And she says no.  The cream light
under her back porch’s awning collects
in her tears.  She slides her toes
within the tangle of grass and
weeds beneath us as we sit
in damp folding chairs.  Fogfruit
wanders amongst the webbings
on my feet with soft, upward strokes.  
I echo myself again in hopes
of tapering the night.  
Can I leave?  

And she says no.  Fogfruit
under her damp folding chair slides
in her tangle of grass and weeds.  She echoes
soft, upward strokes
beneath us as we sit
in the cream light.  The night
wanders amongst her back
porch’s awning with myself again.  
I taper the webbings of my feet
in hopes of collecting her tears.  
Can I leave?  

and she says no; fogfruit still
between my toes

inches it seems made
strides make, steps itty bitty
constantly forward

describe to me the setting sea against the tidal suns
tell me bitter lies of why it is how you used to be
and how again it was no pain for wave to break
shore leave fantasy incredible relations between
***** muck cracked claws on diamond webbings
sin first to be last to win thirst against troubled
these times are horrid ticks against the nature
of the beast of the man un nat ural ural ural the sea
it'll be better, he said he said to me once on a sunday
hell is plane that ever plain never lands upon the shores
never leaves absent mothers mothered bothered by
and never never never ever always contradicts
by nature it is it is unatural unnatured beast of wild
a forsaken tool to best be bit by other claim in sin
the thirst is taken by the moon, a tidal blood
in throat the catchings diamond webs of spiricals
of the sunday bishop movements, ever always after
before before the time it was again begun
and and in somewhat strange obtuse pear trees
strange fruit from cocoons hatched sideways
until pear time fruitlets dropped in spheres
into the open casket boiling cracking crab like muck
of breaking waves in boiling oceans, horrid licks
you find you dunce that chasing shadows much like days
pass far too quick to grasp the nettle and be stung
and be thirsty for a placement upon the mantle up
where higher drownings laugh all about the smoke
all in shade of biscuit trees all in fade of tin echoes
empty Christmas biscuit tins sound like themselves
the hollow noise of prophecy against september
again the bland misunderstandings recalled
no pain, never ever always was in hell in heaven peace
that breaks the ocean belts the cliffs produces shame
in fingertips in felt like cat skin rugs and wigs cat hair
counterparts to breeze it is the summer storms the
bleak monsoons of rain that's ****** from mothers ****
that seen to rise in single breath of sky and fall in
grey obtuse sleets to earth made sea made mirrored sky
sage test by broken widowed insect feelers pert to thunder
hunger by the hundred lightening strikes to mass in
bleak grey ember skies, silent spiracles of sun in
shade take refuse out from heap and pile again
beneath the skins of elder hills of somewhat tainted
trousers made up of younger weeds and roots and
****** thirsting up against the garage door that opens
fast too quick too soon too much and **** dirt up
again ever never after seeing hell far too often break
up break up and smile that ocean going smile
wave goodbye with breaking helm with crack of pearls
and peal of thunder late reminder of the blinding
light against the grey now november skies
again, again, it ever never is always maybe somewhat
breaking on the steps on the path away towards
under bleak stained crab carcass shores away towards

as I am numbed in euphoria by
the closeness of his embrace,
the eclipse which held me in paralysis
slowly bleeds in the sky
as it anchors a crescent light of passion.

oh, he has held the disaster of my body
in his palm and has laid me naked upon him.

tucked neatly among the webbings of his fingers
is a whispering lily that sings me to sleep.

the sphere of black,
fixated upon the sky,
is melting...

I weep to see his loving eyes
pour over the deprived valley
that is the entirety of my being.

yet...
It is as if this man,
and his exposed nakedness encompassing me,
is the coming season of warmth
which teaches me nourishment...

Close my eyes too tightly,
Like an
Overcautious man
Closes his new lipstick colored engine;
Kissing it twice to ensure divine safety.
Stained with love and yet it is merely a smudge;
A pool of berries off the bush,
Squished between webbings of the pale girl,
Giggling with her hair coiled tight in
Golden vines of eternity.
It is no sign of love,
Or depiction of passion,
But a shell to wash away with the tides that
Fly under the wings of the eagle,
A force coexistent with the wind,
Moving the sailboat
To the new world;
Round and not flat,
Unlike the amber horizon in its persuasive lie.
Yet in the old man’s alternate state of time,
Eyes veil themselves behind vibrant, intoxicating hues;
The illusion.
Through the charcoal and ash of painted blinds,
Stinging venom engulfs like the rip tide.
Which does pull me under to the inevitable death.
Can my anchored legs find the magic to
Escape the sadistic scorpion within my skull?
Or,
Should the emptying of sorrow in each elongated breath,
Explain perfectly,
In an eloquent dance of fairies and dust,
That an eye, at times,
Simply should not see.

my arachnophobia sure has got the best of me today
the little ones are alive inside of my ear canals
and the mother is carefully placing her brood behind my left eyeball

i didn't ask for ice with this drink
matter of fact, let's pay it even
give me the bottle, give me a seat, and don't ask questions

well ****, the spiders really got me today
anything i put in my body they use in some way or another
all my meals only exist in webbings and eggs full of vermin in my stomach

Sickly sensuous, the tree's burning branches twisting towards the frosted eternal ceiling, sunken hollows and curved swings are fragilely bound by frayed roots which grow by day under cheerful sundials reflecting the sky's chiffon ripples.
Joining the trees bowing branches were spidery threads scalloped between the mosaic webbings of wooden latticework; 
The odd turtle dove getting caught momentairily in the silver embroidery and cooing in alarm, before cooling under the star-shine.
Amorphous, brushed clouds rolled in rhetorical significance unknowing of what power the wind holds,
whilst black sac ravens drifted aimlessly down the purple road like the dry tumbleweed.

A broken heart is a dropped mirror against the bathroom floor
each shard scattering across the linoleum,
fragments reflecting the hidden parts
to something they thought they knew, oh so well.

The lining around the toilet really needs some hands on work--
behind it the sand dunes of the Arabian Desert.
Clumped up hair trying to mimic the humps of camels,
and a lone razor blade as frayed as
a lost wandered amongst the sand.

Wooden panels enriched with the holes of last times termites--
corners splayed with the webbings,
of those **** daddy long legs,
and a pincher bug trudging their way to a hole in the corner.

Picking up the pieces, was something to learn from.
This common room they thought they knew, oh so well,
actually had a hidden world just beneath their view.
Maybe the heart broke just like the mirror,
to open the mind to all the other things near by.

Rip off the band-aid, get it over with
I never thought it would come to this
Clear mind, clear eyes
Walking straight, no more lies

Don't rely on me and I won't let you down
You can't count on me, I'll only let you down
Don't reach out for me, I'll only let you drown

These feelings are getting harder to fight myself
Pulling teeth to admit I need some help
It's cutting deep on the webbings of my hand
Eyes wide open in a pile of sand

Tell me how is it I can fix this
Walk around the house feeling like a misfit
How can I numb this without a drink
Emptying bottles in the kitchen sink

Clean my wounds with a bottle of Jack
Drinking my way to forget the past
You followed me into the pits of hell
Just to show you that I can't get well

Don't rely on me and I wont let you down
You can't count on me, I'll only let you down
Don't reach out for me, I'll only let you drown

Do I love you?

At night, I dream of everything we could have been.
I sleep on my side with only the moonlight framing where you could be, where you should be.

I think of every part of you as deeply as I can because even though I can't be with you in this life, I can at least console my mind and pretend I ever had a chance.

My eyes remain unfocused and dazed as I imagine you because if I ever did decide to concentrate the few fragments of you I have left in the crevices of my mind would shatter.

I hold out my hands and rest them in front of me so I can pretend that you're there and I'm holding you in the bleary distortions created by the blinds on my window.

I no longer see my hands as my own and bring the backs of yours up to my lips, which are either dry or smeared in lip balm only to be chapped but still dripping in the sunrise that would come in mere hours.

I open your palms and run my thumbs over the wrinkles and lines, massaging the softest part just above your wrist. I run my fingers over your fingers, where they meet your palms, and the lines that run along the sides of your hand and between the webbings of your skin before stopping at the tendon. You tense because you don't like your wrists. They're a reflection of darker times.

In a manner I'd typically deem over-romanticized, I place a kiss on your fingers first, trailing chaster touches down to your palms. I ask for your permission first before I kiss your scars, and I hear a soft sigh once I do so.

I pull back and meet your dark eyes, which face away from the window so a halo of light wraps around your hair. I lean forward and press my forehead to yours, the sound of our breathing syncing in the background as our noses touch.

You kiss me. But it's not the kinds of kisses you usually give me like the ones we shared in front of your friends. It's the kind I can only get in moments like this, too tender for the rest of the world to ever really understand and too precious for me to ever really explain in a competent manner.

Our lips part and I feel your hand cupping my cheek, tilting my head up slightly. I never really got over the subtle touches I'd receive from you, from the feathery skims over my collarbones to the slight squeeze I'd feel when our fingers intertwine. I think you know that.

I think you also know that this is usually where it stops. Whether I intend for it to or not.

My eyes refocus, and I quickly close them so I don't need to meet my windowsill and bedsheets that mock me. I think about what you might actually be doing now, instead.

You may or may not be sleeping, just as you may or may not be thinking about me. But I know without a doubt that you're thinking about him, and how all the things I'd love to do with you you'd love to do with him if you haven't already.

I decide to let that be the last thing in my mind as a drift off, only to be greeted by more thoughts of you as the sun rises.