The snip-snips
halo my shoulders
in curtains
Ever-changing colorations
striations
maculations
depending on your mood
either flat as a newly paved ramp
or as ***** as Friedman
You took a class on this
you tell me
adjusting your headband and baring your teeth
your version of a smile
I steel myself against the guillotine
It falls to the ground in leaves of auburn
going against the nature of winter
and longevity
(there go four inches
off my life)
You lean in
boing the spring beside my face
inhale and ask me
what is my conclusion?
as your panda colored drapes swish by my cheeks
Sometimes it smells like cinnamon
or the cactus flower oil you bought that one time
and sometimes I get nostalgic and remember what it was
before I let you touch it
(autumn, soap, and vanity)
but now mostly it smells like one thing:
smoke.
And phantom pain.
I thought you were an expert.

Each thoughtful pondering
Sliver like descends in inked threads
Removed from within the whirlpool of my mind
To become a living, breathing substance.

Many just cluttered mumblings
Extracted to clear the thoughts and reasoning’s
Of the eccentric soul

Pencieve, I pity you
For now you bear the clutter
That enables poetic inspiration
To bring forth its fruits

Penceive I thank you
For without such as you
True confusion reigns

Revelling in your
disfunctionality
Your interesting
complexity
And the one thing
You are proud of
is that you have
nothing to be proud of
And the one thing
that you value
Is that you value
nothing

There's nothing quite as soothing
as a nice, hot cup of coffee;
the milk, forever circling,
entrances this young soul.

Somewhat bitter,
with a sweetness masked beneath;
boy, it gives me the jitters
to recall such a feat.

I trace it's flow,
down
and, for once,
I know exactly what I've found.

Exhausted shivers
in windowed naked currents
unfolding sinking
then surfing vital wavelets
drowning screams - pleasures wet bite


.

I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

I sleep alone but I’m not crying
My palms are sweaty but we’re still trying
My clothes are wet and your hair is drying
When we kiss I feel like flying
You begin to leave, I feel like dying
You whisper I “I love you”
I know you’re lying.