put me, lovingly, in a hearse, the way the dusk lays it shadows;
the night threatens to spill off my pores
trying to run from lonely places —
now, it bleeds all over me.
a sight of a mess.
a sight of horrors
and no napkins for wiping.
no napkins for grieving.
some just don't
make it out alive.

tell the daylight i cannot come.

put me, lovingly, in a hearse.
no, i am not made for burials —
it's for the ones left behind;
tell them all

i cannot come.

leave me, my sweet one, lying in this hearse,
the way the dusk leaves its shadows in the arms of the night.
sweet and fragile.
quiet and gone.
send me off, softly.
send me off, mourning.
send me off, for good.

tell the daylight i cannot come —

maybe i'll see her too, so soon.

— fray narte

"Hatred" is the thing with claws-

that slices through us all.

And leaves a wound without it healed-

then, captures for it's thrall.


Torn by it's embrace with pride.

It infects all that it leaves behind.

But love could be it's mend

that keeps our hearts enshrined.


I've seen it rip and tear lives-

and play with them like prey.

Yet, never, in experience

it suppresses love with it's pain.

** Based off an Emily Dickinson poem

If you must tell a lie, do so well -
Lies likely fall apart
Often crumbling due to bumbling
A speakers deadly demise
My passion is the lonely lie
Lone creates shine
A lie must deliver cleverly
Or all would align -

“We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.”

-Emily Dickinson.

My mother said they say the dead are blessed
but i don't think so,

i wake to my dream's afterimage overlaying
the ceiling;i stay laid in place
envisioning myself
gorged in holy water, purging away any memory
hitherto

but that's just not the way it goes;
Sat here as the vinyl needle scratches the same
  scabs,as a tired revolver—

leaks **** of sound,thick repitidous clouds which
  lead to nowhere and nothing—

a bored, ambient crackle,

  
In the poetic spirit, it reeks of home
  but reminds me I am I, alone

And in the conversing-sense
  it gives me a ******* migraine,

it was one of W—’s favourites
when it's tune was still entact

But alas, it is what it is, outside is a world
i've grown too sore to mingle in
(dare i say a multiform delirium where
  it's both too typical and too unpredictable
((daren't i blame another reason?)))
Regardless,i'll stay inside another day
  
and skim and retrace the life that brought us here
   to **** the time.


If nothing else.

dear painted mask slipping off my face,
wet mildewed socks clinging to weary feet,
molasses on my hands shrouded in gloves of lace –
you in the cracked mirror, you rotten, rancid, discarded piece of meat.

o, knotted wicked web of thread,
the faucet of my eye leaks.
emily’s funeral in her head –
it took three weeks

to admit the rot the plumber missed.
to cry when the evening light is dying –
to say that i’m sad – to say i’m ******.
to watch and feel my circuits frying.

blinded and fooled and beaten, i ran and crashed into not-love –
maybe i’m an idiot, because i still can’t tell a pigeon from a dove.

i am that Fly--
the one that Crawled across the sheet--
her last sound and Sight
and i want You to know--
its not my fault, she Would have died-- Anyway

We flies get a bad rap--
we carry Germs- never met one myself--
Across food i tippy-toe-- i only take One bite-
from that little Bite--
she would not -- could not die

But let me set the record Straight--when
she finally went still-- was i Glad--
one less Swatting and shooing-- but
its not my Fault, she would have died-- anyway.