(-)

the robot is a ******.

the baby
it goes
from baby
to baby
with no
message.

-

I want your work to matter.

(-)

subtitles, ghost
pollen / I sit

facing
my father

he strokes
a large
bumblebee…

Face twitching in laughter with spilled blue ink stored eyes that await the drought. Laugh it off and hold your structure from breaking down. The child in you is shifting between bedridden negligence and swell spent playground evenings. Dragonflies circling your abdomen - you\ve been nervous; ached for the past flash light of years. A guilty mishap shaped by a mother’s palms and dusted off by a father’s words. Her mental abortion, and his physical disappointment; The stigmatic product. Such black thoughts will fade into the whiteness of snow, but happiness is eventually cursed with superstition. Those who crossed you breathe, while you barely manage your way to it. About to tie an apology around your neck, it occurs to you, how just yesterday you thought to yourself exuberantly that hot showers on sunny winters are to live for; How ironic.

let’s drink cyanide milk
to enhance our bodies & ribcages.
let’s melt with infatuation
and forever call it “love"
as we keep it in heart as an understatement,
                                                 ­       & a blanketing term.

i've digested crimson tiles off your bathroom floor just to get a reaction;
an influence for the perception of acceptance.
does it at least hinder or unsettle you, the red that runs down my face?
lower than low; close to invoke
even when the color’s close to my chest,
it ceased to disturb.
i've only existed behind someones else's eyes for so long  
i need to shut my own lids next to you till I’m out of a blur.
your sphere of smeared wallpapers close in on you,
i claim what you walked out of —
a circle that rounds your comfort.
you’re boiling in a shade that reflects what I’ve stained myself with.
the room is in fragments; a gore and scene of demolishment
reminds you of a cancer burnt unseen.
hands of guilt washed with mournful streams of survival
you find drops of me left in the sink
i’m a mere nosebleed,
you recollect me off your floor thrown
into the blackness of the back of your head,
that you rest and rest, as you lie down,
until you’ve forgotten all about me

i've slipped on the attitude
to lure in then drift off
the "ideal you" into oblivion
now that nothing's the same
and all is stripped down
in its natural clean state
you can thank me later
with a pragmatic crown

it’s like your words send rain
that washes the earth
of all aches
and leaves it clean as a mirror
then the scented light emerges
wilted plants yet manage to grow again
and you’re all sleepy eyes & bashful
maybe because we're both transparent
& the sun’s staring right through us
instead of curling up in fear
you embrace the warmth of the invader
you’ve always been that way
which brings others to heavy merriment
but with a question of
how can one remain innocent by nature
that serves nothing to the art of cynicism

inside a bad mouth
rests an ashtray
lack of movement
reek of red-tainted cigarettes
sore and left with spit
scratched out beyond all recognition