you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  



you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.



you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.


there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.


i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.



i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.

we were speeding on 'e'
in dastardly overused lexemes
i used to forget, ending
peachy words with
'jolie' (or 'moche').



write: meta-cognition.


he writes lines and
chisels octaves onto my
skin, dough, bones and lacquers,
he says they are the only places
where mad love-notes would fit
without the keys.


the bed has turned bipolar,
diagnosed with isochronous stability.
we sleep in half-cut apples
held up by sombre scissors.


he imbibes couplets
from strophe tea-cups,
he leaves me hungover
in stanza trains.


he says that i am
the last pen he has and
if i were to stop dreaming,
the poet would be dead.*




write: writhe, wither.

I forgot to remember the memories we shared once upon a dream. The bullets of your love dropped from my life and onto the ground for another to pick up. The blade that showed my greatest regrets tore through my life again as it had before. Dripping, liquid crimson are words that were left unsaid.
The melancholy echo and recollection of your voice that was once so abundant in volume leaving my brain feeling claustrophobic in stature. A hollowed out chest waiting to be filled again with a heart so tattered or worn into pieces from careless gandering. Forsaken am I to you with no better word than "broken" to fill the answer of caring for my well being.
Unexpected twists will wriggle and writhe their way between my adolescent fingers. Remembrance, it arrives in a drop of a moment, barrelling thoughts through my head like a machine gun or a wood pecker at work. A malfunctioning, homosapien-resembling robot is what I seem to be, to myself lest no others believe it. I feel who I am, who I have become, is disastrous among all others. A cry of displeasure may or may not rest on my lips for the simple fact of me not knowing who I am anymore.
Confusion is simple to attract, why must it be so hard to lift away?
For knowing simply of one thing that I want in my life, pondering what is challenging me mentally - maybe even emotionally - is tearing me apart. Soon I'll raise the weapon of my choice for ruining a mind of memories and moments that are dearly longed to have back. A glint of light reflects into my vision, a turn of my head occurs, and then the accepting of a grim smile.
The item is retrieved into my left hand, a pulse is found in my right, and then The Silver begins delving, deeply searching, for the source of the throbbing vein. As it is found, as that artery is torn by the Paladin for those emotionally distressed. The lexemes begin to repeat themselves: Forsaken. Remembrance. Confusion.  Memories.
I recall the statement of being wanted by none other than you as my eyes begin to close. What was being craved for so long could have been mine within a matter of time, but I took what they call "The Cowards Way Out." I took the way not many thought I was aware of. I broke a promise that I never truly made to anyone. Now all I hear is the quiet drip... drip... drip...  of Red Remorse crowding the floor.
In regret, I say I'm sorry.
In begging, remember me.
In silence, I'm gone.
Then, the only thing left to cover the floorboards are the words that were left unsaid in that beautiful, liquid crimson.

My frame is trembling with emotions I never learned how to miss and I'm screaming out with a voice that no one can even hear. Those words I use to listen to aren't even being mentioned anymore and I feel so forsaken. The lexemes the ink use to draw for me have faded into the page and made it blank. Memories tear through my brain and I find myself grasping through my ribcage to grab my puzzle piece heart. I always tend to forget how much I care until I'm left all on my own with nothing but a blanket that hardly keeps me as warm as you did. I'm no longer who I was and I'm not who I want to be. I've let myself subside to a monstrous, desperate catastrophe. You could help me recreate the person I once was. I miss that fragile being and it hurts me when I say it. I never liked who I was until I couldn't portray it. I'm sick of faking smiles that conjoin with "how are yous" and the undying support I know. What about me and my disasters? Does my heart not deserve to endure the assurance of a presence? No, of course not. The truth of the matter is no one cares unless they come to you, they only want YOU to need THEM if they desire you too. And its depressing to know that your words don't matter until your gone on account of those gears being stuck churning to produce conclusion after conclusion of how alone you truly are. It hurts to devour the 'I miss yous' that are trapped inside my lungs. It destroys to crave 'I love yous' that expired when they were young. I can't say I'm here when I feel so possessed by the darkness that I've known for years and I am continuously imploring to fix without spoken word and friends of green and blue. I begin to fade into the darkness; it's painting itself red and when I open my eyes again I'm covered with regret. Come and save me from myself, I beg of you. I want you to. I want to be as alive as you.

galactic eruption
interrupts a stroll down the memory lane
linear meta brain
meticulously performing the act of
self restraint
selfless worships
now, lesser in terms of quantitative hints
the never ending path
that circumvents the colourless
conscience
it contravenes the limitless scenes of a liberating regime
trust plummets into the hands of perceptive fiends
taken in
taken instead of countless numbered pills
a train of exaggerated kin
tracks back to those with highly assumed authorities
amidst the group of avid anti-socials
vividly varied in opinions
from a sword to a pin
essentially assembled to speak against the ancient ones
a neoteric synchronization
scaling screaming lexemes
the scathed silk screeches
soaked in acid  
flamed till the ashes can be smelled
but never seen
seemingly insignificant statements
covert and pristine