Lyrics in her face
blaze, from screen to mouth
bony thumb, scrolling
mumbling into an ancient microphone
hanging from the rope swing
in her garage.

Voice shakes here, shivers there
but ****
she is soulful.

Authentic, exquisite
in holey socks and wet hair
and goosebumped arms
getting swallowed by a hoodie.

*******, she has it all
and gives it nothing.

Some of us are simply stunning
no spray tans or updos
no sequined skirts or stiletto shoes
no autotune or makeup kits
no words-

only nothing
could improve her.

Nothing could improve her.

it's as if the air is thinner and fresher and my lungs pull it in
to roll around in and soak up its potent clarity

exhales sure remind me of letting go of heavy quilts
my frozen goosebumped mind longs to hide under

there is nothing to hide from, not even black holes - for
there is beauty within the unknown

a fear of blossomed beauty is a fear of losing that pinnacle of
infinitely heightened completeness

One falls for this belief when shyness to greatness is solidified -
belief they know depths and levels and proofs

knowing is knowing, yes, unknown is everything

If I knew where we were going,
I'd drive or would tell you to drive

not knowing encompasses everywhere and I'd sooner rather
look into your green eyes and drift into a black hole of unknown beauty
- where we could breathe in thinner and fresher air and
reach the peak of One with just two

the yearling roasted on the spit
its drippings crackled the fire
huddled in a smoky closed space
family with a neighbour, or two
bags packed, shoes on, ready to go

the meat carefully carved
its skeleton intact, unbroken
with endives rolled in flatbread
unleavened as we had no time
meal's remains destroyed in the fire

we're ready to leave at any moment
from where we're born and always lived
to a place known only from ancient tales
outside, shrieks and wails, of horror and utter terror
inside, goosebumped, hair standing, we waited, in silence

Standing in the pool of light. Moving in small circles. Smiling. Glancing. Talking in brief phrases, punctuated by laughter. And all the while aware that things had shifted. The planes of our potential, meeting, and pushing, and forming a snowy mountain between us. And each wrapped in skins marching up the face, between the tall pines, to crest the top and over, if need be. Me, crashing into you and you in to me. In my head the mantra goes on. Verse by verse. Each one with it's own meaning but the words not varying a jot. As easily constant as, "She loves me. She loves me not."

Don't go.
Stay with me.
Don't go.
Stay with me.

Over and over. Hoping that something in the way the light from the stars catching my eye would convey these words so powerfully to you., that it would stop you from continuing on, into the world, away from me, and gone.
And I am left with coyote to howl at the moon. He and I in harmony, singing a woeful tune, with words paraphrased from the tongues of Gods. Longing for you to come back soon. And each page of each poem I write for you will be drawn upon. Little margin Picasso's of letters trying desperately to gather into an order that holds some merit or worth. My pen, racing along the line, trying to capture the feel of the goosebumped skin of your thigh. Trying to find a rhythm of rhyme that beats in time to the quickened pace of my heart when you kiss me with an unrelenting ferocity that pushes my bleeding lip against my teeth and settles my mind into a moment of peace. But frees my hands to their own devices.

The kiss, feeling less like an affection and more like a crisis.

And this ink rolls off my pen like saliva off of my tongue as I race along it's lines in an attempt to scribble down something that will make you understand. I'd sacrifice every even numbered breath for the ghost of Byron to lend me a hand. As his sword/pen slashes through and through until the only letters that remain, when put together, cascade into a new mantra of:

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

And once again I stare at you. As the earth, the moon, the sun, and the ring around the outer-edge of my eye move in perfect circles, and hope that the way the reflection of that look, that breath, that way that you touch me, is caught in my pupil and you see it. And it stops your step, as well as your breath. And you understand, somehow, that as desperately as I want to...

I, sometimes, don't have the words for you.

Crushing ache throbbing through flesh and bone
I burn for you
But to ashes and into the wind is all the air you have to give
Steady rhythms of tears and rain swallow quiet evenings whole
I cannot recover
There is no drug or cure for me
Although cloud 9 knows my name
Whispering softly against goosebumped flesh
Come to me. Give in.

I always hated art.

as a kid, the forty-five minutes
every ******* Friday and Wednesday was
excoriating. even though
the other kids adored
fondling their fingers through paint
swatches, it just wasn't for me.
until I met you, my muse and my
canvas, your shuddering skin a
cream tableaux for my
lust to reimagine
pointillism cubism impressionism
le renaissance haut
in scratches and bites and
streaks of saliva criss-crossing
goosebumped skin.

I always hated art.

Breathe.*
Choke on the cold,
feel your lungs tighten,
your teeth ache.
Hold your arms in themselves,
cradle them as they shake beneath goosebumped skin.
Walk.
Walk slowly so you do not force wind against yourself,
walk slowly so you do not have to choose where you are going yet,
walk toward light.
Let it spill over you,
feel its heat,
you,
still frozen at the core but the light,
it is so warm.
This.
This is what you have been waiting for,
what you wanted but could not articulate,
this gentle touch.
*Breathe.

The cold is as sudden as a memory
Of something once forgotten
When the tide decides to drown
My aimlessly drifting self
I'll watch the blue light sift through in rays
For as far as can be seen
From the bottom of this tranquil sea

My teeth fire like machine guns
Rattling in my mouth two rows have begun
To battle, these goosebumped limbs will not behave
As they should do
Droplets of debris frantically scatter
My body an earthquake
My mind overcome by the waves

Until I have collapsed
Upon the burning sand
And I am glad I could not stand
I lay motionless upon the palm of God
A soft fire surrounding my very being
Like a warm blanket upon a winter's evening
The Sun's love massages my naked back
Like a helping hand
My only friend

Would you believe hot an cold can occur at the same time
mixing inside to tear up the outer goosebumped skin
**** poetic ******* this is my life and i am allowed to use the word I without feeling vain
LISTEN TO ME LISTEN TO ME LISTEN TO ME
I am vulnerable
and here he is standing stoic not talking to me little does he know he set off this chain reaction
"i dont want you to be my lightning rod"
LET ME
I have to be your lightning rod
if im ignored i get lost in my own head
yell at me it would bring relief
right now im trapped in a block of ice
talk to me
next theres a friend closer than any other leaving me in the dust
hes supposed to be my bestfriend but i am ignored more than any other
3rd is a confidante who is ******* terrible at his job i take all his ****
all of it but when i need a hand to hold im kicked to the curb
its always like this
and its all my fault im too much of a burden
im too needy i drag uninterested people into my web and strangle them with my information until they're fly husks and im empty
and theyre emptier
i feel terrible but they dump so much **** on me i need a break
please use me i suppose its better than being alone

All it took was
One grown-up touch
Too close to places she was
Too young to name.

Now all hands move
Like searching spiders on the
Table of her little
Self.

Skin constantly goosebumped.
Eyes focused on the
Potential harmfulness
Within and between all things
That move with
Predatory silence.

She walks as if under
Water, like a weblocked
Fly; afraid to make ripples
And draw

Adult
Arachnid
Attention.

If you saw me
I might be upside down,
Different spectra of vibrations
Pulsing from my goosebumped knees.
I imagine if I sweep my arms back and forth
Across the benthic stretches of our skies
I may feel your structure
In the crease of my thumb.

I reach my hand out to touch you.
Your elbow is somewhere in space,
Bent a certain posture.
It's possibly inverted,
But it could be rigid and reaching for my hair.
I think your forehead may point toward my collarbone,
Protruding like deer antlers.
In your universe my collarbone looks different,
Objects that will never be
metaphoric molds for my words,
But exist in every third line of your poetry
You may or may not write.

In-between our possible distance
There are millions of bodies,
Or just a few.
Neither of these options we can see
Or touch.
We will never know how close our blinks are.
Yet I can feel my breath rush down my chin,
Knowing if we ever found each other
Your exhale would twist into mine.

So sweet now, my life.
My life.
Held by stronger foothold,
Rested warm with woman,
Goosebumped from kisses fresh
From lips tasting of
Love that longs to outlast itself.
Sweet. So sweet.

I have a shell of angels' wings to
Warm my infant human heart.
A cage of their swords' steel to keep
Any threat of real nature

Off my path. I fear not Sister Death.
Not even destructive criticism.
Leave me. Ridicule me.
Lie about me.

Nothing changes within me, I'll  
Only grow more undaunted.
For I have my eyes fixed on the
Above.

A dome. Of sky. An ever changing
Painting reminding me that rain, thunder,
Rainbow or clearest blue, sky remains
Sky;

I remain
*I.

goosebumped skin
     and a light blue zephyr
           dancing
     to an autumn song

frozen flowers
     upon frosted windows
             blushing
      from the cool kiss of winter

yawning green
     blooming from branches
              breathing
        the first breath of spring

warm cheeks
     upon faces of endless colour
               dimples
        under the summer sun

i am
a romantic
cliché.

my eyes close
and yours
are there, shimmering
under beams of
dusty sunlight, blue
waves shushing
your lashes.

i want
moments
with you.

my heart calls out
for sunrises
sat on the hoods
of our cars
and sepia-tinted afternoons
on your bedroom
floor and
goosebumped midnights
beneath velvet skies.

i want your sleepy
grin, your hair
between my fingers. i
want your
lips on my skin.
i want your shuddering breath
in my lungs.

i would compose symphonies to
the beat of your pulse, if
you asked it of me.

the question is:
will you?

Dreaming of
another life I could be spending with you instead of
nodding off in this gloomy, dark, twisted
island I’ve lived on
everyday since you sailed away
lonely, longing, lusting. I woke up today wishing I was
high in your arms, warm kisses on my forehead
as I did each day last week, and the one before that
noticing how empty my legs felt not wrapped in yours
remembering the sensation of your hand in my hair feels like
autumn sunshine on my goosebumped skin
hairs standing up on my arms like you stood me up
again and again
not caring about the stains you’ve been leaving on my pillows every night since

The intangible danceable
Felt but not seen
Frolicking on the edge
Of spaces in between

Peek-a-boo shadows
Spider-web touches
Goosebumped skin
Rosy red blushes

Whispers on wind
Soul unconfined
The curve of the smile
Fits the curve of my mind

A half told anecdote
Unnoticed excellence in the mundane
Quiet anticipation
Jolting epiphanies of keyframe

Emotional nutrients of xeno
Ecstatic shock and sonder
Ambedo and nodus tollens
Forever I wonder and wander

dark ultraviolet smoke, haze
the way your own finger pads
graze on the skin of your waist and then lead down to the forty degree angle curve
soft and goosebumped.
The sweet floor,
we're sisters in eye contact when I hug my legs and try to press
the pressure building behind my chest muscles
eyes burning like blue coals and tears fighting,
I re-learn the meaning of bittersweet
as the world crashes down around me
and rose-colored circles are rubbed into my back,
legs and chairs softly shaping me into
a saner form,
whisperings ground me,
and take me back to
the haze,
young and unafraid.

You are so cold
My breath steams

Wraith
Come to haunt my soul

Goosebumped skin

Peripheral vision
Glimpses your true form

Though you hide among the shadows
Behind lies and laughter
That cackles.

He said:

I am light
     - All Darkness and Weight

I am strength
     - All Shriveled and Broken

I am death
     - All Vibrant and Goosebumped

He called us atomic monkeys in need of a psychological revolution.

He told us to hold our brothers and sisters tight while we pushed the knife deeper yet.

He said:

I am you

You are me

We are the destroyers of worlds.

under midnight stars and autumn leaves,
with conflicted heart and goosebumped skin,
I witnessed you talk and laugh and smile,
and I knew that always
i would love you once upon a dream

Depression is like a having a sweater on, yet still feeling chilled to the bone.
It's like having a raincoat on, but water still manages to slide down your goosebumped back.

Depression is putting on a wet bathing suit.
It's that cold clammy feeling that makes your every hair stand on end.

Depression is driving down a road in thick fog never knowing when the road curves, so you drive like ever yard could send you careening off into the endless abyss.

When you climb out of the pit of melancholy that is depression, you think how could I ever been that sad, yet there is always that gnawing in your mind that you could be right back in there tomorrow.

Liars and thieves save skin for your spirit.
Take my hand and cut at the mottled flesh.
Truly I ponder, yet still I fear it.
The ghoulish imprint of his face left fresh,
burnt brightly, a branded torch on your mind.
I’d utter the names, but it’s so unkind.

A murmur and tremble unlock the lips.
Bloodshot, goosebumped, love warbling on through.
I stab and stab and through the cracks I slip,
******* it all I don’t know what to do.
Scorch the earth, salt the sea, begin anew.
Scars be ******, they belong to me and you.

1
I don't know what this walk's for.
I'm always lost, but sometimes I find scenery
I haven't explored before.
Words aren't vague enough
So songs will do to mirror my soul's company.
Graffiti gropes, grasps, grips my eyes with a rough
Attention to detail. Never failing to see
Something imaginary, even when my eyes
Are closed as tight as the shops I pass.
I don't know what this walk's for.

2
Over a month the moon will streak across the sky
In a secluded, fading sphere. With the nights
To ******, briefly before the day.
The praying mantis of dawn
Camouflaged the dark to it's warmer tone
Moments and an hour before it strikes.
You see so many sirens if you stay up late enough.
Never prior the invention of the late nighter
Did I know constant crimes of urbanized life.
Caterpillar busses piling up horizontally like pills
In suicidal intestines.

3
I'm tired as the daddy issues of the church
Go out with the lights, but the dates too late
So Christmas crashes with babies and omnipresents
Of the night requires her and so she's too busy
To entertain that simultaneously
Occupied fixation with a fiction.
The paradoxes and boxes unravelling
To be replaced with a flirting, fleeting
Fixation with a hammer for Bob the Builder Junior.
It strange at a private school
More students arrive at 5:30 a.m. than 6:00.

4
Seated at the bus stop, waiting for anything but a bus.
Envying a long plane trip
Thinking it'll be less brainless than this,
Not caring for the destination.
Drooling at fantasised bliss,
Dreaming of inspired imagination.
Seeing a picture show.
Suspending disbelief for relief from pretending
You enjoy the anticipation for you ending.
When all your credits will roll up like a cigar
And burn away in no time at all.

5
"I wish I was cool like her.
She just doesn't give a ****."

I replied "But inside it's just boiling up
And as her dissolving sense of self crumbles
It slides between her goosebumped, quivering fingers.
Then as the voices mount in a crescendo
She can't let go through her own lips,
She hides away in her room for a month or two."

As she was standing next to us,
I then proceeded to receive a slap
I consider it a clap for my performance.

6
Listen to silence and think
What's the point of being up at one in the morning
If you're not going to be singing your heart out
Till you've got yourself a cardiovascular eviction.
Then make your decision,
To shy away or to find the way
To force a cringe from the tonedeaf night.
So what that so far the best days of your life
Were when you were a cry baby?
So what if you still are?
If you have to cry, cry out for us all to hear.

7
The Halloween theme of indifference till consequence.
I heard a scream from someone's house,
I hope they were watching a horror movie,
Because I sure as Sheol didn't stop.
Only the non-sticky outty bits of the comb
Are left standing and the spikes are stars.
Those aforementioned sirens and silence
Evoking more or less the same Viking entertainments.
Those aforementioned marvelous, gaseous, Goddesses
But dots in my sky,
Or at least they were before they were lost.

8
I saw my murderer walking straight towards me,
But luckily, he passed me by.
Believe you me, that cockroach had killer in his eyes.
An old buddy bumped into me
On a spider web and used me
As a fly swatter. He talked to me,
Fishing up a philosophy from me
I gave to him casually.
I tell him, the blackhole of a guitar releases me,
Strings strong enough to launch me from my web;
But I would only care about me,

9
All the strange two legged insects
On their way from hive to hive,
In some squabble and squawk
That should end at five
But continues long after labour's of the day.
Perhaps with the moving, cattle subway
Or a mind unmoved by the intense reality
Of what is and cannot be.
These flat ants and roaches writhing with repulsion,
Feasting on the invalid repugnance of reality tv.
Convinced these chemical trails hold some destiny.

10
Why go? Why take the slow road to know
You are all sinking in the same boat.
So why would a church bell chime
Change for better my little time.
The soul that goes without real purpose
Repulses the personal will with a rose,
Whose petals fall with each member of a community.
The trampoline of faith keeping fate
From ascending beyond its borders,
Crashing down with Satanic anchors.

11
It is good, to be not one but a fraction.
It being no matter of distraction
But of completion in another
For we are so rarely finished as the loner.
Despite a night of spite and recited criticisms
One must finish themself with an -ism
Or else be some incomplete word.
The faith and the works
The bolts, jolts and volts of lonely hours
The punishment of this selfishness of ours.
The irreversible spaisms of sanity.

How sweet it is
To watch  the disruption
Of my slightest touch
Upon a knee,
A wrist
A hand
A thigh,
That fractional loss
Of coherent thought
Engendered by what may have been
But accident,

How delicious to extrapolate,
To sense the nascent effect of
More overt intervention,
A palm slid gathering
A skirts material,
Or lips insistence upon
Goosebumped flesh,
Even as the conversation
Carries on all innocent
Above the surface yet,
How very
Very
Guilty underneath