"unnameable" poems
The wheel of the quivering meat
conception
Turns in the void expelling human beings,
Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits,
Mice, lice, lizards, rats, roan
Racinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,
Horrible unnameable lice of vultures,
Murderous attacking dog-armies
Of Africa, Rhinos roaming in the
jungle,
Vast boars and huge gigantic bull
Elephants, rams, eagles, condors,
Pones and Porcupines and Pills-
All the endless conception of living
beings
Gnashing everywhere in Consciousness
Throughout the ten directions of space
Occupying all the quarters in & out,
From supermicroscopic no-bug
To huge Galaxy Lightyear Bowell
Illuminating the sky of one Mind-
Poor!
I wish I was free
of that slaving meat wheel
and safe in heaven dead.
7k
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover ***** were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To ****** all that life under your tongue!-
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love whatever it was, an infection.
5.1k
A song crawls out of the sludge from the bottom of the Indus River, from beneath the ruins of Harappa and Mohenjo-Daro. The burning sun tries in vain to penetrate the thick foliage of the ancient fig tree beneath which she reclines: the thousand-faced mistress of the myriad temples, the dancer, the priestess, the worshiper, the idol, the eternally pregnant singer…
She who alone knows why no human remains were ever recovered from the excavated city, Mother of a thousand abortions, she who gave birth to the beats of the rhythm—and the space between each beat, the unnameable principle of dread… the slow flow of the river at sunset obscured by smoke of human flesh from the smoldering ghats…
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Two eyes appeared from under a broadrimmed hat.
They looked around with astonishment.
In a schoolroom, far off in the distance, a boy was
Busy making a wooden bowl.
The teacher unaccustomed to such slowness
Requested a completion date.
“I am not slow thought the boy, just working
Away until I get it right.”
He met the teacher’s gaze with an expression
Of opacity and a sense of bewilderment.
On another day, at a later date, this same boy
Was found in his metalwork class applying
Cylinders of gases to his small creation, quietly,
Hoping for a connection before he was blown
To smithereans. Two blue eyes concentrated as
The jets of flames hissed into space.
Too long the gases flowed.
The master rose, the boy shook and his eyes
Widened.
In a playground, sometime earlier,
A small boy could be seen playing without a coat.
Gossiping women spoke of this unnatural act,
This exception to the fold. The boy stared back
Hearing their words with his eyes.
Decades later when his hair had turned from
Brown to grey but his eyes were still blue
And wide apart, he painted a little ***
Sitting on a pale surface, gazing into nothingness.
This painting took him a long time.
He had to get it right, the tones , the lines,
The connections.
After he finished ‘Little *** he sat down
And stared into the two blue blobs set wide
Apart on its surface and he thought, “this is
Me, the boy, the man, the painter, of wide
Apart, unnameable moments.”
The Beginning.
Love Mary ***
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was in a letter (you
and you didn't dare even write the word. never were brave enough
to love me
openly.)
the first time you told me you were in love with me,
it was when you were leaving me for him. (i wasn't worth
the price;
you did a
cost-benefit analysis
you never left me, really. and cut your losses.)
he left and we returned to what we were before
him, as if we'd pressed pause
if i closed my eyes i could almost believe
it would be okay
we were still glowing-gold
and perfect.
but instead of the synchronicity,
some unnameable tension, the jarring sensation
that something in us was out of alignment. (i asked you to wait:
give me time,
some days more to play pretend.)
the first time you told me you weren't in love with me
was just after you told me you would have married me
would have run away with me
(as if i weren't the
teenager, here. as if it were my fault
for not being selfish
the heartbreak, the loss of ignorance and asking you to.)
was what brought us back in sync. you wrote once
about the end, the devastation that the city of us
was victim to. (we're finding that the damage is
less like an explosion
and more like an
earthquake: broken glass, aftershocks, and
the first time i told you i wasn't in love with you cracks in the
anymore, foundation)
i didn't know why, hadn't noticed the cracks in the pavement;
i had only just started to see
the shards of glass.
you kissed me ten days ago, and said you didn't know why
it didn't feel wrong, why it didn't feel like cheating.
it's starting over again, i told you. the glass is being swept up,
our pieces falling back into place. (it's the natural order for us;
this, darling, our effortless cohesion, will always
rebuild the city.)
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
Looking deep one may see into the looking glass.
In their rough, ragged cloth, the pale old Magi.
Appear high in the trees of the hills.
With hard faces like rain-beaten stone,
And all their helms of silver from the depths of the Dwarven mines,
And all their eyes focused on the valley ahead,
Thick pipe smoke spiraling into the sky
The unnameable mystery of a ******* score.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
How do they call you,
those who’ve passed through unmarked
twin doors for the shy
side of one century?
Is it as Nicholas
of Myra,
or of Bari,
or as an unlocated saint,
working wonders in
this home of trim white-stone
block, with three tiers of black-
arches, frowning up at
the merciless
grids behind?
Rows, rows, rows, they float on
glassy, steel-blue oceans,
and these oceans will fall in
violent, cascading, millennial
waves unlike any with foam
caps that once lapped
the rocky coast of lost Lycia--
your see
our maps don’t contain,
and our licit hosannas won’t reach.
Who are they
who pray here?
Bakers, sailors, bankers,
all whose sighs
rise with a torrent of immigrant chants
liaison rafters
fracture in echo-song,
the old coinage that plies your favor.
To which patron can they turn
when your cross crowns not
the work of masons
but one day’s
rubble,
a tongue without a bell,
the charred
relics of unnameable acts?
Aug 15, 2010
Aug 15, 2010 at 1:16 PM UTC
beneath the tin roof,
beside the shrubs of unnameable greens,
where white light bouncing off white walls
does not touch your skin but sear you all the same—
the snip of metal,
the lull of sporadic humming,
sends you to opiated oblivion,
and on your feet:
waves of dark hair
touch the earth
and get blown away
lightly, slowly
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 8:19 AM UTC
I'm trying to live life to the fullest
and the meaning is on the crest
As I look at the sun
this fleeting feeling sweeps over me
the horizon will always be on the run
such an unnameable emotion
just out of reach, blowing in the wind
I'm becoming blind,
to what is really happening
I'm trying to harmonize
but instead I'm anathematised
it doesn't matter what time of day
or how I try to contemplate
I'm pushing you further and further away
I don't obligate
you to stay
you don't want to be analyzed
or rationalized
you're already leaving me behind
I'm just beginning to understand
self, mind, can you discern?
you radiate such command,
your meaning causes this yearning
I'm tantalized
and hypnotized
then you start to depart
before I can truly see,
hear this plea
to grant my desire to comprehend,
you're slowly slipping out of my grasp,
before I can write this fleeting,
fleeting thought down
you've already flown,
flown far,
far away............
...............
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
Because before they meet each other
they accentuate the bad in themselves
that want someone
to say
that there is bad in them,
to validate that fact
so much so,
that they intentionally push the good down,
They want to feel evil and ugly
and horrible, because those feelings are safe.
So,
I think, when a lover meets another lover;
meets their residual and their main source,
they feel something beautiful,
something inexplicable,
something they can never put to words,
and so the ugliness returns because
they look at their lover
speechless,
they can't say what they truly feel,
it is the encroachment of everything modern
and fleeting that holds them mute.
But when they see a flower,
they see
something that grew
from a seed,
out of the dirt,
and out of sewage
and ****
and ugliness,
to a stem
climbing against
forces whose entire reason
was to bruise it;
to a bud
holding optimism in its womb,
to a budding,
to the final bloom
to those naked petals
luscious with the perfection
that is watered with pain,
they feel beautiful
because the flower is natural
it remains unspoiled even though
that is not to say there have not been attempts
to spoil it
because the flower will decay.
But
that instantaneous, and inexplicable oneness
they felt when they first encountered the flower
and the beauty it encapuslated;
that moment of clarity,
that moment of pure euphoria
so wordless it became a hurting void;
that feeling will never die.
So, they give each other flowers,
because that memory of instantaneous
and irrevocable beauty, in all of the work
it took to create;
inasmuch as it seems spoiled
and hidden underneath
a canopy of weeds
or in the millions of commercial growhouses;
returns constantly when
they are together,
because humankind has created nothing
when it comes to love,
we have classified it,
objectified it,
destabilized it,
even destroyed it,
but we do not truly know it,
only the unnameable
and inexplicable forces
inside of us
can name it.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
Drowned in self pity
Negativity
Eats you up like breakfast
Tears away fragile tissue
Smears your head in thick mud
Dirt in your lungs
Spits on your dreams
Kicks at your wishes
But he's weak
He comes
He goes
No more
And when you find the strength
Peak your head over the high mountain
Down into the green, green valley
The valley, not of death, but the opposite
Be sure to remember his face
Never forget the horrors of old
For they are what keep you from that place
Another visit, another level of Hell
It's never necessary lest you're careless
If you forget that grudges aren't you
And they only **** truth
And that sharp words make no one
Except the speaker... bleed
This - this thing -
Unnameable but unmistakable
Unseeable and unkillable
It diesnt deserve your sugary disposition
Or you're homely offer of kindness
Just show it what you're made of
Smile a smile to cause blindness
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
Your 'Top TRP' news team has just learnt that
A consortium of fanatics and hypocrites now claim
That the proprietorship of 'God' is now with them
And will spew hatred on anyone disobeying them.
Our unnameable “reliable” sources tell us that
Anyone desiring to worship 'God' “more perfectly,”
Henceforth, must follow their rules quite strictly
Or floggings will be handed out quite promptly.
Our brave insider informants have divulged that
At last have awaken our pious priests and scholars
To discuss these “disturbing new developments;”
But they're upset most about lost revenue streams.
The atheists were seen rejoicing and saying that
There is no need any more, *“for us to self-promote
While our competitors repeatedly self-mutilate.”*
But have they forgotten, Stalin also preached hate?
Our unquestionably reliable survey tells us that
We are angry, sad, glad, disgusted and also clueless
In roughly equal measure. But most are just curious:
“How all this bla-bla will effect commodity prices?”
There was however, an 'odd' man who said that
God is Love and God does not hate. Will turn to rust
He who chooses hate. *“Not in someone's deep pocket
Will I find God. But God I'll find, always in my heart.”*
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
Well Darlin'
You're absolutely Write
No Heart
Was made
For Sad Songs
No.. FOR Beauty
In Her Richest Light
Freedom as
Her Grestest
Flame
Power as
Unfailing Truth
And Wisdom
Lovers Guide
Unnameable
If You don't help people..
At least don't
Hurt them
Simple
And when you do..
Have the
Courage
To make it Rite
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
You left, because you had come.
You arrived where you belonged.
Five years ago, when we first met,
I did not know we would become the best of friends.
I did not know
I would feel like this.
In the evening we said goodbye, an unnameable feeling slowly rose in my heart.
When I got home I could not hold it in anymore - and so it burst.
That feeling which suffocated me could not be described with words.
Only with tears.
I have cried many times in my life.
Every time it has been difficult.
But ever since then, well into the next morning,
I would never again be the person I was that evening.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
i hold it, like roses hold on to the snow.
like the snow holds on to the cobblestones in the sky.
and the sky, its wandering light.
and light, its arrival in its absence.
and releasing, its weary seeker.
i flee from it, like time keeps fleeing from the clock.
like the clock flees from its last stop.
and the last, its living truth.
and life, its vast unnameable.
and questioning, its pallid resting place.
i forge it, like the moon forges the waves.
like the waves forge the cliff's labyrinth.
and the labyrinth, its single thread.
and the thread, its thousand fragmented words.
and dissembling, its puzzle pieces without end.
i ask it, like a sinner asks forgiveness from a God he believes dead.
like death asks of life nothing but patience.
and patience, its tender faith.
and faith, its open hand.
and answering, its fragile soliloquy.
i reveal it, like the holy spirit reveals itself to non-believers.
like belief reveals shelter from its own incompleteness.
and incompleteness, its secret freedom.
and the secret, its anonymous keeper.
and hiding, its unspeaking reply.
i seek it, like the waves seeking to return from the beach.
like the beach seeking footsteps unfading from the sand.
and footsteps, their fierce stampede.
and ferocity, its crystal shape.
and reaching, its impossible limit.
i find it, like a book finds its reader.
like the reader finds an old friend between the pages.
and a friend, their love returned in full.
and love, its givingness become relay.
and searching, its pilgrimage.
i hold it, like roses hold on to the snow.
like the snow holds on to the cobblestones in the sky.
and the sky, its wandering light.
and light, its arrival in its absence.
and releasing, its weary seeker.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
I heard you speak tonight
You bared your soul in a private space
And you saw me in you
Do you know?
I couldn't find the words to say that I understood you
That you had described my life, my wanderings in this world
So accurately
I almost didn't recognise myself in you
You looked so scared
So strong
So valiant in your battle
So confused by your own mind
And you broke me down
I had felt so alone in my conviction
That everyone else thought these things and won
I hadn't imagined that anyone else
Felt the way I did?
I thought I was surrounded by aloneness
Until I heard you
You made me see that it had just been me
But I was never on my own
You hovered at the end
Then left
I'd wanted to say what seeing you meant to me
But I couldn't clear my mind enough
To let you know how much you'd helped me:
In your hour of need
You gave me the strength you were searching for
I hope I can tell you to your face some day
That you changed my life tonight
In that way that only chance meetings can
Quickly
Quietly
Beautifully
Thankyou, my unnameable knight
You do not know your own strength
But I do
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
The synapse in which both of You and I meet.
Though, no longer can I tell where I end and You begin.
An enduring connection of which escape is dubious.
Inevitability remains a common guest,
A parasitic fiend that clenches control
As You and I laze, nonchalant of the approaching villain
That of whom strides quicker, grows stronger, and wills to linger.
A darkened silhouette against our brush plain.
Finally: It conquers us, You and I,
And as It reveals itself I see It's face - one of a cryptic familiarity.
The Unknown presents It's dominance with an otherworldly grin.
In that moment, I see what looms so maliciously.
I see that after all, It was truly You,
Rather than some unnameable Thing
Or a being higher than I,
My sunset plain was merely broken by You,
And You alone.
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 8:11 PM UTC
These things I’ve left behind are unnameable.
They are feelings
and instances
and glances around
corners
and sweeps
of the wind
and a moment
of laughter.
They are the sand beneath my feet
and the people
who stood next
to me as
I dug in my toes.
They are city lights
who will burn in
one state
or another.
They are the places I will roam
trying to duplicate
but never replicate.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
we had one night
and it came and went like a wave on the shore
with nothing to show,
except what you and i know to be true
we had one night, just one
five entire years in the making
when we existed entirely at a precipice –
hot breath on my neck (yours) fingers inching up my sleeve (yours)
the suspense was killing me
we had one night
one night when everything could have changed
and i suppose it did,
because we haven’t spoken in a year
i don’t think i’ve gone a day without wondering how you are
i hope you’re happier,
i hope you’re found what you were looking for,
that unnameable thing you tried and failed to find in me that night
i hope we meet again
i also hope we don’t,
i know you understand
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
Ten thousand screams, seething with rage,
Ten thousand cries, trembling with pain,
Merging into one, a relentless wave,
Years of feeling, fractured and fleeting,
Rushing through the corridors of my mind.
A violent melody, endless and raw,
A symphony stretching across eternity,
Then everything dissolved into silence,
I sank to my knees, drowning in emotion,
What was this feeling, unnameable, ungraspable?
It was everything at once, yet nothing at all,
Tremors rippled, inside and out,
Echoing through the fragile shell of my world,
The walls I built, brick by careful brick,
Collapsed in seconds, a symphony of ruin.
What was that feeling? They called it panic.
I thought I was fine, thought I was okay,
But was my well-being a masterful illusion,
A play I directed to soothe my mind,
To fabricate solace for my existence?
That feeling—everywhere, yet nowhere at all—
The tight, suffocating pain, piercing through,
Everywhere, yet nowhere, a phantom ache,
My world crumbling, and truth dawning:
I was doing too much, yet not enough.
It was cold, unrelenting, this truth—
Nothing is enough, not even everything.
I wanted to cry, not just inside,
But to pour out the ache that hollowed my chest,
Yet Death hovered, its blade aimed at my heart.
Cold, numbing, but somehow awakening,
I had to stop pretending, stop the facade,
To find the strength to truly be fine,
Not in illusion, but in truth’s embrace,
To seek the help that heals the soul.
Everywhere, yet nowhere at all—
The pain, the guilt, the resentment,
Aimed at everything, yet nothing at all.
And in that moment, I gave myself permission,
To not be okay— and that was enough.
-fir.m
Nov 28, 2024
Nov 28, 2024 at 1:44 PM UTC
Giving a name to a space is easy.
Giving a reason for it is much more
complicated, but she had a talent.
You thought there would be more to it,
fiery words, shouting in smoke, maybe
even an explosion or two, but it didn't
happen that way. You thought there
would be a bang, but you got a whimper
instead. It's the feeling when you're about
to sneeze and don't, underwhelming-ness
overwhelming you. Do you feel that?
I will crawl out of my grave and come
looking for her. I did it every day in high
school anyway. She said she wanted to see
the inside of my tomb, but I didn't know
what it looked like until I closed the door
behind us. I'm sorry.
We wanted everything, the whole wide world,
with all its decrepitness, all its Jerusalems,
all its glittering scars. We really did. Maybe the
effort matters. Maybe desperation counts for
something in this world. I can feel it; she belongs
everywhere. A place isn't a place unless she's
touched it, as if her breath alone has changed the
very chemistry of the air.
I just wanted her next to me. Is that so terrible?
There are worse things to want. Honestly,
I want the worse things too, but I'm willing to
give them up for her.
Because I know her. I know her in ways words
can't touch. I know her in breath and blink
and almost, those words the words themselves
can't grasp, as if their own meanings are lost
to them. Because I know her.
She was solid and soft. She held my hands
inside hers until they were warm again, and
when I looked at her, the world slowed down.
I could think clearly again.
But the beach, always the beach, water colliding
with rock violently and the air crackling with
something unnameable. I drew circles in the sand
while she stared at the back of my head, rolling
pebbles around in her hand. After she left, I knew.
A blessing looks a lot like a curse when you're in the middle of it.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
it is in dove's ways how i love you
and it is no common sight
to take glory out of what this
life ever so defiles with its
uncouth hands.
in the way that i soar with my
unnameable wings over your
territories finding shade,
clinging with the wind, my mothered world in the eclipse of a day's turning - where together with the fleshly rivulets i am unafraid
to trample the night with lithe sound: a wing's flutter echoes
through the caves of your mouth deepening in primeval silence. stones woven earthly, intricate as a bed of mendaciloquence where truth lies stripped to the bone of the very voice of it. oh and what solace waits for me yonder hills that recognize my stretch - even the shadows rejoice in their fill of my passing elegies yet, no love
shall die! night arrives drowsily over these planes that seek me, and i cascade as gentle as a pond girdling your ample fish that i viscerally own, thriving inside me, whirling in graceful fire.
the morning takes me with you,
its duty speaks where i was once
sterile without path - you take mine flight and hover past everything, spreading garlands that would name all of them, ours!
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
I heard you speak tonight
You bared your soul
In a private space
And you saw me in you
Do you know?
I couldn't find the words to say
That I understood you
That you had described my life
My wanderings in this world
So accurately
I almost didn't recognise myself in you
You looked so scared
So strong
So beautiful in your battle
So confused by your own mind
And you broke me down
I had felt so alone in my conviction
That everyone else thought these things
And won
I hadn't imagined that anyone else
Felt the way I did?
I thought I was surrounded by aloneness
Until I heard you
You made me see that it had just been me
But I was never on my own
You hovered at the end
Then left
I'd wanted to say what seeing you meant to me
But I couldn't clear my mind enough
To let you know how much you'd helped me
In your hour of need
You gave me the strength you were searching for
I hope I can tell you to your face
Some day
That you changed my life tonight
In that way
That only chance meetings can
Quickly
Quietly
Beautifully
Thankyou, my unnameable knight
You do not know your own strength
But I do
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
how can you know a feeling
if you've never felt it before
realizing that
it has finally absorbed into my pores
overthrown my body
and taken up residence
in the oceanic depths
the Marianas Trench of my heart
now holding the reins
a nameless shadow living in my chest cavity
and eating away at the resolve
that has shackled me
and driven me on slick black asphalt
into palpable darkness of
a world i've never seen
how can you feel
when you don't have words
holding a dictionary to my heart
and praying to the gods
Merriam
Webster
to provide me with the
mixture of letters that might
shatter my muteness
and provide
permutations of syllables to
intercede for me
and finally give me
a label for those ephemeral tendrils
i feel protruding from me
and reaching
reaching
for you
how can i use a word
that is merely ink on a page
when this inundation
has flooded the streets of
my hometown
swept me away
and the only anchor i can find
is the chocolate profundity
of your eyes
that you lower in
what is that emotion
another word without meaning
that lives more as a
crushing pressure
grinding my bones to dust
shrinking me to a singular point in space
and time
time
you tell me to go slow
slow down
but how can i when my foot
is glued to the accelerator
and i am driving full force
into the brick wall of
more emotions i can't
touch
always just out of my
groping hands
calling your name and
the only word i have found
that seems to incapsulate
this churning rapacious feeling and
exquisite pain that
needs simply a word to
help you understand
because you can't feel what i feel
though i would allow you
to vagabond through my cerebellum
and maybe spend a night
in the absolute obsidian night
of my cerebrum
where that unnameable emotion
is the only thing
that can keep me warm
i'm an alien without country
without language to
communicate with this foreign world
where i have latched on
to you
your remora
for you most certainly are a shark
circling your prey
and i wait to be devoured
i welcome your destruction
the fires that rage from
the tips of your fingers
as they trace the lines of my
enemy body
ready to explode with
that emotion you urge me
to put away
to repress
and wait for another day
to inform you that
i love you
even if you don't love me back.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
love is a dead pool, still and itching from the eyelashes it holds unwillingly that will never move from its glass surface, there is no wind in hell. love is a broken antler broadcasting heaven thru its creature, barreling through the trees with unrelenting grief, when all that surrounds is dark, not evil, just dark, emphatically imaginative. Snapping a neck on the trunk of a tree, swan diving straight off a cliff into the sea or just to bleed, raining over the cracks in an earthworms ceiling. The dark that comes after, that is love. cog-less, fluid, and remarkable. completely human and cognitive when it constricts around your neck and lets u go just before u asphyxiate. Violent and gentle, caustic and admiring, a skeleton dancing without his hinges. It is wonder fed a disease, on prismatic plates without chips or marring; just colors one and all. i dont know where you are and i dont know where i have been. i need you to exist or some part of it, before my earth climbs out of its skin. with or without you. love is a blood wind, a mastic for skin, a backdrop for sin and everything that crawls in the dirt without limbs, it is godless and wild, a smoking gun, spiritual eviction, blood all over the bedroom wall, jealous and infinite, unnameable and free, a reservoir of dark dreams and darker fantasies.
please excuse me, i see the headlights coming and
this rapture has been far to long in arriving
there is no spirit in the sky
everything is in your eyes
god is in your eyes
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC