my mind will finally be hollow when explosive entities of its existential warfare finally self destruct.
until then,
Recondite rifles are ruthlessly reloaded with unanswerable questions regarding the purpose of seemingly non purposeful things;
lack of resolve wrecks me.
Unanswered ammunition degrades cerebral cells, intercepting normal neural connections:
I cannot think properly in the midst of pellets of panic

until then,
Selfless soldiers employed by future uncertainty battle against selfish soldiers of MY physical being, employed by my diminishing desire for sanity.
They engage in trench warfare: digging desolate ditches, hammering holes, all of which eventually collapse and contribute to the constant compression of my cortex.
But Compliments and Hope fracture into particles of sand that are ****** into the openings in my pupils by amorphous wind which is structureless anyway
these particles are vacuumed down my optic nerves and pile into pillars of petrifying plant-based picket fences that try to guard against the existential warfare plaguing my mind
But more explosive entities enter through my ears and reproduce in my temples waiting to self destruct

until then,
Forces convolute: existential warfare compresses my cortex into inevitable flat nothingness, while pitiful pillars of disillusioning dust collapse because the wind that whisked them inside NEVER EXISTED ANYWAY
Eventually i will implode

Until then,
numbness gnaws at my heart to balance the bullets
waiting to implode
until then,
Existential Warfare bombards my brain with bullets of black metal

I do not write my poems,
My poems write me
these boundaries of my body these fingertip extremities are not quills and this liquid velvet this lifeless blood is not raven-colored ink, rather my skin is pages and pages of palpable pulp,
deacrinated tentacle tree branches and fiberless roots convulse and my metal mind seizes sadness and manufactures paper out of the trees growing inside of me
Titanium oxide is extracted from my black eyes while wax drips off of my eyelashes into liquid pools of ebony
My mistake of a mind imprisons abjection and mass-produces ink out of the elements of my soul’s curtain-drawn windows
words and words and words and words fill the spaces between the pores where my hair follicles protrude
Diction dilemmas dip their quills into my eyelids and peirce my forehead until I am scarred by POETRY
Asphyxiating abnormalities write themselves into existence and reproduce in my skull, the fissures of my brain are their nests
Seven hundred million two dimensional letters float into my blood and disperse and and feed on these crimson channels and converge to form three dimensional words to form still increasingly multidimensional sentences and stanzas and POEMS until I am a library of impossible holes in existence, an impossible amount of existence.
I do not write my poems into existence
My poems are my existence.

There are beautiful things that live in my house
they tend to occupy the fractured crevices inside of my walls, adumbrating a kind of obscure phenomenon: shadowy luminescence
they tend to sink into the spaces between the ceiling and the roof, immersed in chocolately darkness and dust, eating termites for supper
they tend to isolate themselves in the acidic liquid of my kitchen sink, bathing in rotting rye and leftover cherry wine, finding peace in polarization, a prize in the priceless, a perfection in the pitfall
There are beautiful things that live in my mind
they tend to whisper to me because they know I can discriminate between their desperately voluminous silk and the vortex of thickening threads that cages my cognition in demonic demands
There are lots and lots of beautiful things
but beautiful things don’t ask for attention
they tend to slink in the shadows.

this mind of mine craves poetry and this body approaches starvation
Ravenous,
Endless cream rectangles collectively croak begging me with cracked throats to fill them with deep chocolatey ink
this hole in my stomach expands and my papyrus lungs deteriorate;
these ivory teeth dissolve into dust,
lack of sustenance of simple sentences strung together to form sublime alphabetical artwork whose medium is LETTERS and letters only:
my aching soul craves poetry:
grey people tell me I look gaunt:
somebody says my fingers are soaking in silver and my eyelashes frame absent black eyes
a diamond casing sheds: my cortex is sand and my brain is an ocean
my heart is vulnerable and empty; and hungry
Ravenous
this mind of mine is living on poetry and my body is approaching starvation
shall I beg on the streets for food?

look at my green eyes you said
those galvanic crystal gems
I tore your heart in half; it bled
but you see through yellow lens:

even as we fell apart
your eyes were lambent lights
you wrote me poems of charming art
you stayed with me through nights

green candles burning embers deep
my heart beats my tongue flies  
you gave me things I could not keep
and now your memory cries

green glass windows to your soul
extraordinary, beautiful
my eyes are dirt my mind is coal
my choices unexcuseable

listen to my aching heart
share raspberry sorbet in my bed
you can see now our film will never start,
for life and love have unhappy end

your green eyes saw me through yellow lens
you though that I was good
but plastic sheds, my veneer ends
you want to run. you should.

sometimes I wish my eyes were blue
sometimes I wish that I was dead
I am sorry for what I did to you
Oliver, my green-eyed friend.

you told me everything last night
how your chest is black and blue
I promise you one thousand times
I never meant to hurt you.