it's intimate
under cold skies
anteaters at our feet
it's intimate
nonsensical thoughts
floating about
in nonsensical minds

it's intimate -
this underwhelming feeling
of two waves cancelling each other out
destructive interference

it's intimate?
sitting at the top of the world
and being none the wiser
sharing two spots
of the same property
is this what it is?

intimacy?
cold skies
frosted cheeks
two different people
stuck together
for a long time. is this it?

to get sick of things
when you least expect it
to undertake some form of a burden
for so long, and then to suddenly
give it all up?

undertow brings me to the surface
negative turned positive
riptide going toward the beach -
and in each granule of sand,
contains every want I've ever had

i think my heart is blue
swimming octopi
see through the night
of my empty blood vessels

i think that at times
under influence of the sea
without the moon in tow,
i forgot how to breathe

in each world i am heavy hearted,
bitter and embroiled, boiling and cold
at a loss to the elements
at a sight for sore eyes
under the stupid sky
i can only breathe at night

each encyclopedia holds my sorrows
body written in the universe
free script flowing in me; without it,
simply a passageway gone to waste
no wanderers to lay claim
to the insipid things i say

something near me
a thing i can't see: a soft sound
footsteps pattering on the
clotted ground, no
force to quell them all

veins discombobulated -
all things considered? the
modification of my body
to bend to my needs and
terrible desires
may as well be welcomed

the world is a floating point
opened up and split
scattered to the winds
left to its own devices
and us? we are the particulates
that tag along

At least under influence
The strained sky doesn’t rain
As much anymore, plaid shirts
Sticking to the empty walls
Sundry fabrics staining the
Disgustingly beige paint
And hands brought up
As if to faint? The struggle

To rip the shirts off the walls
And make the sundry fabrics
Less sundry; the struggle,
To watch the sun go down
And bring the sky with it -
It overcomes me, it fulfills me,

It gives me a purpose
That fits like a square block
In the absence of any holes
Busies my hands with new blood
The next ****** victim being my
Unrelinquished boredom
And the next pain I will relish in:
My endless hyper fixations.

all this blackness and sticky fear
until my sides wear thin and I
feel nothing more than a paltry
whisper of something near and dear
until the skies implode, I feel
nothing and everything, until
all that is clear is cloudy

and then each walk and promenade
reveals itself
and while old and withered
amongst the banks
of the Seine: and while a book rustles
and the children play,
a future stretched out in front of me
cat like, limbs akimbo

I want peace
and I want no part in this
anymore - what's the point?
there's a point, I assure myself
and then I stretch thin again
and start back at square one
with a plastic body and a head
full of too many odds and ends
and no thread to pull it all together

you know
until the world turns over
flipping like the coin it is
and what was once done
becomes undone
I think I won't ever forget
the chance I missed
and the useless errands
I would run

I think
that my place in the universe
is convoluted - just what do I
want to get done?
will I ever
balance with the disorder
and become a part
of the sum?

I might
float endlessly, a large
speck of dust immobile
held suspended
by the fear of the unknown
I might never find
peace or normalcy
but I don't know what those
feel like
(and hence,
nothing lost or found)

be lost,
is what they say
and then find your way
amongst all strange things
and amid all the oddities
suspended agape
in fear and all its commonalities