Oh no oh no
Death is near
All the good things are gone
And the bad things are here

My eyes leaking with salt water
Pain in my chest
A ball of clay jammed in my throat
I reach for you when I know
You are not there
I take your memory and rip it apart
Then scramble for the pieces
I want you here with me again
Bawlin on the floor I break and let it go
I push all that away from me
What has been locked up inside
But keep only one piece of you
Always inside of me
To sit and
Cry

I need something to hate myself for
But the truth is
I already have so much that I hate
About myself and what I've done
It's so easy
To make mistakes in this world
And after every mistake and lie
I feel myself begin to crack
Because
Of everything I hate
I will punish my mistakes with hate
For myself and only me
No one deserves the hate I have
For myself

I never knew that this was a bone until you got skinny enough for me to see it
You're a skeleton with a layer of skin
How many ribs do you have?
I could count them
And your vertebrae...
I could count those too
Your skin hangs from your body
Trying to leave while you're still alive
You drag yourself around
On your ****
Hoping no one sees
How are you still alive?
When I can't see your heart beat
But I can see all the rest of your insides
Squirming to get free

"you’re mumbling up pulp again, babe.
pick up your head."
give up that ghost that vibrates between quiet hands loud words
and think of the foaming fingers you left on the kitchen floor
roll them at me in between eyes,
I can smell it on my mouth mopping the floor with your sight
"frightening isn’t it, clementine?"
shattering keys
leaving keys in
locks and beds and shelves and waking to keys in loopholes and
a headache
like the swelling of a wave before he crashes back into himself
back into the shore line of his face of
uncertainty, uncertainty
quivers
the tip of this wave
into a sea of
uncertainty flinches
at outstretched hands whose fingers greasily echo
fingers mothballs under the sink
keep telling the rusted problem
stir it around with cheeks like plastic spoons
but a body like a jack knife
but my back cocked like a gun
my baby is back,
always talking about something unless head first into something else
although I’m never quite sure of what.
with refluxs of regret
by bumming cigarettes,
kisses, even myself
"let’s get stupid.” and  i do.
a haze of carnal avoidance  
wagging the finger,
blurred, curled, wagging at me
bubbling up like our own private pompeii
just a phase of the moon,
more like a perpetual elapse because
while humming orange lullabies,
he sleeps with the belly of the beast
and his foaming fingers remain on the floor

Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.

Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the *******
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.