I sat and watched a bug crawl across your skin
From your leg to your hand to your wrist,
to the scars up your arm.

Scars I’ve never noticed,
Scars that look familiar,
Scars that amount to more than mine.

And I looked to see that
My skin appeared to be held together by spiderwebs.

I felt ugly.
I felt human.

And then the sun shone brighter
and I was a million little stained glass pieces.

A million little stained glass pieces held together by spiderwebs.

I folded into myself and
tried to listen to the choir sing
But they were too far away.

I was alone.
I knew you were too.

Alone with the sunshine. Alone in our stained glass.

I just sat there in the grass,
folding and unfolding.
Letting the sun shine into me.

To be under our skin and
To see the way all our little fragments shone.
I wonder how we would look turned inside out.

You're like spiderwebs,
Like thick wind entangling,
Every single **** one of you I ever met
Is wrapping around my memory as I struggle.
    I obsessively map out
      Every time I made you smile
         With a twitch of my leg,
I needlessly outline
   The dances we did with
        Every tug of my wrists against the silk.
As I twist deeper into your clutches
     I remember when we were happy
        And spinning in soulkissed sinews.
Without you I'd be free
But you're worth the OCD.

So many spiderwebs
each with individual suction cups
******* blood and injecting poison....

a collapse lung....
withered and black....
festering in the hot sun
kissing silver scalpels
and ******* yellow pus
into crunchy white tarp....

capsules that release toxins
into a parched mouth

spiderwebs.... make love to my arm

Our lives are spiderwebs.
Delicate, pure, but Empty.

Sprinkle a little water,
It glows under lights.
Reflecting its own beauty.

Spill a pail of water,
It collapses instantly,
Reaping apart, for eternity.

You grab spiderwebs with your teeth

just to understand the detail

of something above you.

You only matter to you.

The Universe has more to deal with

than your problems that surround you.

So dust off your dirt you know as fear

and reform to the plastic reality,

we call life.

The day you got your hair cut
I went to a lesbian bar after work.
It was 3
And I was tired
But I went straight there
Because I had to do something.
I knew it was a lost cause before I even got there.
The back of my neck was prickling with tension
With fear
Because I knew I was too late.
Somewhere in the depths of my soul
My free will was on a gurney,
Cold.
But I couldn’t help it-
I needed to feel like I had control,
So I went inside.
People were dancing.
None of them held themselves the way you do
Like a marble statue that has set down axe and shield and stepped off the plinth for a brief rest
(You will be returning to battle shortly-
After you fix your eyeliner.)

I did a shot
Because that’s what you do.
They were free- *** on the Beach.
I sat there,
Wondering why the fact that you named your cat Heathcliff as a child meant that I had to love you.

I decided that I needed something stronger in the way of alcohol.

A girl with soft brown eyes and long hair came up to me.
Her name was Tiffany.
She wasn’t clever like you
And her voice
Wasn’t low and rough like yours
But she told me I was pretty.
I already knew, but I thanked her.
I felt nothing.
She wasn’t interesting
Or funny
Or smart.
She was attractive- beautiful even, I suppose,
And maybe she was kind.
She bought me a drink,
And mistook my sadness for shyness.
As I answered her questions I was afraid your name would fall from my lips like a seed
Take root and grow up through the floorboards.
Nothing she said changed me, nothing I said back changed me,
And my thoughts kept snagging on you
Tearing and unraveling.
I needed you out of my head.
She was looking at me with big eyes
And I suppose they were compelling
But they weren’t yours-
Rimmed with black, hypnotic and stormy at times, sparkling with mischief at others,
Forever changing and forever captivating,
Windows to a soul I fiercely wish I knew-
They were just eyes, and maybe they were vulnerable
Or curious
Or sweet.
I kissed her so that I could stop looking into them
And not seeing you there.
Her lips tasted like nothing.
I closed my eyes and kissed her harder,
Hoping for a reason to forget you.

We were beautiful, I knew that.
I could feel eyes on us-
Two small, lovely women
Tangled on the dance floor under the lights
Fingers in each other’s hair-
We must have looked
Just like lovers.

I searched for a way out of my feelings for you.
I kissed her for a long time, until we were both gasping.
I found nothing.
In my frustration I pulled her head back,
Bit her lip
Pressed my fingers hard into the back of her neck
And I felt her lust
But not mine.
It was nice to be wanted
But not nice enough.
I wanted to hurt her for touching me
For not being you
So I pulled away
And kissed her cheek gently
My hands beneath her jaw.
“Wow,” she said.
I couldn’t look at her.
That tenderness wasn’t hers
But it didn’t matter.
I kissed her hands
In penance disguised as sweetness.
Suddenly all the anger was gone from me
And I felt desolate.

That night I walked home with my head buzzing.
I wasn’t drunk,
I was sober as hell
Head pounding with thoughts of you.
I hated it.
I hate it.
Somehow I fell into this feeling
And I’ve been fighting not to drown ever since.
When I look at you
I feel everything I wish I’d felt while I was kissing her
And more
That I sometimes wish I’d never feel again.
Sometimes I think you see it.
Sometimes I know I cover for it badly.
Sometimes, when you’re suddenly present
Like the sun has turned on just for me
And then distant later
Like the sea at night
I think you know I already love you.
Maybe you hate it like I hate it.
Maybe you worship it like I worship it.
Maybe you fear it
And I don’t blame you.
A storm presses out against my skin when I look at you
And I’m surprised no chaos seeps through.
My bones hum with it
My heartbeat reaching like thunder into my fingers.

I’ll probably never kiss you
And maybe that’s for the best
Because even being near you makes me feel like I’m falling from somewhere high up.
If I kissed you, I’d feel everything, I’m sure of it-
Everything there is to feel
And it would end me
And I would be grateful.

I wonder if you ever see that in my eyes.
That fear, that longing, that shame and joy.
A love and loathing so intense it scalds.
‘I can’t believe I’m here again,’
It pounds through my veins.
‘I can’t believe I love another person
Who is always looking elsewhere.’

Just know, if you ever discover how I feel
That I tried to **** it.
I looked at this beautiful feeling
A feeling you could pray before like an altar
A feeling you could whisper into like a temple- barefoot and cold with wonder- and hear your soul echo back,
I looked at the sacred piece of humanity that had suddenly risen in my heart like a hymn
And I tried to silence it-
I tried hard-
So that you would never have to fear it.

I failed. It lives.
It took root in me, and whenever I speak your name little harsh flowers push their way up through the concrete under my feet, sending cracks out like jagged spiderwebs.
They bloom like wounds.
They kiss the sky.
And, slowly,
They are crumbling this city to dust.

People in essence are spiderwebs

Each so fragile and beautiful

Yet so strong and full of purpose

Each molecule is connected by a strand of the web

Each thought intersected

Woven into another

Yet separate, unique

There are no two alike

Though many are bland

So distasteful

Never living out their full potential

Instead being destroyed by tiny things

The fears and doubts that eat away at the delicate strands



Still someway somehow the rare few so complicated

Protected so carefully by their creators

Manage to hold their true form

Even for a second in time

They capture drops of inspiration like dew

As the sunlight fades the useless webs left unprotected

It also catches hold of the glimmer of inspiration

Suddenly transformed into a shining brilliant treasure

The web can maintain these inspirations

Build them into anything they desire

Or they may allow them to simply lay in shadow

Weighing them down

Until they come crashing from their position of glory

To a simple puddle of ruin

Spiderwebs are everywhere.
Spiderwebs are in the air.
The webs that ensnare
are the webs they share.

Little strings appear out of nowhere.
In my mind they appear no fair.
Those lines tell me don’t go there
by sticking to my nose hair.

Spiderwebs are as sticky as lies.
I guess that’s how they catch flies.
I guess I thought I was more wise
until I walked into a spiderweb surprise.

Their nets envelope my home
so I’m caught in their web.
If I choose to roam
I could be dead.
So I stay inside instead
and wonder why in dread
while I’m tied to my bed
by a spider’s thread.

Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are ***** scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.

Lines of coal take form, again and again, on this coldbound evening
as blackened fingers and wear reveal prints typically unseen.
Beautiful and unique and hurricane lightning tattooed yellowed paper.
It was untouched, like the charcoal, for ages as it sat in the corner
underneath the easel gathering dust and cobwebs.
It seems that the spiders have had a plentiful harvest this autumn,
what a shame to rid them of their feast this month.
It'll be winter soon and they're going to need it.
What creation is permissible by destruction? Any?
None?

Can I make up for it, I promise:
I'll draw them a web and weave you into it.
You and I and They: we'll all feast.
We on Art and they on flesh.
They'll never miss those material pleasures ever again.
They'll never need to build or wait or **** or eat.
We'll never need to either, not after this,
this momentous occasion of focus and dedication
when my arms and lamplit desk burn from satisfaction
and our faces grimace at the completion
of something so wonderful, on paper.

this night has
      melted into too many
      casualties trying to reach the
edge of dawn
        where beaten voices
                  still believe in summer
                  dreaming about ages in the sun

w/ loaded gunning thoughts
tomorrow will never fade
                painted hands broke the ground
                stones reflecting off sapphire
                bombs always explode
at the most random times like
         when memory is sleeping..
           (my memory is wide awake)
& sometimes it screams so loud that I
can remember everything

what would it be like?
just a second of silence?
maybe it's like being thrown in that bomb of
gemstone safety..

smiles for yesterday,

          the future is running toward
          its own shadow:

a new song in this vein..

Such a slow day, time ticks by in tempo
Provide a way to reach the sun, and
It will be taken by men.
Don't look at me that way,
Even I have a weakness.
Rendered useless by my own happiness
Wisps of silky steel wrap 'round mine eyes
Eke a living out of thin air
Before your death is upon on us both
Such a fast day, time resumes a tempo.

My eyelids seem
to be the strongest part of me.
When the rest of my body
falls
into the ocean
of blankets they
float open upon the white water
atop
the waves of sleep.
This is when you come back.
In this mattress I am a piece
of clay and I can still feel the deep indentations of where your fingers
wrapped themselves like Ivy around my hips.
Hips, that stuck out like white flags of surrender and
fell to the ground in a straight line.
I can still hear
you.
I am a broken record,
and your whispers are the only track that plays at this hour.
“You are fat”
“Look at how flat you are Emma, no boy will ever look at you.”
“You are ugly.”
These are the nights when I can
feel the spiderwebs your words wrapped around my ribs and
listen to the way my heart beats constricted
in its cage, your hand still clenched around it.
Can’t you see me bleeding?
Safety lies
beneath my eyelids but you pull them open
I can feel
your icy touch behind my eyes as I stare
coldly at the ceiling.
you demand to be heard.
Did you mean to put your words
in my pocket when you reached in to steal the sleep that was nestled there like crumpled dollar bills?
Do you realize that you stayed with me?
Can you take your stolen midnight hours back and place them on your pillowcase?
Will your eyelids close?
Or can you still hear my cries of protest as your soundtrack plays into the night?
I don't understand?
Did you think it wouldn't hurt me?
Or did you want to live forever,so you put your
fingerprints where you knew they wouldn't fade.

Our affection was a spider web
As we slept in our separate homes
With our spirits inhabiting
Both bodies,
The gossamer was swindled
Carefully in between each
Eyelash and around each
Finger and toe,
Tiny filmy stings
Had our hearts connected.

I felt a pang inside me
When loneliness tugged
Your arms and plead with you
To follow it.

I wondered
As my tear ducts
Emptied themselves
Onto my cheeks,
How do I cope with
Sadness that is not
My own?

I have felt the
Icy sleet
That is one a.m.
With sad songs
And emptiness in
All aspects of life
And I wish it upon
No one.

I want the sadness
Only to be mine
I want to be greedy
I want to steal it
From you
If only so that
I could see you happy.

Loneliness.
What is it?
It is a concept we so rarely describe in detail.
We've made up a specific word for it-
Three little syllables-
Just so that we can say it and be done with it,
And escape the contemplation.
But I know my own loneliness cannot be captured,
Cannot be encompassed,
By merely the word.
What is loneliness?
It comes in all shapes and sizes,
A space,
A lack,
That can be big or small,
Sudden or excruciatingly slow,
Sharp or fuzzy at the edges.
Hell,
It can even be comforting.
What is it about loneliness that is so insidious?
Harder to rid yourself of than fear
Or anger
Or even such tricky, barbed things as doubt
Or hope,
That stick.
Loneliness doesn't stick.
It seeps.
Steeps.
You stew in it.
It is beginning to occur to me that I don't believe,
Once one realizes loneliness for the first time,
That one is ever truly rid of it again,
Even for a second.
I think it is a permanence that we as a race refuse to acknowledge most of the time.
Some forms of lonely are fairly benign-
The little tingle on the edges of you, when you are home alone and the house is silent,
And for no apparent reason at all-
No sadness, no fear, no thought that is particularly unpleasant that you must drown out-
You nonetheless feel the compulsion to switch on the television
Even if you won't watch,
Just to break the stillness with a human voice besides your own.
Then there are the darker types, the truly ensnaring ones,
The lonelinesses born of the memory of times when,
Perhaps, you were less lonely,
Or even thought that you had flushed the feeling from your soul entirely.
Loneliness is an otherness,
An alien thing that lives in your heart,
That makes you question whether there is anyone out there who would have you
If they knew
What was on the inside.
There is the type of loneliness that creeps up on you and follows nipping at your heels like a shadow on the pavement as you move through your day,
Reminding you, whispering in your ear that here you felt less alone, and there, and that those places are full now,
Of emptiness,
Because those times have passed and not had the courtesy to clean up their cobwebs-
Memories linger in certain little spots, and collect like dust little pockets of loneliness that grab you all of a sudden,
The way forgotten spiderwebs stick in your hair as you move through an old house.
This type is jarring, disturbing, and
Afterwards I always feel the desperate need to wash away the feeling,
Scrub myself down.
There is the breed of loneliness that is a bit more genteel,
And curls cold at your feet like a well trained dog,
Formal and subtle, but constant,
Watching.
This is the sort that makes you feel just somewhat hunted,
When you try to sit in silence by a fire at night in your living room
And find that you must read a book to drive the stillness from your head.
There is the truly hollow kind,
The kind that has no courtesy whatsoever,
And actually slithers into you, inhabiting your heart and stomach and bones
As you try to fall asleep
With ice.
It is this kind that, if it is strong enough
(and you are weak enough)
For it to remain until morning
Forbids even the smallest human touch-
Every gesture of tenderness from another person
Makes this loneliness increase,
Every embrace, every handshake, every accidental contact of skin
Becomes unbearable,
And the afflicted shies away,
Perpetuating a cycle of vicious disconnection.
They all leave a little something cold, even when they recede,
In the core of you, that won't be dislodged no matter what you try.
Loneliness,
Like a cancer,
Can only be considered in remission,
And never truly cured.
For when given room to prosper even for the space of a second it expands and swallows up your thoughts
Until they whither with frostbite.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked-
As humans we live side by side, arms linked with
Most of the things that will eventually **** us,
What's one more, cozying up inside our skulls,
Inside our hearts?
We have a partnership-
An entirely human concept-
With all that destroys us.
And so we live with out loneliness, like a second shadow.
What is loneliness?
I am still unsure.
I can only describe what loneliness does,
Not what it is.
*I think that maybe to understand it
Would be to die of it.

She fell:
into my arms,
like raindrops
at my feet,
but no:
not the tiny type
that proceed the storm,
like the plump generous kind
that fall,
and let you know
that you're in the beginning and the middle of the deluge
half way in, and you can't go no farther -
type of rain.

Lighting up the night sky
of my life
with spiderwebs of purple lightning
she rolled like distant thunder,
while her waves of water
made everything brand new
again.

If you disinfect it they will come,
awash with hope
and stung with bees and swollen and lush and false.

Fat as love we lie prone on the soil,
ready to be ****** by the universe, grand sun and all
elements so revered

And then, oh, it fails us
that universe and all its myths
its stories turn out to be tissue,
so many spindly webs and we
scatter surprised like August spiders hungry and full and
all we wanted to do was weave and wait
but the winds of fate are passing through
and it doesn't like the clinging
touch of our well constructed
reality
no matter how well it caught
our next bellyful
and our continuing survival.

Eventually we'll mourn, drunk and tearless
scabs dried up and scars set.
That's it.

Whatever it was
it wasn't for me.

You're for me,
your invisible clothes
are the most important thing
in this whole universe
and if they cling and if fate doesn't like them and if I agree
well we know what I can do with myself
and this god-awful poetry.

Dear brother
Your heart has been torn
By yet another
Whose arms like spiderwebs
Brought your heart into her mouth
And let her teeth clash into it

Dear brother
I know the feeling
Like you will find no other
But I promise you
That every final paper
Results from many rough drafts

Dear brother
I see the love oozing out of you
Waiting to be shared with another
But learn to use it on yourself first
Please

Dear brother
You are not
someone else's "Other"
You are your own
You are enough

Dear brother
I know you have given up on
Finding another
But for now now we have
Each other

And dear brother
May we both learn
To love again yet another

all these words are spiderweb tangled in my head
I can't seem to string them into a coherent strand of letters
spelling out how much i love you

Neptune's core collapses
Splintered diamonds descend in stabbing fashion

Sleepy knives pass silently through the night
Casting shadows in the caliginous moon light

Stitched spiderwebs glisten across autumn's equinox
Discordant thought raptures in a Gordian knot

The symmetry of entropy plots its course
The universe resets its clock

The body
I want
exists
through the veil of blood that spiderwebs above my eyelids.

The soul
I so desire
screams out like nails on a chalkboard, across my vanes-
and alone, underneath the cupboard drawer.

The human
I loved
hides underneath my larynx
and rests so heavily upon my soul.

It is the monster under my bed
but, I am no longer five so-
I assume night lights are out of the question.

To paint the scene of my former life
One must first take a look into a little dusky room filled with shady sunlight,                        
Streaming in through dusty blinds that  never actually shade the eyes.
They produce blinding shafts of light that burn the eyes like blades are hiding within red  fired laser beams.
Imagine a little rocking horse, painted black and gold, with a little red bell dangling off of the red reins attached. Nostrils flaring, ready to be ride out into the sunset, but never actually to be ridden.
Two comfortable twin beds shoved into the corners of the room, leaving indentations upon the slightly greying,
Off white carpet that had once been plush, now smashed into the ground with dirt and grime from children playing.
The comforters on the top of the bed lay strewn and rumpled; covered with dinosaurs and their names,
Allosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, and Brontosaurus.
All with goofy pictures in greens and oranges that a child could laugh at when frightened.
On the right side of that room, from when you walk inside, the walls are painted a malicious purple,
Like a swelling bruise had been inflicted upon the wall by some unseen hand that had forced a fist.
A big ugly bruised wall.
Accompanying that bruise on the left half of the wall is a faded blue,
The color of pearls painted over with a smattering of blue paints,
Enveloping the trim of the room is a metallic silver haze that was just beautiful,
Creating illusions of moonbeams and silver roses within it.
The ceiling was glorious as well. It was covered in millions of stars.
Although they were glow in the dark plastic stickers that could be hung anywhere,
I still saw them as fiery gases burning miles away.
Of course, at the time I was well aware of what stars were, as I had a love for them.
I would gaze upon them late into the night, often in awe and wonder at how it would feel to be one.
Would it feel as if I was enlightened and owned the universe,
Or would it be a darkened, frightening place, filled with loneliness?
I had always wondered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~
There is much screaming. High pitched, it sounds like the whining buzz of an angry bee .
A scream nonetheless. So very loud, it is, and it rings like church bells in my ears.
Ringing, and ringing, and ringing...
The scream sounds so very close to me,
Perhaps this is because the wailing sounds some from my very own mouth.
The screams, crawling and digging their claws up and out of my throat,
Unburying themselves as they seep out in tormenting waves, leaving my throat a red and raw coated mess.
But still, I scream.
My throat resounds the despairing loneliness that had welled up in those short years of my life,
Finally taking their act of freedom, welling up and pouring out like caged birds,
Fleeing from the cage with freedom in their hearts.
Although this was never true, this was never to become freedom,
The fleeing screams do not pierce the veil that shrouds the deaf ears that were meant to hear it,
Turning away in ignoramus bliss.
“You are the banshee wailing,”  
My Mum says with a growling lilt to her voice as she pushed the door to my room closed with a glare,
Her fingers clenching the door, knuckles turning white with frustration.
Tiredness has already beginning to  line her once youthful face with spiderwebs of indecision of what she truly wanted. As I scratched my bleeding nails across the closing door, frantically searching for a place of escape,
My mind races and thus, I began to horde emotions of resentment for my parents.
I constantly wanted to free myself from the jail that my world had always seemed to be revolved around.  
My nails are bloodied and fingers bruised, I give up in defeat from the fear.  
Although it may only be pounding upon and freezing the insides of my veins,
It is exactly what created this insane version of myself. This wild animal who scratches, bites and roars,
The primitive animal comes from deep within the skin wearing it as a costume in the form of  a little three year old girl.
I was locked away for most of the three years I had spent with my cold and unfeeling parents,
Who wanted nothing to do with me, nor ever share their love.
(Or so I thought as a child, whose hopes of freedom were breaking away even before they were molded).
I have retained this in my memory banks for my entire life,
Even after when those around me told me I was too young to remember it.
But how could I possibly remember this in such crystal clear detail,i
If I had been a thoughtless, and blank minded child at the time?
This experience has obtained and earned one of the darkest places in my mind,
It has forced me to keep it inside my entire life.
I call it the dark forest, the place that remains shadowed, blackened and cold.
Most of my horrible memories are part of that forest, creating the trees that form it.
From this forest leaps the monsters that tormented me in my dreams, howling and baring their teeth,
Their shapes surrounding me like a thick and rank fog that was inescapable, their breath rolling down my neck.
The stench making my eyes roll back, turning the world black.
Then suddenly I would wake up, an invisible scream rising in my throat, sweat soaked and shivering with fright.
Even then, I could still see them.  
Their red eyes glowering at me in the darkness of my room that I shared with my sister Dakota.
Sometimes I imagine that I can still see them, and a paradoxical paranoia rushes down my spine,
Forcing every hair to stand on end, and cold fear to paralyze my body, to the point that I am immobile.
Like frightened prey trying to hide and fold the body in on itself,
From an  un-explainable fear that was reared from my childhood.
I was created at the hands of those who love me now, but at first were disgusted at the sight of me.
I was merely an obligation in which they had to feed and bathe on few occasions.
An abomination, something to be frowned upon.
Their indecision and ignorance was what caused one of my largest complications of the brain.
This experience created the driving need that I still carry with me today to be surrounded with people.
I feel as if I cannot survive without them, because my childhood was so filled with loneliness,
That I need to gain back that attention that was taken away from me.
Considering this, of how insane I had been as a child, like a froth mouthed animal, begging for scraps of food,
Only my food was social activity and freedom, in which I was explicitly not allowed to be given often.
My grandparents, if I have remembered correctly, their faces seeming more youthful than my parents,
Pouring experiences  into me like a mug, gracing me with feelings of wonder instead of blind fury,
Overwhelming me with their kindness and compassion.
They were the ones who changed me, took me in and made me feel like I was really alive and was of relation.
They made it seem as if I were still slightly human, not a craze eyed child who acted like a wild animal,
Who was feared and pitied by those who came to see me.
Although it did take time to recover from my horrific experience,
I have learned to gain control of my emotions through meditation, sometimes to the point  of becoming a blank slate.
I was the girl who acted as if I was not of this planet, as if I was off in another universe taking a soul vacation.
Tracing patterns in the constellations, my eyes star struck and filled with wonders that only I knew of.
Being so used to a constant state of harmony, that the world around began to blur,
Taking little notice of any change within it, even if the images crossed and passed within inches of my unseeing gaze.
Viewing the world as it was meant to be seen; with beauty and stained with emotions.
This is a story of a girl with the once crazed eyes who saw the world as a fearful place with no freedom,
Who behaved not unlike a wounded animal caught in a trap,
Whimpering and pleading with her mournful gaze for freedom.  
Only now this girl had been turned into a starry eyed child with wisdom from a past of tragedies.
~This is who I am and this is my story~

birches and tastsy jerky wood.  resin in the immediate shubbary.... and dust and cobwwebs growing adjacent to the jerky wood.  Myraid of birds, ranging from small birch-types to crows.  A lingering dominant hawk.  A giant possum crossing between borders carrying unborn infants.  Dusty walls with abandonded spiderwebs- insect carcassases dangling, still.  Pool motors revving in every direction lets of a subtle hum that compliments the planes descending and ascending oer-head

the water is grainy yet cool and healing.  the sprinklers function at midnight and sometimes on the weekend.  Maintinance trucks, expensive commuter vehicals, modest vehicls, unmanned vehicles, arrowhead trucks, macdonalds trucks, safeway trucks....

the earth is still wheaty and chalky adjacent the jerky trees, the jerky trees have little hairs and appetizing off red color, the bark saddles off with grace and with a satisfying tare.

I toast to the spirits you've been counting, lying in that hammock with a stranger from Mars. Your muddy fingers, they creep like hairless spider arms between the ropey knots that bind together all its parts. There is a house inside the hilltop, where it peaks there is a church- there once was a man in shackles and handcuffs living there, he also had mud on the bottoms of his feet. Even the pennies you found get lost now and then. Even your white hair goes a shade of blonde. I can't sleep but I don't try, I never tried not to do something so much that the rest of me broke. I pushed so hard that sand fell into my socks. You only told me half of what will happen to you at 10am, the rest of it you told me that you'd prefer I didn't know, but if I am to survive on the secrets I know that you don't know about. Then tonight I will be sewing the wool over my eyes.------------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- No one could ever have any idea what comes easy. The creaking heavy wood of your slop-room door, or the filth I cough up in green, mustard, and tar globules every hour. There is the was. Small hands in half pockets. Stitches supposedly dissolving into our skins. The yellow wall, the panda pillow, the Pink Sugar, your hair wax and heavy handed straight-ironing tilt my curved and bent feet Northward about 6 to 60º degrees. Late trains and no complaints. Stubs of hair and tender legs. I don't give but my elbows buckle. This frame wasn't built to take blow after blow. Some friends tell me they can see tomorrow before it comes. Lakeside, readied, silver-necklace I haven't seen. Gold flightless bird that's never walked but says it will. I am cornered, my cornea tinted my vexes and leftovers, black and white pearls, birthdays, earthworms, and vinegar. Family dinners that push me nearer to the hole in the donut. I'm just so afraid of falling overboard. It's just I can't go forever without being heard.-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------------------- In and the. How long do stories like this carry on for? Does my name come up in private? Does mom two even know whether I ever existed or if I was split? I am the answer to the secret 'ask' question? When do I become background photo one or two? I am the one that's grateful I had a chance to sleep toe to toe. That I uncovered the winter that woke up the bleach and incense in the frosted air. While school is in session, am I crazy to believe in mermaids and sparklers and stickers, I'll stick with the choice that I made a year ago Tuesday- September hasn't ended but November's nowhere near. The reason I smoke so much is because I am no good at waiting. For phone calls, tweets, texts, updates, or written mail. No one told us that this could end underwater without even half of a breath, if you'd of asked then I would have told you that's why I steal your underwear and your sweatpants. You can have all my money, I don't even want, I just need it for you. You can have every word that I write, wield, and speak with, every sentiment and sentence, each promise,and compromise, everything that I own.-------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------------- Four photographs later. Everything means something. I'm in knots. Spiderwebs from elbow to elbow. Fishing hooks from knee to knee. My neck feels very naked, bare. Nothing, not even traces of pink or cerise lipstick or lip marks. Smudge me, stop punishing me, please, prease, don't leave. This isn't very good for either of us. My story cannot tread so closely to an ending, to the ends of a night or a phone call or an eyebrow pencil or an eyelash curler, not the double-sided extra-soft blanket you keep on your bed, not the bottles and dollars and boxes and jewelry under your mattress, not the zip in your doorway or the zipper in my jeans, not the two holes in my belt loops or the caffeine in my morning coffee. I quit cigarettes, ended my sentences earlier, grew quiet, wore more band shirts and skinny jeans. Even the lines of lips, outlined by hips, white roses painted red, blonde hairs blanketed by the bleaching on your head. I'm wrestling hula hoops, I'm putting my pinkies in your gauges, and amazed how good it feels- and I'm happy you didn't....leaves of autumn shatter on concrete city streets, although you'd hate it I'm thinking of a tattoo sleeve, how about you make it? Darling please! Rice Krispie I'm on my Lee Dungaree's, begging you to meet me on our knees. And every candy that I spit out once I got to the middle, every lollipop that I ever bit into to find the gum, each Happy Meal toy I bought separately; you are the only girl I attended school to meet when I wasn't enrolled. I'm holding on. The bottoms of my jeans rolled up so I don't fade into use. I miss having your tongue in my mouth. I want to feel my hands in your pants. It's my tongue that gets curious as I begin to feel the heat off your *******. Tender touching. Dire romance. Throttle my face with your legs. I'll perch you up on a pillow, you can hold my head till I beg. Because if I go at this life thing alone, pretty soon I'll have a mouth full of lead.

People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.

1.
there's a gun in your hand that doesn't belong there, a windmill where your heart should be
painting on the inside of someone else's skull screaming "i don't give a ****"
did your voice break? OH MY GOD YOU DISEASE
YOU GREAT UNDERESTIMATER, YOU FILTH
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TURN A PERSON INTO A JACK-O-LANTERN
scooping out seeds for your masters degree
"new advances in science every day" can you smell the ink drying on the back of your wrist
ghost stories arent the same thing as ghosts
"why do hospitals think white is calming" and other laments
sorry, i mean bulletholes
sorry, i mean manmade caverns, tunnels built for metal to crawl its way out of membrane
question: what kind of science experiment requires a human corpse
answer:
answer:
answer:
you will never understand the answer to this question.you will never understand why someone stands up in their seat, screaming "i don't give a ****"
its raining outside.its raining outside.seven of your family members are lying in trash heaps,limbs discarded
and you don't know this yet
but it wasn't my fault.it wasn't me this time (stop looking at me like that
tail clenched tight between your teeth
you smell like a swamp,oh god)
choking to death on someone else's blood: typical.you're a cliche
this has happened before, hasn't it?we were murdered before,
but you don't remember that, or you do but youre pretending not to.tend to
your wounds, lick the blood.
papercuts are a gateway drug
you used to be something pretty.shiny and unkempt,
pretty and a ***** kinda clean:i wanna rip my own throat out
carve triangles in the pit of my stomach so
at least part of me will know how to smile.
clawing at yr eyes like itll make the flies go away
its in their nature
god,what kind of monster are you
what kind of beast.
everything you know up in flames:wither
do you know how fast human bodies decay?welcome to wormfood.welcome to paradise
coughing up tar and feathers "you came prepared"
for what?for an execution?happy doomsday
punch the wall.rub your knuckles.try again
make it bruise
****** and mangled, paint chips cutting off your circulation
YOU JUST NEVER KNOW WHEN TO QUIT DO YOU
youre so kind.thanks for everything,thanks for
the hollow chest,thanks for
****** fists
(you knew this would happen eventually
can you even take a punch?can you even take a punch?)
severed conscience, or whatever it was.
"No One Will Miss You Anyway"
is that what theyre saying?
your nailbeds are sticky
soda and something sweeter and dirt
you had so much to live for,until you didn't
(isnt that what they all say?god,youre such a cliche.)
found dead or dying,isnt that how it goes
no one just drowns
"we have reason to believe--"
you can hear every star dying,all at once
kneeling in front of a toilet that starting to look a lot like you
theres a gun in your lap and a bullet in your head and you dont know which one to trust
this isnt your fault.this isnt your fault.
clean yourself up,god youre disgusting.
how to say your name without choking on it
holding hands with a girl you never met
isnt this what its supposed to feel like?arent you supposed to feel full?
emptiness is your native language.the hollow space in your body echoes back at you
chimneysweep swallowing dust clouds,brushing their teeth with acid and magellanic galaxies
JUST STOP, SHUT YOUR MOUTH, GOD IM TIRED LISTENING TO THE SOUND OF YOUR SCREAMS
paranoia is smooth, blurry around the edges:
its not your fault you couldn't meet a deadline.

2.
war in your sheets and the soft folds of your belly
(and in the soles of your feet
i feel rough ground, rocks pricking into your skin
do you smell blood?)
not quite human, but vampires havent scared you for years
"**** me dry" can you taste it yet, can you feel the fear crawling up out of your stomach
your throat is so empty, a cavern without bats
stalactite secrecy pooling at your feet: this is what it feels like to be alone
sorry about the mess we made
sorry about the paint on the walls
scrubbing glitter into your arms,rubbing skin raw and red
arent you pretty? arent you pretty?
tombs cracking, mausoleums wishing for more graves to dig
havent you robbed enough for one lifetime
write eulogies for people who havent died yet,this is your calling
arent you pretty?
WHITE NOISE ON REPEAT, 10 HOURS
boxed wine stinking up the trunk of your car
(well,that and something else)
dont feel sorry for me darling
you say my name like it’s killing you,and maybe it is
thanks for the flowers and the card,what kind of greek tragedy is this
are you tired? are you tired?
what a spectacle
you,lying on a bed that doesnt belong to you,dying without permission(How Rude!)
dionysian struggle,and look,now the wine’s spilt over everything
i told you this would happen
what a pretty train wreck you are!2:30 am,still alive,
god youre bleeding on everything,how rude.how rude.
heart cut out and beating three thousand miles away under your mothers bed
oh,sweetheart
YOU KNEW IT WOULD END LIKE THIS,dissociating,can you feel the earth bend away from you?
what a demon
crust,mantle,core,screaming at the sight of you
when was the last time you believed in magic,hands on thighs
walls of the abandoned building screaming back in your face
(“i don’t give a ****” like someone can hear you
like someone cares enough to listen)
a broken Bic lighter/someone else’s EpiPen/a ****** handkerchief, shoved in the pocket of a jacket you dont remember buying.
wrapped up like holy things and you think maybe they were one time
“******* with no end” god youre so cool arent you?how edgy,how punk.how grotesque, the mess on your hands.
shouting your **** streak in the dead of night
is that supposed to impress us?are you putting on a show?Holy Prophet
here to forgive your sins
a woman sitting across from you is bleeding and you imagine swallowing her hands whole
“just let them win this time” how sweet of you,how kind!
this isnt my fault.this isnt my fault.
im just a corpse,remember?i hope you regret every part of this
i hope you choke on her fingers and i hope you die
MY GOD IT MAKES ME LAUGH
painted in the image of god:how funny.how sweet.what a nice thought
you called me a weapon like it was supposed to mean something
like it ever did

3.
mistaken king centuries old stepping on Holy feet
(can you see him?pressed up against the grass trying to disappear
god, what a ******* poseur)
frostbite kissing you,what a nice sentiment
crying with joy as it curls around you
“you just gotta be numb to it, you know?”
please marry me, oh god, i’m in love with you
my heart beats thirty feet out of my chest when im around you (that’s what love means, right)
you feel it ripping you apart,glory
smell stardust in the air and then stomp it out
it never mattered that much anyway,or at least that’s what
you tell yourself
you move like it’s your death wish, like “better here than somewhere else”, like
they taught you how to bleed in all
the right ways.on cue. on cue.
broken telephone wires/that Bic lighter, again/a pile of pumpkin seeds digging
into the palm of your hand
How To Cauterize An Open Wound
torn skin, and blood, and maybe some of your intestines, too
stick knives in your stomach(look, we match!)
there’s still a gun in your hand and it’s smoking and you don’t remember firing it (but that’s
okay, isn’t it? this has to be okay)
you built a shipyard in your ribcage,sent sailors off
to die in your throat
choking on a swarm of ******* bees
youre so cool arent you?youre so cool arent you?
you feel the ***** coming up ten years before it actually does, feel your stomach
bloating,the stench of it all
terrariums bleeding onto the streets, how ugly.what a putrid sight.
youre missing teeth,mouth gaping open
stubbed and ****** where nothing new ever grew in,
don’t know know that hate breeds hate
precious metals ooze off your tongue, join the parade! fall into
a stupor,
collect your wits and die,just die.
“i’m sorry for your loss” written on twenty different greeting cards, did you
think i wouldnt know it was you?
i bruise so easily and you know this, even with a gun breathing heavy against your ribcage.lace spiderwebs
around your neck and pull them tight this time
lighting fires with one hand,putting them out
with the other
YOU’RE SUCH A ******* MARTYR
YOU GRANDIOSE *******
your shoes are too tight, your toes are turning blue,
and i’m still in love with you even though
i don’t even know who you are anymore
god, im a cliche
does that make you happy?
god, i hope it does
you tell me, “poems are supposed to have a rhythm”
smiling like i just said something funny
i’m sorry about the dead flowers.im sorry about that night in the living room.
sorry for the things i said.
the feeling of being in motion/radiation vibrating across your tongue/a handful of snow
listen to the church choir singing--
in. out. dead. it wasnt your-slash-my fault
you say it outloud:
“your-slash-my”, the only way you can tether yourself
to something else.
someone is digging into the small of your back (ill
give you a hint:its me)
can you feel the talons? you take off your clothes, press
your body to the concrete
let the frost build on your spine,your fingers,your
legs
kiss the spool of ants where your ear used to be
swallow hard.
o, songbird! o, thrush!
the mellow winter calling (your mouth
curves around the word vociferous like you cant breathe without it--
this was always my favorite part)
“who told you the ending” and you say
god,  i just knew.
holy, holy, holy, swept off the palm of your hand like dust
rusty spoons and nails And Other Artifacts pooling at your feet
***** with revenge, or desire, or both.
[ SEVEN HOLLOW CHAPELS SINGING ABOUT LONELINESS ]
dont bury this too.not the bibelots, not the science experiments, not the smoking gun
carving itself into your palm
you will forget the ships on the horizon, the feel of someone else’s stomach beneath your hands, your tongue, your skin.
all these things, too: she said.

feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.

**** and chips
buried in the bass-line
All shaken heads tossed
listening to the misadventures of a ****-talker
Her lips taught and dry
sporting a second skin of ripped denim
Thick eyelashes caked in spiderwebs
Hustling on doc martens
crunching teeth beneath toes
Ankles taught with leather
A pretty ***** touched
like flowers dipped in chalk
stuck in choke it down memories
Quietly screaming
     look for me

tie me down
crowing about a crown of flowers
curl my palm into the hollow of your cheek
(oh my god drown me)
and here we have the soldier
hands covered in blood and knives (and something
else;but
we don't talk about that)
look how the blind man cries tonight
see these bones on the grass
frost building in the cavity between your ribs and
your skin
SCREAMING ****** IN THE HALLWAY
(THIS IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN HEAR YOURSELF
THINK
THIS IS THE ONLY WAY ANYONE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE)
you, love, you, goldfinch
climbing windowsills
creep in the dead of night, cicatrix spiderwebs
here, here, here, in the small of your back
(can you feel me, here, crawling into your skin?can
you feel me sewing our palms together, goldfinch?)
"and the world will revel in wonder and delight--"

it used to be daisies
under shining droplets of sun
transparent sadness
trapped in spiderwebs
now he's left on the
bleak balcony
with only his snapdragons
shaped like flower skulls
living for a tomorrow
no one believes in