you’re ugly
under the
harsh light.

you are not
mystical, nor
fantastical, like
in my dreams:

you are a child
with the hands of
a God,

an uncontrollable
force with the power to
hurt me

write an anthology for which
broken part of me?
       the one that weeps for
        innocuous souls too early departed,
                or the one that split
                their necks open, looking
                for gold?

i’ll tell you, there’s
no treasure in the eyes
of the hated, and no
hope in the minds of
those who burn cities
to the ground just to
smell charred dreams --

staying alive
is a risk that permeates
the groundwater everyone
in my life drinks from. i could
be angelic or heretic,
new found or lost
to the ideas of men i once
was, before led astray,
before the radio chirped,

& my intruder’s openness
closed the hearts of souls
uncold

the resistant does clatter
its ends against the machinery,
it does so clunk and rattle
against the current which runs through
to the chosen one, the
Brother of Entropy, his unwavering
foot-heel in the doorway
between Insanity, and Stability.

He does, however,
take some time away from
his breathing, amounting
to a few moment’s silence.

In this cold night, he
holds no name or title. Not yet.
The world is not ready for
his being, and his being
remains underdeveloped enough
that its energy is just shy of a sunlight’s beam

and so he sings
to the empty halls,
the resistant current,
the rusted gears,
                           “Where do the old souls go?
                             Here? There? Or inbetween?
                             Do we matter to matter? Are
                             we warm and foreboding enough
                             to bear resistance to the dark?”

The dark dances
between candlelight. Brother, father, creator:
it means nothing to that which
cannot see goodness, or light.

And so he breathes again,
and shoves his boot further through
the door

a soliloquy of sad,
blackened softness.

you want more
blows to the head: you
crave it, beg for it

"more, more,
more", until
you can't see
how abysmal
everything is:

you want your vision
to go black.

but when the shadows creep
up from behind your eyes and
start covering your hair and skin
in their cold blackness,

you complain of the sting

i wonder what color
our union is, what
would suit us best

we'd probably argue over
it, in that joking way
we had before -

but i'd take your wrists
and hold them above
your head:

          our color is
          chameleon

because we change
with the wind

and everything about us
defies a
one-color existence

linen sheets
& bedposts with
sheltered
secrets

it could be
ours, the future --
it could be ours,
but it blares
with a darkened
face,

its features
like the love
we make
in secret,
away from
the prying eyes
of the industry
and the world

they think
they know
you and
what you
break for

and boy,
they are so
wrong.

i don't like
loving you
because you
are so flawlessly
human.

you breathe
like anyone else,
with faults, & rough edges,
and your face isn't

karmic, (like his was)
our connection isn't
fate, (i don't have the heart
to believe in
such whimsical
ideals anymore)

we're just having
fun, for the time,
for the night, for the
moment,

your curls lace
my fingertips to your
scalp

grounded with
no fantasy.

i don't like
the meandering of
my soul right now,

i like you, i like enjoying this,
but i don't like
the aimlessness
of this: i miss
karma, and spirits,
and souls

i am tragic
& this love is
too sane