plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.

Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words

sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint

and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery

so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy

he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static

he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^


he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words

He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary

there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse

she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment

she was flying home for
there was no other answer

Leathery skin
furling by
the hides
of ideas,
to impart
the coyest

We are searching for dismantled cameras
with the flashy leitmotif disabled
in a disbanded cinema

And in the dark you ovulated, murdered
under the thickness of rough tree bark

Haul trunks of
a *****-tonk
dismembering
remembrances
rows of seating

Squalling, beautiful voices
throaty, tonefully sinking
in tune with imaginary keys
located in grey, clinking
between stained ivory tiers
and scuffed ebony branches
rending the reddest of heart-drawls
then plucking each riveted contour

an uninterested archaeologist studied the bones of eight
dead citizens who had a gradually tightened their grips around our dreams, tapering
as furling curtains swathed the incoming light, swirling, forcing it into nonentity
one would steer the ill-fated course of all.


bury the hatchet that was used to hatch you
put all of your eggs into one spermicidal basket
only the heavy-handed preamble to my funeral
could weigh against such lofty comparisons

we commuted to separated isles, each with their own emulation of truth
with cathartic perspectives, trees wait to abed in your predestined lynching
placing viney nooses into mother nature's scrapbook, a cherished keepsake,
your freckled dna, an infinitesimal page in her tattered cookbook

only in an afterworld will you be allowed to read your book's foreword
know that there is no snooty producer to create for you a cash-in sequel
they all watch you from afar, hungry, salivating
failing to make a distinction between your life and demise

their story's nothing but an interminable sad ending
a null conclusion with nothing to conclude
it holds its breath, crosses its fingers
hoping again to come through
as I placed defeat to my temple and squeezed

I veered into a claustrophobic brick encasement
colored with lifelessness, detachment
and learned infinity is combustible;
an unfolding polygonal paper
forever unwrapping

I've walked with wrecked leagues
casually entered fiery caverns
and the chilling daytime before me,
never is it compelling

I resigned my mind, contemplated grave comprehensions
redid everything, coughing opuses, deftness, drugged insight

my tactics turned to taciturn. no one was conducting
the open metaphor of your eyes, rendering
internal captions. endless captive renditions

my adoration:
the thickly-caked rust in the kitchen faucet
if you catch my spotty, deposited
despot eyes in direct sunlight,
you'll realize their dimness

staring vacantly
into oncoming traffic,
looming passages

we haunt outmoded roach motels
tacky hermit-drab shells
ready to burst

in all the random, lonely corners of the universe

and coroners
wander stodgy corridors
and remote old waysides

as we rot,
filling the ground's vacancies

tangled up and diaphanous
flaring up in the wind and burning

the godhead ached
and his stomach growled
and time had ran its course
as we wandered next door

left to idle, awkwardly
to savor the flowing ennui

in dirtied decorum
fearful, molten paradoxes
waxing ecstatically
at the moment

our distance dangled in spacetime
it was plastered on the front window
of the dusty, remote, old dollar store

on crabgrass he fell
Charlie horses galloped, tenants of seashells cried out
as it was always much easier to recite
dull, signifying nothing
while determining everything

we're wandering, bleary-eyed individuals
in the loneliest location in existence

relinquished in internal fisticuffs
crumpling the paperthin walls, as the
****** of a moving tire whines outside
and the living backdrop blurs, falls away
and the universe hastily reroutes itself

In her hair were
lilacs and lilies

how she felt, indescribable
at least as my hand imagined
an apartment held a sad fragrance
like nicotine and a cold, wet dog

Just in case
you are dense
-I don't think

I just travel, cutting off measurable descents
and action grovels and spits out piths
it dances in a grimy booth

the door was smooth and shiny
it was covered with fingerprints
from little boys in other countries

I said "ma'am, you aught to not invite
those who wish to distance everything
to pull apart each atom, leaving a space
for arson'd counties, and tarnished valleys"
beautiful vacuousness, so glazed & reflective

your slightest movement signified everything you wouldn't say
and the daunting days piled up as you hoarded them all away
we toppled over and crumbled in a drizzly march with a grizzly, gloomy may
june is a troubadour, a roomy humidor for a wealthy fatcat's ratty toupee
wilful ways flutter and stutter in a bluish daze, a risqué soirée
a field day for the crazed, healthy fiancés of disarray and decay

motionless, inoffensive beige mannequins
stare with purple glass eyes. reflecting
windows in a grey plaster store

shopkeeper embraces
handles a broomstick
his sense is swarming
turns on a television
death and corruption
death and corruption
broadcast test patterns

no retribution for the cold and weak
a quack, hands in pockets, prances past
a roughly-edged black and white photo
of a specific eventful sunset, noteworthy
in the limitless notebook, a prime number
dated, thoroughly checked off, presented
the outer design is undeniably fractal
it is packaged in crushed red riches;
the coloring is so very numbing
the experience is so humbling

A physical form is misplaced
the blueprint is just blank points
faulty articles of a future failure

(I haven't been led to believe
that something makes a good anything)

he's in love with movements of air;
her distances traveled between it

we were so visibly shaken
after the rest died out &
your bouquet dried out

we were left with our sagging, old brains
& no one's interested, beyond our machines
in our old constructs, or perhaps, new mishaps

he was unsure of what he should be seeking, and
it appeared the pipes in the basement were leaking
yoke propped onto his cracked shoulders, scrutinized
by the heavy eyes of caliginous violet smoulders


she's in love with unfair moments
the blurring of every before and after
barring the moon through creaky rafters
with ****** gloom and insincere laughter
at the sky, bearing its last each and all
tapping on a shivering wall


with a head to traumatize,
to object to the onslaught-
is to reject the tireless ****
a timeless, photogenic glut
and a refutation, erased


a collection of
twelve billion cells
with a ****** captain

giving in to the never-ending
aching, delving, pervading, as

the lecherous lecturer
and a solemn giantess
left on the barren foothill
where it all transgressed

It was a sigh like no other
a respiration of desperation
a thousand times over

It was as if I could exhale
to exhume my own corpse

I'm in love with this word
only aimless expression
with a senseless,
seamless repetition
for it never disapproves
never uses the writer
as it was itself, used

I'm in love with the world
but only as a whole mess
of uncanny absence

As a strangled moment, leapt away,
exposed by obscure limelight,
I shall expire

Magnifying the reflective scarlet ocean
a marred, oily silverscreen eclipse
a piebald, ****-mired unicorn
curled at the feet of a ******
in a subfusc-glo™ hometown
crushed by rusted machinery
amongst rudimentary scenery
in a homespun anathema gown
in the broken household, wound
up men's eyes, went grey and dying
past every thought, incendiary
words lambasting paper
mayhap, I'm through
trapped, trying to
explain other
wise, now

as it implicates its own demise, an imprecise device,
it resides under an old dresser, half broken, disheveled
it is ready to debate against its own existence
but in itself it'd always revel

it's set up to be undone, bait in the waiting room of hell
moth-eaten in a musty basement, left to teeter on the verge
of addressing the most difficult one, dressing us up, to
tear apart the carefree air with a drunken singalong dirge

If I could stand on a metaphor
trust me, I surely would
I would forage in the sand
if I could weather the ****** rain

I should've become a man in two tenfold breaths
and learned the only reciprocal is pain
and only certainty is death
or so it would seem


if we could stand on this metaphor
it'd collapse. we'd watch it
shatter in time-lapse

and we found;
every ocean had dried
in every insect's dream
as light flickered outside

there was never enough of it to go around
as we set foot on rough, shaky ground

(for once this cannot be fueled by spasmodic impulse
in the cortex, its context's slightly appalling
every single simile has been used
even stating the futility is
so futile, so starvation
digests them)

hates the obvious
reasons with none
destines tomorrow
steeped in sorrow
in the spiteful pun
the tritest treason
a heyday we'll pay

we adhered to one
fly-papered world
and miscalculated
syllables we've hurled
the lateness unfurled
on this newborn day

this was exactly
what you thought
I would rightly say:

a hound stretches on a stoop
frozen, lacking a cadenced pant
sun splaying its last beams against
skin, warm tin and damp rigor mortis

the letch inside stammers,
retches

his yellowed nails scratch scabs
on flaking elbows
dried snakeskin platelet scales

too much residue
of asbestos and mildew, of
burnt gilded pages for heat
'cause they were of little use
to illiterate plainclothe'd sleuths

and the crows outside caw
with anemic splendor as
their ***** broods grovel


the inebriate inside
draws open dingy curtains
for the sun was finally subdued

he opens the window
to a finicky drizzle

and was interrupted by horse & buggy
and the tangling of her rosettes
transfixing voracious, beady eyes
as objects of interest phased out of view

we heard all this through the grey horseshoes
trudging through forgotten alleyways
all too loud and dramatic


we watched from fog outside
the ****** tavern where they drank
blood straight from the stomachs of lampreys
downing life, agnostics proudly clapped, with
death and decay on a parsley'd dinner plate

lingering in the hospital waiting room
for an embellished platter of viscera
to fill vacancies, with burnt rot
with a sterile, surgical tang
and jagged accoutrements
all are gorging lovingly,
already anticipating dessert

each solitary phantasm of a person, slouching in booths, on stools
smirks knowingly at the song that's now playing on the a.m. radio
while positioning their utensils, scooping, filling cavernous maws

and they all smiled
as their eyes gasped
as those outside
chipped their teeth
on rusted forks, and sighed

the dead ounce of liveliness failed to
take hold of its slouching bags of bones
and the coyote howled at the sound of the siren curfew

so listen carefully to the inflection of static hissing
the joyful crackle of disembodied voices

you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as
the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy
searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings

we reunite with the blankness
of pristine white passages
to break free from inertia


I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second
the embrace, the longing of wordless writers
and their unacknowledged cruelties

grieving over all this birthing
objecting to their own last words
the fresh blood of teething &
the prodding of our sores

the writers block entrances to stone vestibules
life congeals and appeals to those despicable few
creaky mattress, true, but we flew by burnt capitals

the grass's dew dried up at four o'clock in the morning
we learnt the vastness of our own chaotic complexities
it's impractical, doling out the pasts to our moping guests
insight into their creature comforting me, smiling languidly

he saw those hooligans dance above his crumbling tombstone
impregnated by the rain, headlight shone into impending gloom
waiting, moaning, mourning in a deadlocked, deadweighted room
we're inclined to drown in our own questions, in irreconcilable fate
and a hateful frown, the tasteful waste adorning those latest to bloom

a stenographer, suddenly faced with the importance
of a freshly-inked word on a desiccated page
was so silent, and silence dictates

it spoke volumes, but she was deaf
so her hand just plotted along...

it was as if the texture of the page suggested it
and away the pen ran along the grooves
the scholars were so **** upset
so uptight, alone and aloof

so they spoke to themselves, to no others
and no one fully listened, or tried
(just half interested nods
with minimal eye
contact

and we waited for the end)
as we had walked along
the dusty shoreline

you said;

'I hear the clattering of the television in the next room
the scant candlelight manifests over the dead powerline

& when anyone reads, re-reads it,
I will wonder what was being carried on about
and speculate why your persuasion pervades
a soul-crushing cheapening of the divine
an endless routine, banality of eternity
strength or weakness in our climbing limbs
hosts and the departing parties, faces sans grins

its voice was muffled, though we understood from its tone
a blood red color in the horizon, a droning hue of white noise
a perpetual blackout, comforting us with the uninterrupted feed
of the newswire, its meaningless events, dull opaque eyes, fasting
for the prize, a striptease of the mind, peel back another sheer layer
(and cry)
pretty girl's smiles are currency. a word is worth a diagram
for the color's lost its vibrancy
this world is old, it's
finally lost its will to be

o' comforting electricity
the warm glow of the television
stuttering voices, hawking, chanting
o' static lover, worship me, your pagan god
I would forever write you letters
I would listen to your breath
on the receiver, panicked
I would hold my own, to hear the sigh
of the universe, collapsing

And while the whole world is sleeping
I will hear you creeping
through the hall, looking for another fix
to finally break you
to take you where you need to be
to refuse what you've been lacking