like yellow flowers
on faded dreams
you came to me
gently,
with the soothing voice
of a sweaty spring
thank you, old friend
for being able to be
dark enough to see
the hidden light
in me

i will not go into the times we shared
asphyxia and summer air
juxtaposed to form
an inseparable pair

who am I, old friend
when the ship´s horn blares
if you made me who I am
(if you made me scarce)

like yellow flowers
on faded dreams
you left me
softly, without
any warning of
the lack of color
(there would be)
without your splendor

Breathe in slow
enough to hear
his voice - ichor
dripping from beneath

his lips sewn
with incessant thoughts
of the looming
shadows that he sees

at night, with heavy

gasps
drawn deep within
his lungs, he dreams
he's awake

Ah, now I remember.
It was in those rare moments when you say something different.
Words weave in and out of your lips
but your eyes have the freshly stitched smile
like that of a child
listening to their favorite bed-time story.
Satin slips from your mouth,
wrapping around the beating murmurs
below my necklace
triangle yantra of Kali,
under a lacy leopard bra,
beneath the tattooed deviant octopus,
and soothes the palpitations
to a comfortable pause.
We don't always need air to **breathe.

Choking on a grape that wasn't mine,
I shouldn't have plucked it from the gardens vine.
Under the starry linen draped above,
I noticed a dragonfly nearby
sitting on a fountain watching me die.
Asphyxia was kicking in,
looking up it seemed the moon did grin.
I closed my eyes for the end to begin
and amongst the darkness inside of me
the dragonfly was buzzing free.
It left behind a silver trail,
swirling up and through the veil,
behind which I could finally inhale,
the infinite taste of wine.

I breathe you in.
I breathe you out, I breathe you in again.
You are my *oxygen.
Without you is my end.

                          I breathe you out, I breathe you in.
            I can't help it, *I gotta breathe you in again.

There's blood between us
Choking our throats;
A noose brightens
before eclipsing crosses
Made from ashes
Asphyxiating  
The water rushes
Down my lungs
And I'm drowning

I call out your name
But you won't answer  
I stretch out my hand
But you're not there
I've seen the best and it's over
I'm soil and dirt you harvest
what's left
I know what's there 

The tide came in.
And washed away.
Our names.
In the sand.
The moon howled.
In pain.
Like sulfur.
Like desire. 
It's over.

I can drown in you
Take my last gasp from you
(it's like the forever
we never knew)
I can drown in your kiss
My final breath thru your kiss
(it's like the forever
we'll miss)

We shine
Like diamonds
Drowning in water
Crystal eyed transcendence
Asphyxiating on your blood

Inhale the stress
like those cigarettes
you love to smoke.
And hold the anxiety
in your lungs
like the chemicals
that turned them
to pitch black.

You've got my eyes.
Captured my heart.

As if a love deity chose you for me.

You always lie.
But I cover it up.

You always cry.
But I cover it up.

Your lips drip red with all the things you spew.

You've got my eyes.
Captured my heart.

As if all the stars in the sky pointed to you.

You always hide.
But I cover it up.


You're always blind.
But I cover it up.

Lungs filled to the brim with lies.

You've got my eyes.
Captured my heart.

My entire being is owned by you.

You always lie.
But I cover it up.

You always cry.
But I cover it up.

Choking on your lies, burning from the inside.

Submerged in water
Gasping for air
Blackness surrounds me
My lungs feel tight
My eyes fail me
As do my limbs
Struggling to find
A way up
Or out
But I can't find
The right direction
The surface
Any means of escape
Thrashing
Choking
Suffering
And the only way
To save myself
Is to let go
And hope that the release
Leads me to the surface
And not to the depths
Below

The rain drops fall on my skin,
yet I don't feel drenched.
I hear it, I know it's there
Kind of how I feel,
when you whisper I love you.
I hear the words but nothing
follows
We've done exactly
what I've feared.
E i g h t  l e t t e r s,
have become a routine,
The clouds break over head
Downpour,
But I'm numb

The air is thicker than it use to be
It takes too much strength to fill these lungs
Why did they change the way we breathe
Weren’t we trying hard enough

You found me
stuck staring
at rearview mirror reflections
of wintry, dusk intersections
of everything leaving me
all at once.
A forced exhale
of asphyxia caged
in collapsing lungs;
my mouth,
a fountain spring,
that coughed out
pools of blood.

I wish I saw myself
the way you saw me;
not a red traffic light
wounding speeding cars
on winding streets,
but an antique heirloom
priceless enough
you'd only wish
you could keep
in a heart-shaped box
you saw in dreams.

But, I'd cut my tongue,
paint my lips cherry shades
to blend with cells that'd stain
handkerchiefs you'd offer.
Make you believe
this isn't going to foster
because you are indecision,
unfinished watercolor landscapes
of summer forest fire skies,
a sun-kissed Pacific wanderer.
And I am true crime
untouched evidence of break-ins,
remains of faulty locks and lights.
I am mosaics misaligned;
static, seabed cracks
from forgotten fault lines.
Gaping fissures of sand,
and salt that won't let me stitch
frayed skin-deep fibres
barely holding me in.

Oceans would have to empty themselves
into whirring cyclones and high tides
for our selfish sense of touch to collide.
Ice caps would have to sink
deep enough to even bruise my skin.
And I wouldn't want to watch
more Shakespeare end
before it begins.

See, I am the one
with sharp edges,
but why
did you have to be the one
to clip my wings?

There is only an abyss
without a trampoline,
a safety net,
a bed of waterlilies,
I could fall in.
And I am so tired
of paradoxes
and ironies;
of always being wanted
by someone who doesn't even
want to be kept,
of always being mended
and then left
with more dislocations,
and fractures,
one after another
each taking longer to fix.

Now, in shapeless parcels,
without return addresses
sent out into the void
these words will echo
of love
I never intended to borrow,
and shadows
of false hope
you never thought yourself
capable of
giving away.

The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.
The children chasing butterflies turn around and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.

The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'

A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.

Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.

Her fingers curl.

Gently, at first.
A child laughs.
And the wind chimes,
the bird’s coo–
they laugh with her, too.

Her fingers curl.
Tighter.

The asphyxia is new.
The sacks of bones,

–so bold, weren’t we?–

white heads, the wrinkles,
the ill memories–

Her fingers curl.
And she keeps laughing,
without us, too.

Now there is a boy I think of
When I cannot sleep
But it does not do: there is
Crookedness
In every pepper that plays me
There is crookedness
In every lovely word. There is
No eye that spares me
The ******. There is
*** in the walls. The winds moan.
They ruffle my shirt just to see
They pick the sparse parts and
Spread spread spread they
Deprive no one of me. I am haunted
By my oak wood, my twigs
My sugar that races from me to fruit
And bursts atop the open palm.
There is no God but that
In the pinpricks of my skin
No word that does not steal me
And dies a meagre scent in ear
There is no book. I pray to the
Well-taught wells of nothing
And I am given everything
I pray in a sound I cannot own
I am heard, forgiven, etc.
Now the boy becomes a man
And I become a woman and
The night passes passes but
There is no hand that can hold me
And spare me the hold. I am tired
Of picking at the doubts on my skin
They yield, bleed, and do not cease
To become me. Me me, I am
Tired
Of confidentiality. Superstitious
Consciousness, I cannot bear, tonight,
All these dead fathers

Moving their hands to grab me
From within. I am not much
But a vessel
For his sheer body to pour through
And pass and ruffle itself neat
There is no language
Small enough for me: no word
That does not leak. No - no
Plentitude that could unmake God,
And fix me this pursed solitude.
Though, he... this...
Make-believe, beautiful and noise
Weaves me tersely into skin
And says forget forget, it
Does not do,
though

His looming lure is huge as a kiss
His hands are coarse company
Asphyxia feels again
Like homecoming

These are the days
When the ichor in my veins
Transmutes from ethereal to acrid
When the fire in my stride
Burns too hot for human skin
When the tangle of all I am
Becomes unbearable asphyxia  
But I find
I cannot
Cast myself away

The shrill thrill **** of young blood ills makes the hill
become a valley of death writhing desperately in hands
too often dragging queens through the mud
all along the botched towers leaning and glaring
without caring
Instead intent-on
restricting oxygen with crass observation
only ever offering tasteless insincere apologies as afterthought
Alone and easily overpowered
clouded crowd-sourced asphyxia overtakes
just enough breath left
for recorded tied down violations
with faint traces of ****-shaming-victim-blaming
cat calls free-for-alls
and “don’t it always seem to go
that you don’t know what you’ve
got” ‘til it’s slammed shut stolen
and swollen gutted-paved-depraved
by gentrifires stoking those immolate night advances
and god oh god is it really too much to ask
to feel safe on my own sidewalk?

My entire life has felt like suffocating. The idea of standing in front of people has only caused mental breakdowns and tears.
Suffocating- Something I've began to find comforting. When asphyxia sinks in, closing myself off, and escaping is the only thing that makes it okay.
Screaming, kicking and self inflicted bruises. I want to be numb, but drugs is not an option, and the idea of drowning my sorrows in alcohol terrifies me.
It is times like these when I need someone most. When there is something I can't control, words become harder to find. When everyone seems to take a little longer to talk to me, mentally I begin to drown.
A daily battle found within the screaming confines of my mind.; A pressing weight pounding against my lungs, causing my massive inability to breath.
I am about to explode, Like a ticking time bomb of discomfort and suppressed adrenaline.

the flies sleep
the POPes fall
stares and incense
water as a Firefly
climbing
dreams
and bites
lying down women
the scared child
*** chairs
honeyed ****
the Coco box
and sustained meals
used oil
molden hands
the erectile *****
with its cursed spring
the blind of the underground
tremble like leaves
mosquitoes
the endless war
for conformity reasons of
intense sentimentality
the juices from my waste
and waste
together as butter eyes
look for the lock
skins and commas
they come up and sit
where are the atoms?
the formulas
that is not a complaint or a
wet towel waiting
the laughter of ***
and happy *******
nails that do not
spend liars aloud
death does not rest
newspapers
newspapers
good to make a fire
is not necessary
to name them
delete all written in the
last three lines
and the simple duplicity of the intelligent
and their hopes of importance
When this ends or Announces
like fans in the Sun
the amendment continues
inexorable asphyxia
burn, rises as one
exquisite betrayal of the senses
the look and the perception
unfold within the bed
filled with needles in terrible ways
as vanity that passes
near avenues and springs
It does not defile
or attack the beasts
resting like a mountain
sacred mirrors
and the ghosts that spit
two stones
just to shake your lungs
and they are regarded as a
wall of the snot
devouring
air and Sun and rain and dreams

Why do sad things attract you?
Why do you look for a problem to fix?
Is there a healer inside of you?
Or is it your asphyxia you want to fix?
The hungry child, the hurt horse,
All you're looking for, is a cause
Something to channel this hurt,
Something you are allowed to cure,
Something that makes you smile,
Something that gives you a day to live for
You're not doing anything wrong,
In fact you're righting a whole lot,
But what keeps your heart fighting,
Maybe you've ignored a blood clot
Give some love to yourself,
It's hard most days I know,
Your heart so full of affection,
Sometimes with nowhere to go,
But pull out that guitar,
Practice your chords and scales,
Figure out the colours another time,
Watch the mixed shades, inhale

she tells me that we’re coming from the same place
that you are equally blinded by that
white hot
scalding terror
whose fingers wrap sensuously
around my neck and
choke out any semblance of hope
asphyxia hallucinations of
your back as you walk away
and the image is burned into my retinas
as if i foresaw it from
the moment i laid eyes on you
as if the entire story of our relationship
was written into the chocolate profundity of your irises
and i knew you’d disappear into those
bottomless pupils
that i can’t read but can
taste the fear like acrimonious premonitions
of inevitable abandonment

i don’t think you want to hurt me
you don’t intentionally impale me with
the flaming sword of my own inadequacy
more likely i throw myself upon
that funeral pyre
but what else am i to do when
you won’t trust me even though
i’ve laid myself bare
and flayed my skin off the bone
to prove to you that i’m
open
and all you’ve done is ride in on your
white ******* horse
and remind me that
****** never win the prince
and am i forever tainted in your eyes
for a past filled with
all the attempts i made to
rid myself of nameless pain?

i never thought i’d see my 21st birthday

and do you know how it feels
to live knowing when you’ll die
a best used by date stamped across my forehead
reminding me that
nothing really matters in the end
eventually the pain will melt away
and i’ll float into a warm nothingness
the world will go on spinning
but i didn’t want to spend the ephemeral time
here on this earth
in agony so i
stared that pain in the eyes and vowed
to destroy it
and when i realized that was hopeless
i had no choice but to destroy myself
for i would never be able to extricate myself from
that anguish
so i wouldn’t give it a vessel to inhabit
i would starve it away
purge it away
cut it away
burn it away
smoke it away
**** it away
but in the end it never really mattered
because i was going to die anyway

you don’t know that life
my life before i met you
and you’ll never realize that all my actions
were incarnations of my loneliness
and desperation
me groping in the dark for a light switch
or a bullet hole
to take my leave from this
terrestrial prison of perpetual pain

you don’t realize that i never thought i’d meet you
that the world i inhabited had
no room for you
or even the idea of you
because the thought that things would get better
only made everything hurt worse
and it wouldn’t be so easy to die
if the potential for better days to come
lived inside me

though my loneliness was my pain
i couldn’t bear to not be alone
to open the doors to my heart and
let out the musty still air
and light a fire in the hearth
a light to ward off the
obsidian nighttime world i call home

because knowing what it would be like
without the pain
basking in the warmth of the sun’s
glorious acceptance
would only make the night darker
and my loneliness colder than the
absolute zero of my past

you can’t miss something you’ve never known.

There's no more glory in succumbing to tumorous growth than there is in dying from pernicious anemia. Cancer is and will always be symptomatic of  a pronounced vitamin B17 deficiency. Cancer isn't and will never be symptomatic of anxiety, heredity, exposure to electromagnetic interference, tobacco or ***** motor lubricants. Cancer, like all vitamin-deficiencies, is not personalized. Komen's nitwits engage in divide & conquer. Don't fall for it. There's cancer in the breast, not breast cancer! The location of malignant growth is secondary to stopping the natural malignant-cell-growth process. A Komen T-shirt has as much relevance to cancer as a wing nut.

THE SECRET RITUAL:
Irrespective of the wonderful *** you might have with others, or any ideals you may have about who, when, and where to engage sexually, sometimes the *** that you have with yourself gives you something impossible to achieve with another.

To be specific: what I’m speaking of are the internal mental constructs of performative ****** acts that are unrestricted in the imaginative world, and that one would never be able to consider in real time. Those masturbatory shadows of the deep and deeply ****** that few are able to acknowledge about themselves, and certainly remain unwilling to talk about with someone they maybe intimate with, for fear of its destructive impact on the relationship.

A shape of language
for the secrets of the body
for the secrets of the mind
in the flow of matter
physical and etheric
cyber chronicles of ambulated hunger
the cult of the body.

YOUR SEXULITY IS SACRED TO YOU, NOT SACRED FROM YOU:

Obviously moral sensibilities and the limits of temporal life dictate what we may do. We may be imaginative, bizarre, freaky and incredibly *****, but we are not crazy, at least not all of us, yet that doesn’t mean those shadowy ****** denizens of the deep don’t bathe in the great fathoms of our respective subconscious abyss.

My darkest desires
bloodletting streams
are a kind of ******
fetishy cognitive inventory
malformed denizens
of the subconscious.

THE PARAPHILIAS:
“Paraphilia is the experience of intense ****** arousal to atypical objects, situations, fantasies, behaviors, or individuals.”
Current data supports that about one out of every 6 people, irrespective of gender or ****** preference, experience some kind of paraphilia.
Here is a list of paraphilias that is a focus of ****** interest:

Andromimetophilia: Trans men.
Anililagnia: Attraction by young men to older women.
Anthropophagolagnia: ****** and then cannibalizing another person.

Anthropophagy: Ingesting human flesh.
Apotemnophilia: Being an amputee.
Asphyxiophilia: Being asphyxiated or strangled.
Attraction to disability: People with one or more physical disabilities.
Autagonistophilia: Being on stage or on camera.
Autassassinophilia: Being in life-threatening situations.
******* asphyxiation: Self-induced asphyxiation, sometimes to the point of near unconsciousness.
Autogynephilia: ****** arousal of a biological male in response to the image of himself as female.
Auto-haemofetishism: Bleeding oneself (does not involve ingestion of blood). Type of autovampirism. [contradictory]
Autonepiophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an infant.
Autopedophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a child.
Autoplushophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of a plush or anthropomorphized animal.
Autovampirism/Vampirism: The image of one’s self in the form of a vampire. Involves ingesting or seeing one’s own blood.
Autozoophilia: The image of one’s self in the form of an animal or anthropomorphized animal.
Biastophilia/Raptophilia: ****** a person, possibly consensual **** fantasy.
Capnolagnia: Smoking.
Chremastistophilia: Being robbed or held up.
Chronophilia: Partners of a widely differing chronological age.
*******: Feces; also known as ****, scatophilia or fecophilia.
Coulrophilia: Clowns, jesters, and mimes.
Crurophilia: Legs.
Dacryphilia: Tears or crying.
Diaper fetishism: Diapers; considerable overlap with paraphilic infantilism.
*******: Trees.
Emetophilia: *****.
Eproctophilia: Flatulence.
****** asphyxiation: Asphyxia of oneself or others.
Erotophonophilia: ******, often of strangers (also known as dacnolagnomania).
Exhibitionism: Exposing one’s genitals to unsuspecting and nonconsenting others.
Feederism: Eating, feeding, and weight gain.
Formicophilia: Being crawled on by insects.
Forniphilia: Turning a human being into a piece of furniture.
Frotteurism: Rubbing against a non-consenting person.
Gerontophilia: Elderly people.
Gynandromorphophilia, Gynemimetophilia: Transgender women.
Hematolagnia: Drinking or looking at blood.
Heterophilia: Idealization of heterosexuality and/or people who are “straight-acting”, especially by non-heterosexual people.
Hoplophilia: Firearms, guns.
Hybristophilia: Criminals, particularly those who committed cruel or outrageous crimes.
Infantophilia: ******* with a focus on children less than five years old; a recently suggested term that is not in general use.
Kleptophilia: Stealing; also known as kleptolagnia.
Klismaphilia: Enemas, arousal and enjoyment in receiving, administering, or both.
Lactophilia: Breast milk.
Liquidophilia: Immersing genitals in liquids.
Macrophilia: Giant beings; the imagined growth of beings.
Maschalagnia: Armpits.
Mazophilia: Female *******.
Masochism: Suffering or humiliation; being beaten, bound or otherwise abused.
Maiesiophilia: Pregnant women.
Mechanophilia: Cars or other machines; also “mechaphilia.”
Melolagnia: Music.
Menophilia: *******.
Metrophilia: Poetry.
Microphilia: Very small people or small body parts.
Morphophilia: Particular body shapes or sizes.
Mucophilia: Mucus.
Mysophilia: Dirtiness, soiled or decaying things.
Narratophilia: Obscene words.
Nasophilia: Noses.
Navel fetishism: Navel.
Necrophilia: Corpses.
Objectophilia: Specific inanimate objects.
Oculophilia: Eyes and activities directly relating to and/or involving the eyes. Voyeurism does not meet classification for this term.
Odaxelagnia: Biting or being bitten.
Olfactophilia: Smells and odors emanating from the body, especially the ****** areas (as from breath, *****, feces, flatulence, etc.).
*******: Arousal from having a full bladder and/or wetting oneself, or from seeing someone else experiencing a full bladder and/or wetting themself.
Paraphilic infantilism: Dressing or being treated like a baby, also known as autonepiophilia or “adult baby syndrome”; considerable overlap with diaper fetishism.
Partialism: Specific, non-genital body parts.
*******: Prepubescent children, also spelled paedophilia.
Peodeiktophilia: Exposing one’s *****.
Pedovestism: Dressing like a child.
Podophilia: Feet.
Pictophilia: ******* or ****** art, particularly pictures.
Piquerism: Piercing the flesh of another person, most commonly by stabbing or cutting the body with sharp objects.
Plushophilia: Stuffed toy animals (“plushies”).
Pygophilia: Buttocks.
Salirophilia: Soiling or dirtying others.
****** fetishism: Non-living objects.
****** sadism: Inflicting pain on others.
Shoe fetishism: Shoes, such as high heels.
Somnophilia: Sleeping or unconscious people.
Sophophilia: Learning.
Sthenolagnia: Muscles and displays of strength.
Stigmatophilia: Body piercings and tattoos.
Symphorophilia: Witnessing or staging disasters such as car accidents.

Telephone scatologia: Obscene phone calls, particularly to strangers; also known as telephonicophilia and scatophiliac.
Teratophilia: Deformed or monstrous people. The term is also sometimes used in a more literal sense (from ancient Greek τέρας, teras, meaning monster) for attraction to monstrous mythical and fictional creatures such as werewolves.
Toucherism: Touching an unsuspecting, non-consenting person with the hand.
Toxophilia: Archery.
Transvestic fetishism: Wearing clothes associated with the opposite ***; also known as transvestism.
Transvestophilia: A transvestic ****** partner.
Trichophilia: Hair.
Troilism: Observing one’s partner engaged in ****** activities with another person.
Urolagnia: Urination, particularly in public, on others, and/or being urinated on. Also referred to as “water sports”.
*******: The idea of one person or creature eating or being eaten by another; usually swallowed whole, in one piece; also known as vore.
Voyeurism: Watching others while naked or having ***, generally without their knowledge; also known as scopophilia or scoptophilia.
Wet and messy fetishism: Messy situations, including, but not limited to, being pied, slimed or covered in mud.
*******: Animals.
Zoosadism: Inflicting pain on animals, or seeing animals in pain.
~~~~~
A REAL-LIFE PROFILE OF A WOMAN ACUTELY AWARE OF HER DARK FETISHY SIDE
Primary Fantasy: Dehumanization, objectification. I love the idea of being kidnapped and converted into meat.
(Fantasy obviously!!)
I also enjoy preservation, taxidermy, dollification, weird stuff like that!
Other Fetish Interests:
Hucow
Medical
Lab scenes
Necro
Morgue
Hanging
Lethal injection

MAKE THE UNCONSCIOUS CONSCIOUS:
There is much written in-depth psychology about ****** pathologies caused by repressed or shadowy disowned parts of ourselves and how those neglected forces may determine unwanted fate. Shame and self-deception is not our friend. Know yourself.

Pleasure is so close to ruinous waste
nakedness wrecks decency
degradation feeds the bonfire of hunger
and the wound of desire bleeds away within

leave nothing
but the bleeding edge
ruin me she said.
~
Beyond hearts mastery
hullabaloo crime scenes
like night jungles
of tooth and claw
in corridors of neuron ghosts
while **** licking succubae
*** livid pornographic hieroglyphs
fed by the dreaded
excesses of testosterone
towards some ruined
blood spotted
hanky-panky *******
just to remind me of you
and how it hurt just so
and how you loved me for it
whoever you are.
....
https://medium.com/@4zebra2u/the-secret-***-life-we-keep-from-our-selves-7f227dbc6c4a