Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

your clean lips and serene eyes
are instruments
they, with fearless precision
play

those neatly folded tufts of skin on either side
are speakers
they, with unnatural ease
amplify

the epidermal pyramid sloping symmetrically
amid your instruments
is a songstress

she, with innate necessity
sings the song of life

your head is a concert
music to my troubled eyes

©Jason Cole

We’re all reptilian; our skins slough free
Each hour, a few epidermal cells cleared
Sliding away so silently that we
Don’t even know that we have disappeared

And then the dermis – it steps bravely up
The hypodermis in its place stands to
All cells and capillaries to duties new
And slowly, slowly, there is a brand new you

But what is truly important every day
Is that we don’t slough our dear friends away

You are not supposed to rip pages
out of books bound by human spines
or all of the pages will fall out
and disperse across the ground
like autumn leaves exhausted of trying.

I learned this the hard way.

If there is a cure or concoction
to heal a brilliant mind

I crave it,

because finding medicine to express
my mutilated madness
is like dying without understanding
the allegory of mercy.

He wants to understand what hides
under soft satin skin and apathy.
I see it in the way the crumpled lines on his forehead
form question marks when I cry
because there was never a reason
nor answer
as to why my heart always seemed
to perpetuate the memory
of autumn.

No, he will never know, curious as he is,
because skin is miles
and miles
and miles deep
plummeting down to a hollow core
of sickness
of sorrow
of solitude
that could dissolve all of his worries
but never my own.

We sleep with the duvet above our heads.
Alveoli struggling, but heart thriving,
Steadily inhaling your exhalation to the rhythm of your lungs.
Scents of what were coffee, cigarettes and beer
Are just metabolites; caffeine, nicotine and aldehydes now
But the one thing I cannot break down,
Is how you can lay so close to me
And I can still miss you.
Harder than when I was miles away.
So many words exchanged that could be explained with one touch.

When I hold you closer it’s more in hope
Of waking you than for comfort.
True, a cruder move than when you
Whispered to me and kissed my neck.
You’ll never know how happy I was to feign sleep for just a few more moments.

But its eyelashes not your iris-less eyes I see
Just eyelids separate you from me.
Funny how a thin layer of epidermal cells,
Can make me feel further away from you
Than the plane, bus and train it takes me to get here.

We sleep with the duvet above our heads,
Alveoli struggling, but heart thriving,
steadily inhaling your exhalation to the rhythm of your lungs.
Only CO2 left to share now
Means your oxygen deprived cells force you to
Slip further away from me, unconscious,
Of how much I miss you.

Darkness is plotting
Slyly lurking in a lackluster room
Paralyzed by fear

A tree branching its limbs
Clinging to the light like
Lingering liars who lose
Luminous truths

That breach our boundaries beyond boarders

Electricity fires through their veins
Epidermal inferno
But they are frozen
Still... life-less

Unforgiving truths that stab
Through the hearts of its audience
A fair show
Culminated by thieves
Nobody is safe, not even you!
Run.

I tell you all
I lost my soul one morning in October
still i can feel it trembling
with the mucous in my throat
the liquor coating of an empty stomach
denying re-entry
an expatriate exiled to the outer realms
the cells spoke to me in my elusive haze

what atrocities you brought with you the night before
volatile liquids
and billows of chyme decaying smoke
it was you who erased that patch of flesh from your cheek
the sidewalk merely a catalyst
a surrogate mother to your infantile stupidity
fathered by a not so impotent bicycle
what became was a dance with gravity
and you tried to take the lead
but that possessive ***** refused to give it up
and in a drunken stupor
thrashed you about
leaving you to the jagged teeth of concrete
costing you some epidermal friends
those whose sole duty it is to protect us
and your foolishness allowed their dismantling
so now we allow yours

so they did
with one swoop of my head
my body purged my soul into the poisonous sunlight
my brain a series of bombastic drum solos
i died there in my bed
soulless and aching
a drink in my hand....

It's disheartening that you're sharpening all your knives to break your skin. To gouge out deeper, to cleave disaster, to carve out canyons with your hands.

And your heart's pacing and your mind's racing while you're retracing every scar with a pen. What a nervous itch that you hope to quit. The knives you hope to ditch weigh on your mind again.

You know these epidermal lies, they're just artificial highs just to help you get by but it's not the same as finding a new will to live and finding one more hope to give in every single cut you did just to keep you sane

These medications that you're taking: they're not keeping you from breaking. They're just filling you with anger, a bitterness and a resentment

And it's not shocking that your pill popping has got your heart stopping. You feel like dying once again. What a nervous itch that you hope to quit. The pills you hope to ditch weigh on your mind again.

Your decisions left incisions. But let's not talk about it. Let's just forget about it

Does nothing matter?
Is matter nothing but dancing shattered galaxies pushing and shoving each other?

And on Earth, is it worth thinking?
That I'm just a piece of eternal dirt thinking that I'm just a piece of dirt thinking?

We're all just stars, tasting humanity for an instant.
In all its fallacies, we're systems of suns that love ****** without resistance.

With the assistance of Christian values and armed pistols.
Harmful as ignorance is blissful, we're still missing the deal.

We're still ******* away the real position to feel. We're still wishing down the same ol' wishing wells
and hoping to Christ they're real.

Worse than guns, it's the waste of freedom -- It's unequal -- to **** the hungry from a distance is still evil.

I fly atomically and everything else is informal.
What's normal? Where's God when things get so awful?

He's epidermal - like an antigermal lotion. A magic potion to nurture the thought that we're important.

We're all just stars, answering a call to be Human.
Let the cold bars that hold the others down remain open till my life is dormant.

And our heads are still cluttered and cloth covered.
Filled with an age-old confusion straight from ol' Mohammed's cupboard.

They fool us with cooked messages from book passages that preach love.
Scare us into being apparatuses of a God above.

That's why society is shattered. It's what's wrong with the world.
The perennial infancy of thought that's forced unto our boys and girls.

Such unclarity, that's baked into our childrens' recipe. It's insanity to think that we don't just turn back into energy.

I'm not religiously inspired to forgive,
nor have the insidious desire to live to inspire religious permittance.

I prefer a future purpose undiscovered.
A death dimension still covered from religions' crazy buffer.

Dark, toned muscles awash in sweat
With beads of liquid maneuvering
Through the collection of dust
Creating paths that were inhuman at a glance
But in depth were signs of immeasurable power

The searching slice of the shovel, feeling for the loose stone
A bone perhaps, in the core of earthen veins
That solidify life, weaving it into the folds of eternity
Slowing the soul until only a small tempo in the symphony of time remains
Harbored forever in the memories of others

The smoke carried particles of dust
Dead skin that had parted from dying shells,
Empty of red and full of black
The pores of all eyes
Infected with the memory of sculpted dirt

He stands sentinel, over the man-made wound in the epidermal layer of green
Watching the sun fall behind a scattered horizon line
Creating calculated contouring by shadows
Between patches of light that illuminated the insignificant descent  
Of helpless pebbles

An older, breathing soul stands and reads from a weighted tomb:
“The price of living is to face an end
But the privilege of life is worth the price itself”
Then the parcel is lowered
The dust swarming into places yet untouched

A tirade of platelets rains down
Stemming the flow between this life and the spinning of the Earth
Shrouding the parcel in spattered reds and browns
Protecting it from the wrongs
Sealing it in the stillness of simplicity

With a final look back
The gravedigger turns in the direction of the sun’s masked glow
Forging a path between the peaceful earthen tombs
Making his way towards family and home
Where life continues for the living

You're the sin of me,
A claustrophobic situation
And I can't breathe.
I'm an epidermal hot mess,
With a side of downers
To suppress.
A hypodermic allergy.
Charge me with my felony.
Caused by this anorexic magazine.
I'm starving.
Brothers; Our own flesh.
Nail me to this cross
And watch me burn.
They want us to be self reliant,
And give us controlling rule.
Impossible standards
In a
Hypocritical disease head.
They give us psychotheism
But take away our earth.
We're supposed to be coexisting,
So give us equality in worth.
I am my own
Anarchist Antichrist
Feed me
To
The broken system.

Dip me in vinegar, see if I solidify
Show me something sinister, maybe I'll be liquefied
Then you can take your acid bath
In me, the soluble sociopath
And once you're rid of the imperfection called skin
You'll be your own flawlessly fleshless twin!

When, not if, your comrades are departed, broken, spent
You'll find blame in the beauty that is
Your lack of integument;
I know life lent's lonely, led by the epidermal amputee
But I can guarantee, if you'd clean your drain
You'd still find remnants of me!

The lot of us strangers trying too hard to stay aloof in a narrow corridor plagued by awful trendy folk music blaring out of unseen speakers and I shrouded in silence wore it a pseudo-epidermal layer taut force field writing this poem so to be a little more pretentious than most by opting not to check social media and the selfie I posted this morning not sure how many likes it's gotten since an hour ago but I'm not going to check yet Everyone here looks so miserable and it's barely 8 AM the Kate Gosselins and Ben Afflecks grab their coffee like a servant grabs the King's goblet to test for poison there's this mumble of a thank you seeping out of frozen lips and half opened eyelids harnessing dull hazy eyes and they drudge back to their hybrid cars with their five dollar savior and amble down the gaping highway that consumes their soul and all the while shoulders never touch and eyes never meet and we stand idly in the waiting room watching the alchemists conjure up our poison thinking about our selfies and how much we hate ourselves and our lives but honestly I just wanted my first pumpkin spice latte of the season celebrating the first cool day of the year in my denim jacket I resurrected with glee out of the elated closet in the middle of September so I say Beware you miserable cretins you obligatory acolytes of the virulent elixir one day you'll wake up and no amount of coffee will purify this cesspool you've lain yourself into like a regretful baptism you didn't believe in.

I want to laugh right now...belly laugh until my muscles ache...I want to jump through puddles...the ripples danceing around my ankles...I want to  run down hillsides...the air tugging at  my skirt like a restless lover...I want to feel the kiss of an ocean breeze on my face...the salty air dancing across my lips...I want to feel the warmth of skin against mine...wrapping me within a blanket of epidermal bliss...I want to go within myself and stay a while...exploring my humanity  and coming face to face with my own existence...I want to kick and scream and cry with reckless abandonedment until my cavernous soul falls limp from exhaustion...I want to touch my face...eyes closed... and view myself without the boundaries of expectation...of redundance...of normalcy...I want to see myself in a different way...a different light...a different scope...

Old dinosaur man go sniff
Spit on three fingers so that I can have a kiss.
No, doctorosaurus- this isn't a hit
It's been a miss since long ago.
Slow; she's waiting on you.
Reptilian creature, fixer of blue
Imagines my groove to soothe himself.
There is no sedating the truth-
You want to use this.
**** little temptress
In a skintight sundress.
I'm a hot mess
And you want me.
Epidermal- under your skin
So easily.

People say our present is the only reality
But I have found myself traversing the deepest seas
Sprawled on a blanket of stars
somewhere within the epidermal regions of your mind
(what lies beneath?)

What a shame,
Words do no justice
To the privilege of voyage
and of discovering that travelling
over cups of coffee
and a good night’s sleep
is but little cost at all.

A leaked sanity
derived from a single unintentional stimulus
She immediately drowned in her illusions
A cascade of ecstatic emotional state
Led her to unexplained exhilarating lub-dubs
She entered a trance
An imaginary setting of pseudo-relationship,
originating from a deceptive analysis

Butterflies lodged in her stomach
Like drifting into the sweet tranquil breeze of fall
Odd feeling brought by an accidental impulse
an addictive sensation, continually sought
Like an ice cream that thaws
and never did she regret for this

Like a bud that delayed its bloom
She is a fixated lass
fast-tracked into maturity,
Depriving her of being subjected to adolescent giggles and anguishes
Coping for deficiency,
to undergo short-lived fascinations

It was never an ordinary night,
for it would happen only but annually
It was extraordinary
where angels descended from heaven

She looked at him
as a critical thinker *** philosopher inside a venerable physique
His intuitive notions flowed
keeping his cleverness inhibited,
ingenuity simply emanated
Decisive metaphorical analogies were mesmerizing,
in the depth of the gyros and sulcus
in his intellect she wanted to drown

The mystery of his smirks
she wanted to decipher.
In the profoundly of his personality
she wished to be familiar.

Electrocution!
Extreme voltage in her physique
sanity almost dripped
She cared less about reality,
forgetting about lucidity and rationality
A plethora of outlook insurgencies
led to confused convictions

Nothing big really happened,
just a matter of split seconds summarized as a simple skin-to-skin contact
an exhilarating interaction between epidermal layers
A premature ventricular contractions.

for years I have given field maps and guided tours to travelers seeking adventure and yet I have never explored for myself the epidermal greatness that protects bones, my, blood, my organs

each freckle, a landmark of monumental proportion
yet one is no greater than the other
(except for the one on my left collar bone, that one is my favorite)
each scar, a canyon with secrets to share with those brave enough to venture down into

I need not compass, nor backpack
all I need is to get completely and utterly lost
(in myself)
-

“If you play baseball, you’re gay.” he said with a stupid grin on his face.
And that time, I had had enough.
I told him, “Shut up, I am tired of hearing you say that.”
For this wasn’t his first time using gay as an insult.
I should have said more.

I should have told him that to him, it’s just a word,
But to those of the homosexual community, it is demeaning.
The fact that our society has become alright with allowing a term that defines something life changing like one’s ****** orientation as a term of slander means one thing.

Our dictionary is out of date.

Our dictionary is out of date because words like gay, ***, queer, and ****** are common practice
We let these words flow from our mouths like a river that has broken through a dam.
They are ceaseless, coming forth without an end in sight.
But they are just words, right?
Stick and stones, right?

Wrong.

It is true that sticks and stones break bones, but not so much that names will never hurt anyone.
Because they do.

They may not hurt you or me, but you and I have thick skin, our skin is armor clad.
But not all were fortunate enough to get a such an impenetrable epidermal layer.
Some only received paper to cover the flesh and bones they call a body.

So you may say “sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,”
but to those with paper skin, they have never had sticks or stones cut so deep as words have.
A stick can not scar your soul, a stone can not ******* your self image.
But words can affect someone for life.

I know this is true because I know teenagers who it has happened to.
I know a girl who is one of the most beautiful young women I have seen
But she believes otherwise because inspite of my telling her so
She has been a victim hiding in the bombshelter of insults for far too long
Without makeup she does not feel pretty, when she is sick she wants no one to see her face.
She has become a statistic in a society that thinks sticks and stones is a one-size-fits-all policy.




Or what about all of the men, women, and children who take their own lives every day?
Or even the one’s who take their paper skin and shred it with a razor blade?
Try telling them that names will never hurt them, try telling them that they don’t need to do what they do
Try telling them that they are beautiful.
Because I can almost guarantee you that they will tell you
“You’re wrong”

You and I
walk together
beholden to the moonlight
to day's light and days late
destined
to remain here
though not forever

I with you
and you with me
intertwined
with complicated ties
holding us together
in threads
Though not forever

You and I
skin deep
layered with lifetimes
of epidermal decay
visceral wounds
neither one will confess
though not forever

We walk together
Separating
you and I
I with you
seeking connectedness
knowing the truth of our existence
though not entirely

I'm reading old letters, yellowed with age,
The voice that speaks to me as I read is weathered,
Aged, and yet in clear syllables tells me,
All about life 70 years ago, when the world
And her people were at war with themselves.

Through the voices I heard while reading,
I glimpsed the chains that tied
My country's people in their skins, and engulfed
Their minds in suffering and shame.
Curious thing this epidermal tinge that a shade too dark, shackles a man
Down to the dust, robs him of pride
And breaks the spine of unborn children.

My grandfather's letters are old, dying sheets of paper,
His memories are moving clouds of silken mist,
Which swirl and glide as he remembers
The days of his youth, carrying a satchel to school,
Because his dark skin, the condition of his people,
Their status as the Subjects of a King they did not know,
Forbade him from walking in boots and a better school.

The moonlight shines through the window,
70 years have passed, and a shackled spirit now roams free
Broken chains lie in the dust and words exist in history books,
But my grandfather describes freedom best.

2020 - day 146

Monday, May 25, 2020
7:48 AM

A creed of mathematics and mud, said
in what may be
metemperical
utterance from the ghost of the late,
and likely,
no longer lamented,
Sir Leslie Stephen, author, and,
therefore,
authoritative voice in the matter
of his own mind.
He apologized for the state called
Agnostic, lacking gnosis, may I say,

I know more, in fact, if I count my access
to knowns,
along with my access to the sequence
of knowing;
I know more than any prominent literati
in the time before Google's
manifestation as an idea shaping tool.

What do I know?
I know how to use the Internet to learn,

in broad sweeps through the remains of
empires,
into the dustbin of history for which we stand,
ready,
as a nation,

to build new and more destrucively effective
petards.

Blow your mind, hoist, lift-off, on your own farts.

Passing wind,
did you smell it?

❖

Mental as opposed to spiritual,
hmmm

this will need some study...
a little think,
an imaginary journey,

from here to... where? Where,
or when,
if
we were to change the world,
as we know it;
say,
we did. Say we changed the world,

who would know?
Who would care? We have yet,
breath, and fuel, and functionality.

We have movement, and a grasping,
holding, using,
sense
a natural, from the womb, knack
for making a fist.

❖



Womb survivors of the world, unite.

Defined to the finest quarkish sublimnity,
we entangled creative
thoughts being spun into the wind
passing, rising
from bloated corpses,
we all may witness, as real as you may imagine...

in 2020, we have eye-witness visions made plain,
we have seen the bodies stacked in carts,
we have seen My Lai from the sky,
we can imagine

being there... but don't, I mean, Memorial Day is...

maybe, it is... evoking memory of madness,

how is war good? It is good for the greedy, no one else.

We watch our hero's die to stop the evil, then we watch
the bankers free the last Krupp cannon molder,
to spite the facts we can see, as seen at Nurnberg.

That injustice, was done in my name, if I believe I am
pluralized as we, the people who hold truth,

the Yanks, ye' know? Yankin' y'strang, stranger... did you
stumble into our historical records of all the good
war has done? Nay,
we came to remember peace,

in high definition resolution sharper than the
unaugmented human eye can detect,

see that guy's head, or his helmet, look close,
no head remained in the helmet,

but I knew the head the helmet was hoisted from.

I watched PFC. -name redacted - die,

-- did you know, did you learn, ever, the meaning
of being hoisted on one's own petard?

A petard was a bomb. Nothing fancy,
a bit of alchemical magi-knowing of laws yet to be

discovered in the rubble of guesses as to cause,

accusations of arrogance and hubris, combound to whys,

never examined, never lived out in vital awareness.

❖




quenching a flaming spirit, is ill advised...

but it happens,
all the time. A heart pouring hope
into a mind jumbled
with signals and signs and pleas;

stops, stutters, and aches for
more
meaning meaning meaning in the
tinkling bells and crashing cymbals.

Hope, ash of aspirations inspired
by

love, as a thing, a noun, not a verb.

Love is a verb. Not a thing, an act.

Indeed, done, love is easy to think wisely done.
No announcement is needed,

long after the tale is first formed,
the legend rises from resting in peace,

to give a lie an opposing force, not a war,

a flood.

A deluge of lusion, a seeing at augmentedus
resolutions into further and beyond,
all we can think, or ask
into life
dimensions

former-wise, formerly, unknowable, now

known, according to the pundits,
these are not the days of Lincoln,
craming laws into his head by firelight,

calloused digits flipping page after page
of proprietary rules governing

the white man's burden.

---
❖

Staunching the flow, of blood, particularly,

meant stopping the flow, usually
stopping it from
flowing out of course,
flooding
the plain, flat, seeming, surface of reality.

Reality not being as defined as we imagine, in ourselves.
This being the flow,
if we pay attention, focusing on a point,
fixing a line of sight to a distant thing, a star will do,
planets,
no, those won't do, you see, the planets, now we know,

the planets reflect light,
they bounce light back to our eyes, which we invariably miss

when our attention is owed to the habits we hold.
Our daily grind... growing, or surviving in hope

We guess at many next right or otherwise, standing,
based up on a pedestal, a riser,

lift up your head, egregious though you be,
easily seen, so
easily you see as far as I'm concerned, dis
cerned, re
fined to the innermost edge,

ground to a halt... pressing blade to ground to scrape
a living

plowman, plow me a furrow, for the flood.
Maker of ways,  form me a way to flow,
channel my worth to the dying seeds

scattered, so long ago, on the thread of time we ride behind.

❖


a bug, an insect, not an arachnid,
by leg count
class-ift, insect extremely delicate, what use
could this bug be to me,
a mayfly,
that I did pay it this attention?

Did I mention, no,
sequences in re
telling, consider starlight bounces from sunlight,

but reason and gravity suggest, those
waves of starlight intermingle
with sunbeams.

A mote in my eye may have bounced once from the moon,
as a made its point pinging a receptor some where behind

the window of my soul
to make a ligandary acceptence of influence, from the Greeks,
in an instant
Zeno, doncha know, decided, made a cut,

skience is the conscision, the cutting into bits, until

no further cutting may be done,
and we are dust,
at best.

Flakey humans. Homes to literal gazillions of mites,
hunting and gathering epidermal

flakes of us, digesting said flakes, into demodex *****

{demodex, face mites, are as old as **** sapiens}

as we are in didactic tic mode, ******* meaning from flakes
rubbed off during the itching ear phase

of dust mote formations, see

a mite eating the scales of our bodies, our subjective habitats,

where we hold our habitual rituals;
a mite eating those, fecates and defecates, fecation required,

in consequentialist thought, prior to defecation.

Fact or fiction? Science, as we know it at grade eight,
on the global scale of common knowledge,

science is what we are convinced we know in useful ways.
Knowledge is our opinion of

what we think we know. That is a guess. Not quite right, flow

past
the missed try, reach a next un ex spectated, un i magined
ic tic tic

time passing options, while a life away, or wait

wait and see, or come and see.

I say go. Where this river runs, reach that place,

get all salty, then
lay in the sun and evaporate. Ex sciere, rise, sublimated into ever knowing more,

scient-if-ic known knowns within the un gated narrative we occupy.

We live in an atmo-sphere, a bubble, with a core- inward pulling force

which rolls the rock down the hill, as me and Sisyphus spend a pleasant afternoon
watching all our effort play out...

❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖❖


forgive me if you already made all the links, I found the scient bits glittering in Old Norse skita,

science is ific in its will to be known truth holding, bogus science is willing to lie, for prestige.

skei-
Proto-Indo-European root meaning "to cut, split," extension of root *sek- "to cut."
It forms all or part of: abscissa; conscience; conscious; ecu; escudo; escutcheon; esq­uire; nescience; nescient; nice; omniscience; omniscient; plebisc­ite; prescience; prescient; rescind; rescission; science; sciente­r; scilicet; sciolist; scission; schism; schist; ******-; schizop­hrenia; scudo; sheath; sheathe; sheave (n.) "grooved wheel to receive a cord, pulley;" shed (v.) "cast off;" shin (n.) "fore part of the lower leg;" shingle (n.1) "thin piece of wood;" **** (v.); shive; shiver (n.1) "small piece, splinter, fragment, chip;" shoddy; shyster; skene; ski; skive (v.1) "split or cut into strips, pare off, grind away;" squire.
It is the hypothetical source of/evidence for its existence is provided by: Sanskrit chindhi, chinatti "to break, split up;" Avestan a-sista- "unsplit, unharmed," Greek skhizein "to split, cleave, part, separate;" Latin scindere "to cut, rend, tear asunder, split;" Armenian c'tim "to tear, scratch;" Lithuanian skiesti "to separate, divide;" Old Church Slavonic cediti "to strain;" Old English scitan, Old Norse skita "to defecate;" Old English sceað, Old High German sceida "sheath;" Old Irish sceid "to *****, spit;" Welsh chwydu "to break open."

If I had a pill for every time I looked at your photograph
I would finally be as numb and blind as you were.
You pulled veins through me
Chipped tunnels through my mountain wrists
Said: I won't give you gravity
you gotta pull that **** yourself
I did, pull blood through my own veins
I couldn't just let them collapse
It takes a lot of effort to scalpel a nervous system through solid ice
you wasted so much time numbing
when I always had frostbite
but snakeskin makes a great sleeping bag
and we left plenty of it around.
shedding epidermal scales can only get you so pink though
I confused the tiger stripes from your daughters first survival
with the lines left over from your last.
they tasted the same color of beautiful when I kissed them.
I still can't decipher the difference between Honeysuckle and venom

Down to the Biblical era . .we were looked upon, down to oblivion time wouldn't depart.
Drawn out from a rib...we made them(women)
We were meant to be listened to
We were meant to be understood..
We aren't the Almighty but we were made gods to rule the earth
When a voice becomes so high we ask who made you...its not my portion if destiny made me a king...
It only put you beneath me..
Its understanding that we soul to soul wonder the earth to a Vail and mount of wilderness....
I feel strange amidst thy sight
When you make me what you ought to behave like..
I keep the stings to feel what you go thorough.. But you do not feel my pain for thy cross is heavy and my Borden light

Sort out thy irony and veteran a way to hope and epidermal wisdom
When you feel your world would be blue with understanding...

and i would lay down the world at your feet
but there is nothing that is worth anything
close to you. lay down with me on rain soaked
concrete, let us dream of distant sunrises
press your tongue to the pavement and let
the world dissolve like an oversized pill
as though it would cure the ache of matters
relating to the heart.
i heard a song that sounded like it was through
an old record player. and it said that it was
worth giving your whole heart away
than to keep it forever cold and sheltered
i thought of you then, how precarious your grip,
blood soaked hands clutching at an ending not
meant for us.
arteries that dilate as pupils do
due to proximity, due to epidermal ridges
pressed against each other so tightly,
together in lockstep, forever and ever
as though you would fall if i let you go.