Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (you nihilistic *****!) she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)

God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")

you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter

*self improvement 46% complete

with every ache and heaved tear, your
face pulses to mind like a phantom I
have yet to love. for love to understand,
it would need to **** itself. it tried, and
now it's bleeding.

she grows more and
more golden with
every passing sliver
of silver delivered
through the shiver
of my bitter figure

every tumult is a
dancing fork on
the feast plate of
life, and she is the
main course, of
course, as coarse
as my course may
become

an echo through the
tunnel of dusted divine;
her eyes, her eyes, her
eyes.