Nic fits, the little fluctuations
in my otherwise flat emotional
geography. Twenty fatal hour
glasses daily, dividing the time
    filling empty space
with their swirling whisps.
 
Brown-stained fingers fish
out another from a limp
soft-pack. Another disposable
morsel, tip kissed with another
disposable BIC, torched down
to the filter by another disposable
“I,” then cast into the gutter—
with the rest.
 
(Then a fit of hacking like steel striking
 birch quashes any implicit poetry.)

he was killed, i can promise you that
not that it meant a ******* thing
his hands were solid, calloused from everytime
he tried to set himself on fire
selfish immolation, no cause
no contribution, he wasnt
great
         full, for his feet
which stood on souls
because his iron skin
curled into steel fists
radiated power, white hot steam
creepily peeking out of the furnace

when he finally moved, carelessly
flailing around,
a steer in an antique mall
furnished with heirlooms
that were stolen,
that we weeped over for years,
he didnt care
                       fully pour himself a glass
to sooth his aching, his self infliction
he feared we, he did fear
unwittingly filling his glass with
water, belly full, poisoned
with clarity, we poured out his whiskey,
he would suffer loss, he would suffer loss with us
poisoned with clarity
his glass looked transparent,
reflected like a mirror
poisoned with clarity
he was so empty

Tepid times, as the grass,
Covered in little, tiny
Dew drops, sways in
The hot wind of
The orange summer sky
I run my red tinted fingers
On your sticky warm face
In the almost dead
Vegetation
I close my eyes
Feeling the heat coat me
As your hand
Slips from mine
For you were just a
*Mirage

the gate shut hard
locked deafeningly
ruffling the blankets
and making the mattress creak
a gentle breeze
woke me violently
and i was forced
to admit that i'm cold