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a monster's romanticsI got a nervous habit and I drink too much.Can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last timethat we spoke? “We’re killing time just a little bit faster.”The words come with a new kind of sadness.If it looks like Armageddon’s coming down today,please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming; I can’t tellif he’s real or a made-up version of her again. Andthe hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.
augustyou tear apartevery aspect of me,and i lie on the ground.dissected;still not whole.
breakingtime ticks on and you changeto survive, but survival of the fittestalways seemed a bit skewedin the history booksof whoever won this war.you're a chance to show themthey were wrong;pull the trigger one last timeand let them knowwho you're going to be.if they smother you, shinebrighter than the fragmentsthey're made of -- don'tlet them make you a ghostin the machine that spins awayin forgotten dimensionsuntil it rusts. the craters of the moonwill always call for you,changing the tides endlesslyuntil your voice crackles throughthe radio and shouts back,"no one can break me!"
Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the heightof an Indian summer -- a cloudburst collidinginto a cyclone, raising the temperature of anywho wander through our sweaty inversion.I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,straight into a clap of thunder conceived bylightning fever. A roiling heatwave travelsacross our connection, evaporating the atmospheresurrounding the eye of our storm. Your humidbreath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
handfuls of memoriesyour eyes are the gray of the cloudswhen they cover the sun after a storm;your words washing up on the skylineof my towering city at night, a messagein a bottle only to be read by me.ignoring gravity, i've recklesslyspilled the secret lives of shadowsto a piece of paper just for youand buried them with the ocean.since that day i'm the hunted;for they want to make buttonsout of my traitor bones.i am standing on the edge of a mountain,watching as my carrousel dreams float away.they dissolve into smoke and are consumedby the eyes of night. my paperweightsoul tears as each piece disappears.misguided ghostsis what they are, trying to fool meinto an urban maze of skylines andturnstiles. bad blood is what theydoomed my soul, but i'll keep on running.i will not forsake you; not even whenmy skin is smothering me.but i am chasing after the sky in a futileattempt to be your knight in shining armor,a glint of blue ice running uphill unceasingly.a never-ending battle to u
charred journalsStripping all of me from the page,tearing off 'I's and 'we's;to try and stuff myself backinto my body, to struggle withfinding a way to becomewhole again, despite the missing pieces.Tears -- of s c a t t e r e d &
the day is coming to an enddon’t say it.the embers only igniteif youbreatheon theashes.don’t breathe.rather,breathe;but notwith me.the moon hassunk beneathyour cheekbones.we do not needto tryagain.the sun will rise. someonewill be your first thoughtand I will be yourexhale.that is alright.don’t say it.once litit is sureto die.quickly burn,and endour lives.it will sizzle,it will rage,against the dyingof its day.it will burnour hands that weso tightlyclasp ontothe untamable.it will burn our homes.family.friends.natural penance fortaking pride in whatis suretovanish.don’t say it.leap.don’t look back.press your handsto the glass andfog it withnewly acquaintedpassionate embraces;leave cornydrawnhearts.breathe;but just not,with me.
immortaland we are synapse flashingslipping sliding sneaking throughour crumpled-bone fingers andsandpaper lip kissesand desolation is scratching up anddown our throats clawing andtearing away our voices untilwe can no longer screamand so we whimper and watchas our demons fly from our gaping jawspouring forth in a s(c/t)ream ofalienating aching agony that now defines usand so we are now the darkness pulsingjust out of reach behind our dull eyesand we are poltergeists and bending bonesdisturbing and disturbed we are now your nightmaresand so we live onin you
when i was four i thought the sky was blue marble.my father feels guiltyfor spending my childhoodspending time with my brother and cars,not me.he feels even worse every time he yells at me;he yells at me a lot.my father buys me booksto try to buy my love (or maybe my forgiveness)but he doesn't realize that he's just paying meto love other people;some dead poet he doesn't know shit aboutand probably wouldn't understand.but thanks though.
jerichoshe must have dreamed him,assembled of slow piecesthat clutchedand called in the darkmoments;she is a templeand he is dismantling herwith chorused gloriesthat terrace andwax.he bleeds desire,an ache to sculpt her;a curse born of ruin,a silence crafted sharpin flickered glancesand in flame.she must have known him,borne witness as hestormed and conqueredwith shadows rampantat his backand she must have seen himbehind shut eyes;not as he will benor as he is,but as shewould have him;arching hallelujahsunder the domesof her doomedcity.
space hungeri took the moon hostagei took the moon homesundered in lungsent young debts, sunsetspale heart, failed start, stale art, endlessthat strange sanctity in self-destructiona holiness, a southbound trainin cracking, vasodilated veins.this moon says my pixel resolutionis dimming, i strain so vast to see you.this moon says these mountains aremore effort than it is worth to be you.this moon says i want so badlyto be young again, muscled and vivid.a trace, a space for a dead bird pallidin a dead box. heartwood, not breathing.i used to know a boy. that'sthe end of the story. or: i used to knowa moon, and now she isa girl. i told her it was safe here, andshe believed me right up untilthey sliced her up for moondustand factory (reset).let's start again, let's try these new tides.let's not keep these tired eyes.let's embrace our fumbled sides,stop slipping out of our skinswhen we go to sleep. let's upthat pixel resolution, love. let'sleave this ritual burning, love. let
wholenessi climb inside not womanand make a place therefor myselfi throw away the spacethat does not fitand take onenever offered:i am as much a girlas a mountaini am as much a boyas the seai am the soundof unborn voiceand swollen tonguei am the soundthat the word home makeswhen i thinkbut do not speak
these bitter kids have sharper hipsoh, i am aching to pry apart this skull &meet the ghosts thumping at its insides.i'm just pining for a rib cage like afuneral pyre or a staircase;i want to bloom from thesebitter bones & waste -(until i'm the corpsesleeping in the casket)
i miss autumn in your eyes, fire on your lipsyou wear a coat of wounds,gloves of razorblades& it’s almost likeyou just can’t stopaccidentally cutting throughyou heed words of hate,songs of death& it seems you can’tignore the feeling offluid iron holding your wristyou preach sermons of doubt,litanies of lies& i don’t know this huskof the beautiful, starwatchingperson i once called you
fresh herbs for lisai'm buried up to my wrists in thick, moist dirt and behind my right shoulder a stranger is squatting in the unkempt grass, using my fence as an easel as he sketches a pair of familiar eyes."why do you want to know, anyway?" i ask, my fingers finding the roots of an overgrown mint plant and tugging, tugging off the newest shoots; i'll replant them somewhere, maybe beneath the plums.the sketcher is silent, his eyes flicking between my mother and the detective hidden by the wheelie bin at my side. my mother's brow is furrowed and i realize, i cannot recall her name."we'd just like to speak to him," says the detective, and i can hear him bouncing on the balls of his feet."don't do that. you'll squash the squash."and then my mother, my beautiful, nameless mother, is speaking over me: "if you just want to speak to him, why are you taking his face in charcoal?"the detective falls silent and the sketcher rolls up his paper suddenly, as if it's something to be ashamed of; he's still tucki
tablature (#16)u.sharpest noteon sheet music,eyeing half-stepswith displeasure,you ring the tollwith vibrating thunder,storm irisand electric ticks.you said i quit:those words weavedinto the slitsof my digitsand i quivered,waveredbecause i fear youbecause i adore youbecause i love you.i wanted to blanketevery lie i ever toldmyself and stitchthe quilt around my neck;knitted laceties togetherthe part i want to be;and the part that i am.living to dieand floatingin purgatory;your touchthe eve of heaven;the wait,corrupted monstersroaming the monasteries,the hellhole of myflawed continuation.i.feudalism of the mind,again(st) an uncharted heart;personal saga two.but this is the second partof the third time.articulation is a siren,unable to pull the trigger for,fearing she'll do it willingly,howeveryou are stillthe light bulbin my skull.turn me onand keep it pulleduntil the buzz fizzles intosummer attics.some are addictsand lamen
friendships aren't meant for abuseMy good friend Anahas long, skinny armsand thin blonde hair,that seems to flyaway in the wind.My good friend Anaeats only saladsand dreams of ballerinas,dancing all in a row.My good friend Anahas arms you could snap.Legs with a gap andhip bones with an ocean between.My good friend Anafears our'bigger is better' mentality.It threatens her. My good friend Anahas many mutual friends.She can be seen at every party,and talking with anyone insecure. My good friend Anais kind. She always looks outand helps you along. My good friend Anacan no longer see me.I'm told she's killing me.I'm told she's a serial killer. My friend Anasticks to the shadowsand is reflected in eyesof so many girls. My friend Anahas a sinister grin.She seems ghostly, like paper. She's forgotten about healthy meals.My friend Ana snuck in last night.She comforted me as I cried.Told me that I could stop being worthless.Ana has a black heartand a
42you should neverlove a poet, do not trustthem with yourheart - love may betheir language, butthey are always best atbreaking.
if i screamed it, perhaps (nanogliimo)child's play and seasoningspushed into my pa(i)n,we've surpassed puppy loveand became a shipwreckin a galaxy farther than i could've ever anticipated.an intergalactic trading companysits at the tips of your pen tendrils,my darling alien:Teletubby & Son Spice Export,a place where your inner childis revealed and in return:the tang of the sunand the mustard of my sinsdrip down onto your tonguespitting plasma;both re(a)d and gold.in the greatest story never told,this is what those hands have builtin the silence of the nightas you became a wanderingstar; a bejeweled gypsylooking, searchingendlessly now
Insomniac IndispositionInsomniac IndispositionI swear that I have iron in my veinsand that bed is a fucking magnet.I lie in places where nights are sleeplessand the only thing that keeps me companyare the white lights that play in the dark.My mind playing tenementfor phantoms that sing songs alongand around my fragmented neurosis. I’m a dying insomniacand the only thing I hold closeare my sweat-smothered covers,sheets and bedspreadskeep the dead heads from risinginto the light that first took them.My bedroom is the cagekeeping me from Summer and Spring.Holding only Winter in its walled palmsI never really ever seem to meet Fall.But in the same brisk wind,it is my haven.Shackled yet protectedto the worn springsthat hold me up,keeping me from fall-ingraining ingratiating ingrowthinto the inner circle I never had,but engrafted upon me.More than anything,I am like newborn birds I cannot see,the main difference is I never left the nestto actually spread my wing di
grey rainbowsyou cross my mindlike children's feetpatter across the street,and in the disney waistline wrinklecarved into the palm of my hand,i imagine your handshaphazardly floating into minenestling confusion and distortionin the same nest as closed spaces.our voices synthesizesynchronized heartbeatsin the resting place of growthas we monitor only each otherin this wrestling conundrumof this contemporary heterodoxwhere our affection prevails.our connection of slenderinglingering fingerswere not made to matchand our toes were not toldthat they’d curl when our hairsmelted into each others’or that our skinwrapping around transparencywould rile like matchesthrown into a wildfire.and the ash cloakthat chases the smokewill be love that still floatsin the air that is unable to swallow ittoo much for the pullof a tormenting windrunning the gamutof spectrums and spectersfolding in sex and foiled in sectionswe are closed-in deception grazingplain(s) like
half truths, half lies, half wishesi.it's like rain in the middle of an ice storm, you can't explain it and you don't know why but that doesn't stop it from happening and freezing your porch- but you don't find out about that part until the next morning when you hurry out because you're already five minutes late and there's going to be traffic and you suddenly go from walking briskly to black to waking and wanting to claw for the covers that aren't there because it's too cold for comfort and you're already two hours late and fuck traffic, what you really need is a warm cup of tea with a splash of something stronger because if your head is going to pound like that, you might as well give it a good reason to do so.ii.give me a ticket to anywhere and i'll be more than happy to take it and put it in a box beneath my bed so i can dream and wonder of what-ifs and maybes that i let slip between my fingertips. i'll never remember about that box, i tell you, and you may not believe me but that's probably because i'll lie if i