Dead stains, blood and wine.
Soil, ancient roots. Nights songbird.
Savage tendencies.

Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -

this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.

Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.

In her hands
We're magnesium
White--

As-she-tries-to
Touch pale
Pastels,
--We lie-

For ant-eater
Fires and croaking
-Frogs; I say nothing.

But she breathes in
Clicks-
Bedsheet maladies--


Her crab apple
-Transparency.

She was so, what's the word I'm looking for?
  not *****, some would say submissive.
There is no way she was that, more *******.
But she never let it show, she'd have a way of
controlling the situation to make you think you
        were in charge...

How could I explain it? more like your in a desert,
         thirsty and see a fountain in the distance.
Running towards it your strength disperses,
  and you believe what you see even though your
            swallowing the passing of time.

Even as you choke, you still believe you've
quenched your, I mean her thirst.
          If she was poker, she'd have the winning
hand every time...

So back to the moment at hand, she was so dam
         rough, I had scratches that looked like I'd
had a sleepover at Elm Street.
I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it...
I liked it when she made me trickle.


That itch while at work, as my back
was healing, it turned me on knowing
that she still lingered even though we
weren't near.
       She had this suffocation issue,
but it was kinker than just naked...
        

It was in a summer dress,
                    and only in the summer.
Like she was seasonal?
I'd lift her dress up. she was pantiless.
           But before that, my hands were even
within her thighs, she was damper than
the grand canyon dry around the edges,
       but between she flowed...

There was no finesse it was all or nothing,
     no gentle hands, deep and hard were her ways.
She knew what she liked. But like a drug,
Its strength diminishes over time,
and the thrill was now near non-existent.  
And a frustrated woman isn't one to be trifled with.

So we got others involved, ones that had
the same suffocating view on life.
Constricted on the normality of ***.
The first one, ***. It was embarrassing.
  We'd guest they were more inquisitive
         than had done it before.

We'd had them sign a waiver on the obligation
of what it entailed. A few drinks later,
Ok, more than a few and it was a melting ***
         of flesh, we were all over each other.
      She strangled my other half one-handed
constricting her flow of air, the other fingers
in her mouth being ****** erotically.

I'd never thought of how ****** this would be,
it didn't matter that it was a woman,
the fact she was arching so much.
All because of another stifling her breath.
                    I had my fun though I was deep
in the other,  **** deep as she didn't want to
be penetrated in her flower, she likes her petals clean??
   My other half could see me over the other'ss shoulder.

Enjoying the fact of both woman were in my bed,
              I was getting close, and then it changed.
She saw that I was about to pleasured by another.
Her hands clasped around our new acquaintance.
For such a petite figure she had a grasp like a clamp.

I felt her clench around my external offering,
           and the smile off my other, it was suffocatingly  
pleasurable. All three of us slumped at the same time.
The bedsheet was drizzly with the fulfillment
  of all three of us. I'd never experienced such a
moment, it was unexplainably fulfilling.

We rested for a moment, and then as I pulled myself
from this sweaty gathering, I needed to ***.
I know wow how romantic, But you open a valve,
waters going to pour eventually.
   Walking back to the bed all smiles.
     She looked at me with fear, but with a hint of
excitement.
                    
"She's dead,

                            "What dead tired?

  "No you ****-wit, as in you just pleasured
yourself up a corpse you necrophilic *****...

I laughed, as I jumped into bed thinking she
was hoaxing me. But she wasn't moving.
  Holy crap that was an ****** to die for??
  She looked at me sheepishly, no not really I got
kind of confused, she was strangling me and i
was so turned on.

But then I saw you about to lift off, and I didn't
like the fact that it was in another and not me.
So I tightened my grip, I heard her throat crunch
under the pressure, and she came,
either in exhilaration or that she'd just died...
Is it wrong that it was a multiple's!!

I've had doubles with you but that,
                                               I'm still twitching.
Oh' not to the fact that there was a dead blonde
in our bed. But the fact she had a multiple with a dead
woman on top. I brushed that thought away as we
had more concerning things,

I said to her,

"Do we phone the police,
             she signed the waiver?

"Do we phone the police!

  She said in a sarcastic manner raising her brow,
  
I could never do that dam thing, she was like
a **** trekky when she did that Mmm..
        I'd live long and **** the **** out her in
that cosplay outfit, pity I broke the ears last time.

Crap, I'm getting distracted.

I  could see where she was ******* from,
       why the hell does the dead woman have
***** *******,  whoops my toothpick just
became a great redwood again.

Are you getting stiff off seeing a dead woman's
******* you freak? They are kind of just there,
As she lent across and licked them.
         Oh, there cold, she looked at me
in her I'm ***** look.  We shouldn't waste an
opportunity really, as she opened her legs
and maneuvered her so she could scissor her.

What you waiting for, put your piece in her gob,
her mouth cold against it, but moist enough
that I face ****** her till we both got close
            kissing each other and ******* at the same
time, wow that was intense,
                                        we both sheepishly smiled.

We both got in the shower, the bed damp still from
                  when all three were breathing but her
head slumped to the side and you could see it dripping
out her mouth as if she was sleeping and  drooling
                       on the pillow.. that's gross.

After we were all cleaned up, we had to decide
what to do, the police wasn't an option.
   We'd watched enough dexters to know that
cutting her up was going to be way too messy..
And last time I got a paper cut I fainted.

Grabbing some cling film out the cupboard I started
To wrap her up, beforehand we went to the store
and brought 15 liters of bleach. I used a kitchen
a utensil  with a short straw-like funnel and proceed
to bleach the inside of her ****.. and gave here a detol
mouth wash, we put the rest in the bath and put
her in there, she hadn't started decomposing and
rigor mortis wasn't overly making her stiff like a plank
so she easily sank to the bottom.

After lunch we let the water out, god she looked clean.
But her eyes had become white, like ghost white
staring at me, like she'd known what we did to her.
I tried closing her eyelids but they wouldn't shut,
so I used a permanent marker to color them in..
   What was I thinking, now she looks ****** possessed.
Drying off was like a ritual we were gentle and making
sure her hair was brushed nicely.


Then with the 6 boxes of cling film, we wrapped
her up nice and tightly.
Crossing her arms over her chest seemed like
a nice thing to do. You never realize when
someone says dead weight, just how heavy that is.
We did that nursery rhyme as we threw her in the boot,

A leg and a wing to see the king and yeet...
    I gave her a 7.5 for landing. As we drove off
we took the map out, using sat-nav was a no, no
as we could have our steps traced back.
   There was an old coal mine just twenty minutes
away, what was cool was that there was an opening
that was so deep but not many knew about it.

I know how convenient is that. We parked up and
we knew we'd have to be quick so I slung her over
my shoulder, walking along I got really damp?

"Babe, what the hell is going on?
                     "Is she peeing on me?

I started to gag, but then the bleach smell hit!
       Phew! she was leaking bleach all over my jeans.
Thank **** for that, I knew these were going
to be burnt later anyway and had a spare pair in
the boot just in case. What I come prepared.

As we got to the opening a couple was standing there
throwing a rolled-up rug down the hole?
we both just looked at each other, what's up?
                              Nothing
What's up with you?
                     Nothing!
We just smiled and dropped our cling film roll
down the same hole. they pulled a knife we pulled
a baseball bat out.

Look, we know what we've both done,
   and if we walk away now you, we,
well neither of us will get hurt or have to throw the
others down that hole. How about the saying.
You didn't see it, so it didn't happen,?

They walked off, we walked off calmly.
That went a lot better than I thought as I laughed.
But just as we got to the car we heard a twig snap
right behind us, out of instinct I swung hard
catching him square in the temple.
as he fell he landing on his accomplice.
She was screaming Oh'my god help me..

My other half leaned over her, foot on her wrist
pulling the knife out her hand.. What were you
going to do with this then.

            "*******, she yelled.

No how about I mouth *******,
and with that, she raised the knife up
and shoved it into the hilt of her mouth.
God, i love this woman.
   As she lay there gurgling..
I mean the noise was nasty..
  So she just trod on her throat and silence.

We looked at each other, and started kissing,
    and before you knew it we had steamy windows
handprints visible to what had perspired in here.
As we got redressed and the tension now reduced
we dragged these two both to the hole.
I mean  my girl just grabbed his feet and like
luggage threw him in. She's so awesome.

You do realize we got from accidental murders
to nearly serial killers now.
And you know what it was such a turn on.
     I must admit we were both turned on by death.
We found their car and drove both down the country
lanes making sure that cameras were nowhere near.
We burnt it out, but not before doing donuts in a field
to make it look like joyriders had stolen it..

After that, we had plenty more lovers, false addresses
to entice, and snare our next lover into false security.
We got tech-savvy as well, in the car we had a scrambler
that blocked their mobiles. most didn't even notice
they lost signal, some did and were over-cautious
                   If they didn't come then unlucky them.

But we remembered that everything was to happen
in the bedroom. Gosh that coal mine is now a mosh pit
of broken voices, that crunch just as we orgasmed.
  That never got old, as everyone was different some
***, others ****** them selfs, that was new and gross.
But luckily we had mattress protectors on and plenty
more in the cupboard. To date, we must have made
love and silenced at least 12 over the last few years.

Only in the summer though,
  and the dresses, god she looks so hot...

Got to go through as our new friend
just turned up in guess what in a summer dress
of all things.
           We just looked at each other and smiled.

flying juniper arrows
fell asleep by the meadows
struck my body with vengeance

that night you screamed at me sweetly
made me tear at my covers
blackbelt in bedsheet karate

i was the kid in rehab who
my counselors let
watch movies
past my bedtime

A clean white
bedsheet
is a blank
canvas
on which I'll
paint
on with all
my
dreams however sweet
or
nightmarish they may
be.

It's unseasonably warm
for a January morning.

I was dreaming of a girl
and blue western skies

...a faded bedsheet
sideways in the breeze
on an old clothes line.

I was dreaming
she was mine.

there's a sense of loneliness that creeps up my heart at 2 in the morning. it is the loneliness that i have felt since you left without any goodbyes.

i look up and see nothing but the emptiness of a dimly lit and cold room - shivering, not because of the cold breeze the air conditioning blows but because of the lost of the warmth from your words and presence. maybe, you can drop a message or a note? something that can remind me of you, oh God, who am i kidding? everything reminds me of you.

it is the stuffed toy that still lies on a spot beside my pillow, hoping that somewhat it can give me comfort.

the glow in the dark stars on my cabinet; because you've always loved science, the stars and space.

my brother's bedsheet; just because coincidentally, he had to have it in your favorite character.

some poem that i've scrolled through; just because the words fit you like a puzzle.

just like that, everything is all about you.

you always seem to find a way to make it back into my life without knowing it, nor wanting it. because in reality, all these are just my excuses to remember you, even if you don't remember me at all.

Words are made of thoughts.
I wish they'd intrude. I am lonely,
unemployed with a nine to seven routine
of various activities.

A malignant trend courses through the head.
Broadcasting it outside in the realm of trust
where I am blank but set to go, it would have
the appearance of a finely ambient glass of chocolate milk.

Sometimes I'm asked why the relevance hinges on me.
If I had to say, it's because I keep getting vignettes, like something
out of a beggar's bowl, a wooden saltiness
that becomes increasingly less involved. And, like, everytime
I think about it, it's something similar to trying to walk
on John Carter's Mars; and all of this trivial, like, asinine
things can never match up to the draw, the pull of
whatever has been dropped, whatever has been shorn
unevenly like a badly eaten candy-bar. Or something.
I don't know why it has to be about me.
I don't, pull my weight, and recently I feel cold in the summer;
I have slept under a bedsheet since June.
That's not what this is about, or what I, want to project.

This isn't a prerogative, a jarring hiss of due-dates
incoming inevitably. I just ****. Which is not a surprise,
like organic web shooters is a surprise, or, thinking up
something like a dead polemic of a sewer draining
the sordid leftovers of a consciousness.

I want a nobody.

A faceless commuter swearing as the machine ignores his credit card. Or the guy two tables to the left who isn’t checking his watch because he isn’t waiting on someone. Any hoodie-wearing, adidas-laced, prospective english major rambling along the sidewalk.

I want a nobody.

‘Cause there’s never a somebody that won’t say “I love you” because it’s numbed by too many mouths that don’t form their lips the right way. The somebodies slide it off their careless tongues—

because little words are pennies in tip jars.

But Nobody, he’ll say

I love the way you put on a jacket
like some kind of whip-snap in the lapels and collar
tipping your chin up and
hooking your silver-ringed thumbs in the pockets

and I love how you flip through books
eager to break the spine but not fold the pages
holding your breath to hold the focus
propping open a paperback between long tapered fingers

and how the barista at the coffeeshop knows your face!
and blush rises like foam on your cheeks

because it’s so ******* incredible how
when you drum your fingers
you don’t drum you press
into a phantom piano
the treble clef of Linus and Lucy
or The Entertainer
or, if your eyes have already gotten deeper
—in a mossy well of thought—
it’ll be Augustana’s Boston
dancing C-E-C-E-G-E-C-E
in the jumping tendons of your right hand.

                  *

oh darling, I’m in love with
your clumsy movements when you fall into bed
wrapping a thick comforter over your bare shoulders
curling your legs as you settle on your side
hair fanned out on the bedsheet because
the pillow’s too close to the wall


but lovely, I don’t love you
because I’m not real at all

The wave that crashed
my soul
The seashells bedecked in gold
The mess I couldn't erase
with every trace of constellations
pulsated a face
And the day gone black
under a bedsheet
Wine spilled on a cuffling
The longing for drizzle
and rain
The levitation from the
Earth like tripping windowpane
A watchtower showing you home
You are the well I'm crawling
down
( To float in the clearlight )
The alchemy and sigils in stone
A voice that mumbles
in my sound ears when I'm alone.

Do your  parents wonder, why you take time to open your door?
How you cannot wash their dead daughter's blood off your bedsheet
Go tell them how she bled to death for someone who would not even look her way or do anything to prevent it lest his hands get bloodied

Do they ever wonder why there is no mirror in your room,
or notice how you cringe at the sight of your reflection as if you've seen a ghost And how that is the case exactly?
Go tell them how your own shadow scares the wit out of you,
as if it is mocking you and soon will reveal your dark secrets to them.

Do they ever wonder why you have so little photographs of you?
Go tell them your face reminds you how you turned into everything you said, You would not when you were a kid; how you are just a pile of unsaid goodbyes, abandoned building, shattered dreams stitched up together by skin you dont feel comfortable in.

Do they wonder, why your hands are often on your ears as if you are trying to block some loud music only you can hear
Go tell them how his words keep replaying in your mind.. how he told you so many "truths" that you no longer know which version to believe in

Do they ever wonder why you have no friend or why you keep staring at the wall and yet your eyes appear to be seeing right through everything?
Go tell them you are looking at his eyes turning colder by minute, till you don't recognise who he is; that he has seared goodbye in a place inside you so deep that you send your friends in love,  packing bags long before they plan to leave.

Do they ever notice how you cringe when they attempt to hold your hand or hug you?
go tell them how all the times you were let go still echo through your skin,
how you always acted like a filler? how every one you loved had their eyes set on their destiny and you were always traffic

do they ever wonder, why you always seem more restless at night? Or, how they never find you asleep?
Go tell them how the future that you could have had but did not haunts you every night, How you think you have enough time but then you blink and suddenly you are all out of it and you ask Him for 5 more minutes but he just shakes his head.

as i skate my fingers over your
pale abdomen
deliberately, so as not to break you
i feel the quiet and the still that has
settled over us, like the makeshift
bedsheet picnic blanket in spring

we move slowly, as if we were a
flashback or a dream
and i think that our bodies
were made for this--
just this

for this languor and
the unending of it

I know I'll miss these times once they're sung
The days are busy when they're so young
Little ones that pull on skirts,
Teeny ones held in your shirt

Selflessness we must meet, in order to be built
Recline in the sun's heat, spring flowers bloom and wilt

Everything in its time, these moments will pass
Change another bedsheet, sacrifice and submit
Slow and let your eyes meet, let these sweet moments sit
Everything in its time, these moments will pass

A love so natural, it will not be ignored
It flurries us to higher places and with the air it swings
A love so natural, it demands to be poured
So deep it actually aches, singing sweetly while it stings

Offenses laughable, their silly peccadillos I secretly smile at
Yet they are teachable, I'll raise them to face the world and evil to combat

Innocent little transgressions
My dearest little possessions
I rebuke, I correct, the love goes on, I'll cherish our time while here
Time feels ensconced, but with the dawn, our time will have disappeared

One early morning,
Let me have you
By my side,
Get me a pen & paper
Ask me a poem to write
About our first
May be our forever
May be you can drive me a little
Or harder
Or faster
We can talk about colors
May be color from last night
"Red" thats fallen
On our bedsheet
Where,
we have been turn on
You look blessed
There's no reason for you to not
Everything has its cover
We dont have any
Nudeness is no problem
When soul is shared already

May be you could tease me a little
About last night
then, i would hide my face
With the paper
Where poem, i'm supposed to write
i blushed
There you could talk about my beauty
Girls love appriciation
She expects them
Even if she dont have any...

You could hold me
While i write
Around my waist
Or may be a little up,tight
I am all yours
And you are my only guy
I might scribble on your arm
The victory of love we had
I might write poem
On your whole body
Cause paper is not enough
To put on a act

I gasp !
Fantasies are such a beautiful thing to have.

I am,
I am,
I am
what lies between the folds of the bedsheet
that my mother washes every week.

I am a bundle, lost in between each and every
crevice of the sheet.

I grasp onto the loose folds
becoming one with the fresh, lemony scent of the
crisp white sheet.

I cling onto what's left of me.

Crumpled;
but your mother
straightens you out.

You were a shadow to me,
You would follow me without question
Around every corner and on the fold of a bedsheet.
You would leave the house
Explore a tree
But you always left a trail of pinecones
To find your way back home.

The graceful thud of your paws
On my sleeping body,
Black fur darned with white socks
And I loved you,
I always loved you.

Life had dealt us a silent friendship,
Language was our deficiency
But we made it our own
Speaking through pupils
And reading the curve of our bodies.

And you were small,
You were always so small.
The runt of the litter
But you had the personality
To **** all the demons
That had scattered in my head through the day
And lull me back to sleep.

This knot in my stomach,
And the tears I concede
Are all for you and I don’t want to stop.
I will atone for every summer as a child
Lost in a dizzy haze of fun,
As you sat in the window
And waited for me.
Just waited.

Now it is my turn.

I saw you break into a shadow of yourself,
Even smaller every day
As you faded away by degrees.
I saw you fall limp into a dreamless sleep
And now as you are buried beneath the snow
I hope the first thing you see is me sat at the window.

This is a list of the times I allowed myself to collapse.
These are the reasons I tried to drown myself in a bathtub filled with thick crimson and cheap liquor.
This is my final suicide note.

1. Today in science class my teacher brought out the human skeleton and I wished it was me.
2. I've never drank whiskey, but when my blood turns to Bourbon, I need to open the bottle.
3. I cannot count the times I've created spines on the mirror. I need to kiss the white lines.
4. The cats are meowing, they're hungry. I am so focused on not feeding myself that I have forgotten to feed them.
5. I'm a lot like cigarettes. I light easily. Burn out quickly. Focused on destroying you-always destroying myself.
6. I've got poison in my veins-I unzip myself daily. When I kissed you- I infected you. We have poison in our veins. Addicted to destroying ourselves. The Devil will watch and be envious.
7. I am 17. I have attempted suicide too many times to count. Every time in a different way.
          a. cliche; slit my wrist open and let flowers spill.
          b. drowned myself in a handful of pills and a bottle of *****.
          c. hung myself with my bedsheet.
          d. decayed my stomach lining with bleach
          e. starved the ugly out of me-let my bony knuckles callus.  
This time I am going to fling myself from a building, call my friends, and hope they'll catch me.

Because I never truly wanted to die.
I want to be saved from myself. I want someone to zip me back up. I want to look at the sun and not think about burning. I want to be able to sit in a bathtub with clear water. I want to eat a candy bar, and not taste it twice. I want someone to look at me and see flowers-not blades.
I wish I had green thread to sew my veins back together. I wish I had a syringe, i'd **** the poison from my blood. I wish I knew what love felt like, maybe I could perfect the practice.

This is not a poem.
This is not written with the intent to explain myself because I don't know myself well enough to explain.
This is a suicide note.
This is my last suicide note.

/                              don't know...
      maybe the song mein teil
just made me do it...
   or perhaps i became "lost",
or rather, bored with
video uploads in the sub-media?
perhaps i just like to
sit, "quasi"-drunk,
   imitating a balancing "act":

  drunk...

  of a "clue" into
      deciphering buddha...
but a turkish akimbo on
a windowsill?
          surely i can't be drunk
and do such a posture?
   guess i'm: seriously *******?!

but i am,
and i have a wrath
  that will eat everything in its way
and itself to conclude
     the ploughed field.

they could have encompassed
the happy, catholic labourer
on a construction site...
  where: feminism?
   falls flat, since there voices
are confined
to the canteen...

                 construction industry
is a no go zone,
   for feminism...
                but if they do want to
go there?
           industrial roofing...
         in summer:

   YOU'RE MORE THAN
******* WELCOME!

                     come! come!
               vee nee'd'zzzzzz uzzzzz!
    (k is not even
there...
   while you're at church
giving it the boston terrier
                                            "lap")
better­ than counting sheep
while falling asleep:
count them....
1 by 1,
    1 by 1...
                   drop... like... flies....

mein teil!

            can't expect me to respect
the army with the women
so welcome...

     but i do expect the last
"army" to exclude with good intentions...

namely the construction industry...

    any women found
in this economic expression...
and i'll be looking for
a sioux on advice on how
to pitch a tent with
               a ******* bedsheet!

(making ****** sounds,
with a protruding tongue,
slapping the forehead...
"moment"...

           nope... lost by
surd encoding pass at this point).

        but it did happen...
how on earth blackadder
degenerated into mr. bean:
i'll never know...

    guess translating thespain-spresch
works,
even if you're a plumber...

will this writing flop, or fail?
hell: i hope it doesn't succeed!
for starters.                 

but apparently it's all:
hands up in the air,
   like i just don't care(!)
   attidute...
          so heaven-sent
    thong-negligee-und-lace'end-tights!

**** me!
               an over-sweated in
bolsheviks' cap!
                                      well done!        

since, if making **** is a liberty of
the opposite ***?

         what is the liberty of the equal
perspective: of the *** speaking
with this tonuge, that shares the same
constraints, rather than "the same"
concerns?
    
what? and capitalist corporations are
not synonymous with the western
concept of communist communes,
collectivist "farms":

just like my grandfather predicted....
capitalist corporations
are hardly differentiable from
communist collectivists;

                           n'est-ce pas?                 /

sleep
is just a metaphor for
deep dream seeking.
chasing dragons & demons
through a seamless sequence
of events which
defy all weakness
with tongue in cheek
& grinding teeth
toward bedsheet beacons
bright light beams
that scream through
bleak dreamscapes.
but better your head
than these streets & freeways..

how bad can a good girl get?
                        that really is the question.
   ; it always starts with the apathy. it quietly slips itself in, the same way that you don’t really notice the sun setting until suddenly you look up and the sky is almost black.
it sets into everything it touches like smoke to damp clothes or blood to a white bedsheet.
                                         eyelids get heavier and exhales get deeper.
fingers and toes turning into sticks of chalk on a pavement; messy, incoherent patterns left in their wake; every little thing; the small talk, the feigned interest,
the reproachful gaze of worried friends and the number of hours taken to muster up the will required to go for a shower.
all of it, all of the time
wearing away at her chalk hands and feet; gradual erosion followed by the sharp snap as the pavement encounters a wall. dusty white remnants tell the stories of her efforts on the concrete.
                                                          like breakable stick of chalk in the hands of a child, it wore her down and down and away and away.
broken chalk; baring a striking resemblance to what may be incurred if a heap of bones were to be finely ground into a delicate powder.
                                                 and that is what the apathy feels like. like the process of gradual grinding and erosion until nothing is left.
      ; then comes the disassociation.
as in,
if my head starts to feel anymore spaced out will nasa try and recruit me for their next mission? as in,
did i just spend three hours making intense eye contact with the ceiling or did i imagine all of that?
       it’s the hours spent wondering if they would love you more if your ribs and hip bones were threatening to burst their way through the skin, or, if really, you are as inherently unlovable as rain clouds in july.
vacant eyes and hollow words, almost doll-like. but at the same time not at all.
dolls are beautiful, adored;
                         useful.
it’s addictive,
feeling lost and empty i mean; if everything feels like it doesn’t really exist, and you haven’t showered in three days then do your obligations to the world still exist?
if my head isn’t here then what else actually remains?
but this is how you learned to survive, you learned to hold your own mind and dress your own wounds.
                           she’ll treat you the way she wants someone else to treat her; that’s why she always wants to make sure that you’re alright. because no one ever asked her.
           and that, is how you know that it is getting bad again. but really none of it happens in that order or in steps; actually, it happens all at once, but isn’t that a lot harder to fit into a blank word document?

Hands and legs clenched tight
You and me sit uptight
The bedsheet becomes a safety tent
Enclosing turmerics powerful scent
Circled in a misty atmosphere
Giving you the first time fear
Sweating off the cold
Undergoing a remedy thats centuries old

not
tucking in
your bedsheet
every morning.

intentionally.

You're all drawn curtain
and door hinge creak
she told me. Fogged
mirror crack and cold

window draft. Drool
drain drip and
refrigerator politics.
She told me

to shape up. You're
all washing machine
spin, dry skin
and old record skip.

She told me to listen
up. You're all click
of the lock and
ring of the phone.

Carpet stain sore
she told me. All
bedsheet crease,
alright, all mine.

Light crept through my window at dawn
Illuminating the shadows of the creases
in his old imprint on my bedsheet.
That sun had set, but in the darkness
shadows fade, gradient into null --
the knowledge I ignored, now
trembling as golden rays
kiss my arm and tempt my mind,
Awaken the ruffles that remain
and highlight each cotton peak,
each contrasting up & down
rising further, rushing more,
'till the sun falls upon your face
when you open your eyes,
and I forget those fabric cliffs
that kept me from seeing
a new brightness you shine.

I see the past bearing down on me like a valley

I do believe I have the courage to take a step back

I feel the weight of generations past and the whispers they carry

I don’t know if it all comes full circle, but

I love the smell of old books.

I hate how we ignore those who came before us, as if we don’t walk across their graves every day.

I’m most passionate about understanding where we come from, and how we got here.

I hope people see me as a flashlight beneath a bedsheet, illuminating the written page.

we loved each other like neptune loved fire and venus loved diamond earrings
we could only hold hands for four minutes before we had to exhale
i only knew you and you only knew me when it came to reading fingerprints like braille
we caused an overdose in god's left iris and left him fiending and crawling and blinking like he had a twitch just to
get a fix
god could only crawl as fast as my eyes could read your heart like shakespeare and slightly slower than your hands could
turn the lights off
where did we meet is a question i ask myself
did we meet on the shores of lakes too cold to handle where portals carried the ducks by on infinite loops
or did we meet in a pretentious little coffee shop where there was always so much pressure and your head would explode
if only you could force yourself to ruin all the pieces local artists hung in high hopes
maybe we met with high hopes, or maybe just with high minds and low hearts and nothing left to believe in
we met when i couldn't rest my eyes on planets for longer than 3 seconds and your bed only looked slept in
i think we met when i could hold your hand without squeezing too tight or tugging it away or when you finally let me win
a thumb war
we still meet sometimes in my mind, over and over, infinitely gazing into each other's minds for the very first time
i don't know if you'll ever touch my skin like the unbroken spine of a newly printed book or a flower dried between its
ancient counter part's pages and pages and pages of nonsense
it's all nonsense
what does all this sound like to foreign ears, or foreign minds, what does love and words have to do with anything if
the sheets are never clean and the garden doesn't even grow in the sunshine any more
how does your heart feel without the touch of something artificial to give you a reason to wake up in the morning
does it feel like it's falling and falling on repeat, forever, stuck in limbo, except you can only wish it was limbo
in limbo your heart wouldn't be shattering, your eyes wouldn't be burning, your hair wouldn't be in clumps between
your fingers
you wouldn't have to open your eyes to anything and the alarm clock would tell you time is up and the day is done and
thank you for trying but it's not even necessary
take some time to think about everything you left in suitcases and boxes and hotel rooms that you kept the key for
you'll probably never let those keys go even if i told you to but what if i told you that hotel burnt down years ago
and the only thing that remains is a tattered bedsheet and it lies in the rubble like a decrepit flag that everyone
has forgotten to salute
we love each other like the ghosts of those who carried that flag
we love each other like ghosts and flags and the byproduct of an arson joke gone wrong
that flag stopped flying when your heart stopped beating to the tune of my mindless humming and my words forgot sobriety
for a while

my life in cans of arizona on the desk on the floor
cliff bar wrappers and crisp bags and old bits of
tissue my life in clothes littered everywhere                 scrunched pieces of fabric
        my bedsheet pulling off the mattress a box of
granola bars flattened on top of another old socks and artwork
pennies and cups i’ve yet to wash my       life in open windows and closed jars a
container of cough syrup and books i haven’t read my life in old papers and
boots broken plastic and bubble wrap my life in textbooks and
wires and cookbooks and hats and cans of arizona and things that should be in the bin

i
don’t want to leave
i just
want to be back there

Now I have you,
The hands, roses boughs,
But clasping mine on the slant
And amidst the blizzard
And when the street lamps are blurred,
The lips of honest promises
And of open windows,
The lap of serenity
And of fluffy bedsheet,
The tears of balm
And tears of my tears,
I know the real assesst of marriage,
O my soul, the most desired soul.
No emirald, no sparkling necklace,
And no luxurious car with heavy wallet
Can wiegh more than thee!