I lay down on the covers and listen
to the sound that wood makes when it moves
when it moves so slowly you can barely notice
as spiders crawl on the soles of my feet
they move unashamed like the
Lepisma saccharina
commonly known as the enemy
or silverfishes
under my floorboards

I have got no meter
it makes me write like a renegade dropout
smoking outside the doors of
junior high
but this is not poetry I write
it's testimonies
of how I looked further and never found
much of anything

I'd sweep quietness away with one sudden movement
like when smoke disperses
with a waving hand I can expel
all that is wrong like if I
broke the best china and saw the violets
in pieces of porcelain on the floor but
I know that silence is thick and
nothing ever breaks against linoleum

Space grey minds – made complicated –
These hotel mind-mansion muddled mud-bloods’ migraines, migrate through marble madness in a world where mirrors set a wide mould...

Bouquet of the fitting brain,
these silverfishes, odd souls, under glass mass,
forge their separate ways -
to avid void identities,
paving stone by paving stone, thought by thought,
scar by scar, screen by screen, smelling and selling our spirit...

Like the gold smoke whispered clouds from her serious clown mouth...
and the deep blue sky night turbulent feeling,

We’re stone dragging dreamers,
born gutter of the night,
eyes always feeling...

With roof rows of crimson,
these car attached mannequins,
Wake up where magic meets music -
Strange sheep soft in the glitching hope hearts of these sugar plane crash cities.