In this world full of strange men
Their weary eyes clouded with grief
It windows through their empty souls
As they their sorrowful soul seek light outside
But they cannot find the light in me,
For me, myself were finding light in this dark place
Wearing their deceitful smiles, it hung across their faces
In this world full of strange men

a swollen finger rising to the occasion
rising to the size of a grape, purple
bloated like a stuffed pocket or pregnant chicken
green oozing out like the slime i got from the museum and the smell of rubber and plastic following me in my sleep

a ghost by the window slipping into my thumb and biting pain
the numb pressure of muscle tissue ripping
the phantom claws out and shouts that women are debris
swamps with lost metal buried at the bottom if you dig long enough the days become one and their hair consumes you whole

i argue with the shadow, threaten that this bruise will burst and blood with meet alcohol, an antibiotic fever dream
it stares at me defiant, like a giant pulverizing a village
my fingers wrestle and before the abscess can pop
the fingerprints unravel until i am nothing but thread
a coil at the bottom of the floor
a dress to be sewn in a bedroom
the shadow stand up and fits her bones into the fibers, a bride in white
the thumb hurts no more

It's quite strange but nice
How it's odd and precise.

You can gun with a gun,
And a run can long run.

And an 'S' can turn laughter
To nothing short of slaughter.

If you're hot, they will drool
But be warm, and stay cool.

Head off with your head up
Face it head on, so heads up!

It is a deep and rich mine
For all to mine, yet mine.

It’s not that I’m sad, per se,
It’s that I’m not anything at all
I cannot feel happiness.
I can experience it but I know
That it will not last forever.
That is the case with all things.
Life is temporary and beautiful,
Life given and taken away
In the same breath.
In some strange way
I’ve known what happy feels like
I’ve just been wishing I knew
How to feel it now.

Silken sweet is the sycamore's song,
where robins roost and raise their young,
and smooth smells of chrysanthemums run
to see the sordid spring.

The shiny sheen of nature's skein is too delicate
for my Velcro eyes, which tear and wrench
the tranquil strands into a tangle of rough satin;
be my sandpaper soul that skins salamander to
brawny bones and bores raucous cores like
maggots and ****.

Raw sewage seeps, creeps carefully into
the spaces of Her starry quilt
until squelching squishes escape
my hoarse rasping whispers
and see the calloused corpse that casts its rueful shadow
into bright days, silver nights
to a twilight that will not end.

Caustic contaminants cross my veins and cake skin in
corrosive gasps; fumes funneling fingers of pus
pancake pores of porcelain dust to a mortar
of blemished touch.

May I bathe in boredom's ennuinous ***** so that I may emerge
blessed, reborn best as salty caramel springs,
let the day spray sparing tea into me and cleanse
careless cacophony.

Burrow my body,
leave quelled, cool Calvin to play the fool
and be me for the day.