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SubscriptionsSites I Read
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| People.
When we sit beside ourselves
and smile, because we took one breath and let it out,
we'll watch the People, and make them watch us too:
We are so proud, we blink when we see the sun.
Their priceless impressions of our shadows, with
colors to preserve them-
We play with them,
and make believe we're the only ones.
We stand behind them and ask,
"Are they People?"
These, who wait when we live alone
In water,
staying only long enough to suffocate?
People, sitting in corners all day, making spheres,
out of a million parcels of pebble, soft enough to carve-
What we are,
their limbs, their strands of hair and pores,
their nail fibers and preachy veins-
all vacuumed before occupied.
Yes, all consumed before immortalized. | | |
| Life should be canceled when your brain's been through a sleep-deprived meat grinder. Just like this disgusting comfort; half asleep like your gushing heart pulsates awful scents of danse macabre. The way you pluck your veins from branch arms, off the thick tree can rip fingers from knuckles, skin the cherries of your cartilage from the muscle, weak from hemophilia. Cicada shells floating like corn flakes on grime. Milk is a shiny, dangerous, viscous mixture of bacteria and granulated cow udder.
Dirty compassion erodes like a vomit of oil rainbows. I kill a duckling and its feathers bathe in a psychedelic turnstile.
Both bothered and horribly unbearably suffocated by soft caterpillar loins and tendons freeloading throbs from my lips, the whole body of filthy love is destructive.
A brain stutters drip drip from a white, swarovski wall of teeth- beat right out of the fairy herself. | | |
| This room symbolizes my family:
No Picture Provided.
Completely detached, incompletely, this room can be gruesome to see. Where your foot vanishes in the pits in the floor, wires and their roots protrude. Your foot turns to termites. Your body carved out of coal.
The net of the window is ripped open. It lets the spiders in. The mosquitoes are transparent through their webs. But nothing to breed on. No body sleeps in here.
Walls are super-frugal. It is white naked and coated in a leprous wonder. One should hope that my family could build over the disheveled ruins. But I’ve seen worse. I saw a child live in a home without any walls, and her mother was buried in the floor, made of mud and cheap gardening soil. Sprinkled in Miracle Grow.
Cold and padded for blisters.
But it’s their custom, to live with it.
For us, there’s still insulation to replace, if there is any to take out. The floor needs the blanket to protect the surface from the fame of this room's abandonment.
The stink of dry wall fumes leaves the door unopened.
This decrepit ceiling is what’s left standing.
What here has been left undamaged?
Yes. This is my family. It’s no wonder why it is inhabitable. | | |
| People live for their memories,
And in, without hesitating to reply
Yes or No to lovely, Golden-Age
Conversations happening
On the other side of the daydream.
The life of old is a tape, set on pause,
Rolling with the static,
Plastic with that brittle sound.
The tape player’s rewind button is jammed,
And the forward button is too evolved
A technology to be on it,
It’s a ploy to keep the tape running
Until the white-wired end.
This old age is skipping tracks.
Listen to
The beats.
Each tune
In ecstasy,
Sound drowning
And mellow,
To solo.
No vocals
High pitched, over
Tuned octaves.
Vocals, which die
Into
The age-old tumor of jaundice hearing-vision.
Jazz brass trash, percussion shelves scrap.
This is the color of memory decay.
This is the odor.
Once old, life becomes white noise.
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| Death will be her anchor-Oh! Rosanne.
Frowning deep, profound smile,
Mother said, upon her casket, she wants the incense of a dying man. Make-believe makes a woman,
My Mother, she told me so, teeth in a white file.
Death will be her anchor-Oh! Rosanne. In a room of shards reverberates her heartless divan,
The unknown chanteuse’ song for her mile.
Mother said, upon her casket, she wants the incense of a dying man. The wax melts, light static from where it began,
Where thoughts thicken with sulphur defile.
Death will be her anchor-Oh! Rosanne. She shifts through bed sheets, toward the mirror pan,
Starring broken. Pain beckons, pain hostile.
Mother said, upon her casket, she wants the incense of a dying man. Lavender, chamomile, a sweet goodnight from pills cyan,
Sleeping spell for a sweet dream- to her clouded isle.
Death will be her anchor-Oh! Rosanne.
Mother said, upon her casket, she wants the incense of a dying man. | | |
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