February 8th, 2018 - 11:06pm. In. An. The. How much deeper will this go? This desert. This baron land and escape from the moonlit evenings’ effervescent engineering of short-lived Neanderthals. These voices are enough to split our hides through and through like an cheese grater, that pants-boots combo chases us into the early morning forecast. I need to get out with her. We need to get out from here. We need to go out from this place. There are hexes and hieroglyphs places matte with ill-defined Finnish designs. There is the yolk and that which copies it. There is the phone and the web of tangling eyes whose corpus is mimicry. I am the notes and the music is taking me down, down, down. Whether it’s our dreams or the sweats that keep us ratcheting our bodies beaten eyes hooked to the cadavers we once chose. Now it’s up to you to choose. This is the fuse that we’ve let loose, maybe your furnace can curtsy and observe these sad blackened buffoons while they make us shrivel up and go hide back in our bed cocoons. This is a zoo I tell you and you tell me. This is a zoo of mayhem, hedonists, and 400° degrees. These are the tiny beds we hide in until they melt us down, into the heirs of our highness, our luxuries quick to abscond.

“I broke with the virtuality yesternight”.

Your hands as numb as the winter of some unreached epoch;
as traumatised as the rays of this moon—
borrowed and leaden.

Diddering by the cold morrows of life,
your soul is already downfallen,
out of the blue,
by this last good-bye.

You are through the endless seasons of fall,
with no spring foreseen,
your spirit at stake;
your fall, an eventual doom.

Your eyes are drowning in the ocean of death,
where even in the best of the boards, you're wrecked.

While, I stand as stiff as mountains,
with the same impoverished gesture of last adieu;
concieted by the delight of pain bequeathed to you.

You are the object of my empirical yet conjectural fortune—
that, I poetise now.

In your heart, broken, lies my dwelling destroyed,
and I would soon find myself mislaid or a doomed grave.

I drink delightfully the cold,
Like the wine, some centuries old

I sometimes cry when I write
when the words hit my sight,
no matter, painful or of delight
sometimes I cry when I write.

When emotions hit the page
no matter, happy or of rage
feelings of dark or light
sometimes I cry when I write.

When I write about you
or the beauty of sparkling dew,
no matter, love or of strain
the tears fall just the same.

I sometimes cry when I write
no matter, dark or of light,
sometimes my heart takes control
I guess that’s just the beauty of my soul.

Sometimes I cry when I write…..

comes bewitching night,
flows liquid carbon delight,
boat to sleep's island!