushed away, but heart knew

I heard the bells
Each damning tone
That spoke and said you are not home
In the arms of one whose heart you own
And I was haunted by the tears that followed

im so far down
i have nothing to say
no words to be found
i hear bells
and i see the ticking clock
but i am so far down
i reach for nothing
for there is nothing there
instead i listen to the chimes
and watch the clock tick down

Without sinking through the spheres. Hymns betting, still hands crisp under the wings. The wind slumbering, stays in the dark spaces. Eleven invisible pages, over. Any other name- Lux Arabesque, Uuqui Haratas, Preset: 117, and the foil.

The mirrored valley’s strangest flora, sifts the decorated thriving trails. Then it can all become an infinite weave in this world where lazy whistling sand dunes beyond, claim the rights to a juried Spring. Then somehow it may recant this glorious history we’ve only barely known. The potent eyes starved by madness, waxes seas and radio fields, slimming the loops that rip into  hinges and dispel a tryst.

Toward Earth’s serene prelude, this pageantry of standard masks make ascending towers just and stately. Then come the planets we’ve always loved: Mars, Neptune, and Jupiter too. Barefoot and staggering through the modern coolness of a colossal spring, aching mental itching grows. Until the fruits have fallen into the cloven shadows. Until buried stones alit with day consecrate these omens and conceive such lucid strings to break these quiet thieves into song.

Then the diary belies this affair. The steins upset the tales where pungent fleshy working minds coalesce. Observe the horses play in their endings, upon the wild mountain rivers where felling human eyes wander amidst these cleaved and sun-drenched desert mounds.

Pt. II

In origins uplifting diets foretell the escaped  seams of darkness whose lofty tongues of nature’s prose lift the veiled hours’ wraith. Never pressing bells nor raked by shivers, it occurs swiftly should the marbled rushing master call. Above the sound of narrow whispers, comes the wishing hands to shout.

My mother likes to hang bells
On the front door,
And I always wondered
What they were for.

They would jingle
Whenever someone
made entry,
and glitter
With the light
from the lamppost
On the street.

But they became dull
Hanging all day,
And the giggling clatter
Mulled and dulled
to a brassy bray.

Mom has a small wedding bell
Of a silver boy
Holding flowers
With a smiling grin.
He’s asking her to ring him
And bring back memories.

But father’s guitar glistens
Whilst the sun lays low.
With one pluck
The vibration hums
Smooth and mellow.

But can you hear it
Sitting on the steps?
This house is so large
But there still lays unrest.

And through The corridor
Clacks the patter
Of greyed canine feet.
But some of us
Lay silent
And reap the past
From the sounds
That do dare speak.

the living room clock
Drones with That of a distant chime,
Because the living arrangements
Have changed overtime.