cuttlefish carapace.

spent an hour shooting up liquid islands of nitro-glyceric positivity and a short temporal space building my dreams around the sorry structures of your cherrystone clavicle. and then you shrugged them off with a click of your castanet bones and some day our chernobyl fatality will send reflexive demifires scattering white hot through little boys' veins.

and maybe one of the infected will shout with laughable conviction
'i don't care if the world ends since i won't be the one to blame
and the denouement is disappointment splattered all over the page'
and pull the plug and drain the universe into antichromatic odd matter. and maybe the spiral catharsis will reset this event timeline into motion with him at the very epicenter of all this radiating improbability.

he could breathe, "let there be sound,"

and maybe nip all of this in the bud.

ocean drill.

i'm all strapped and smart with a nickel in my eye and splintered facets in my tie. as per all the signs and symptoms meticulously read from the entrails of our cephalopod star system, your rebound rendezvous is at your door.

are we bound northwards and higher?

still wrapped up in a world with not enough air.

you are are the object of my envy for your prey wanders in the darkened city. when it lays down its guard in an unknown alley, you may seize it by the cuff of its neck and tear it from limb to limb and our hearts asunder.

my prey wanders, but only in my mind, somewhere in my rainbow schools of thought. from the rooftop landing of any corporate skyscraper, i can connect all the cars on the roads like dots on a flowchart. but would they lead me to where you are?

a boy named caroline.

i've been picking at fate through wind spotted curtains that only standing a thousand feet above the ground can deliver.

i want to return to my nine-to-live of fueling the propellers for the sin of movement.

coalescence.

are you on fire?

are you trailing crimson ash and sulfur
with every step you take

into the wide, wild world?


we all know a life this large can be severely intimidating
without the comfort of a sparkling champagne pledge.


perhaps i shall see you when i appear
in every single one of the myriad gin joints in the world
(with a swish by the flair of magic or science.)


momentously, i shall seize you by your blue collar and take you home.

thermology.

i've been time-bound and confined to the momentary quasi fires of domesticated sunstorms.

a little early, a little late.

jeopardy.

so if some day time turned into treacle
how many jars do you think your past would fill?
secobarbital is your escape and
sildenafil citrate is for a reason,
called the blue pill.

what would science do if one day
the sky opened up to reveal an eye?
peering down with scrutiny and curiosity,
with shock and wonder and perhaps even fright;
oh yes, what would people do if the
ever-seeing eye in the sky was looking
down on us with undeniable fear
of what it has created?

what if the tragedy of babel was overcome
and one language dominated the universe
the earth, the galaxy, the cosmos beyond.
how could i ever learn to say:
'i love you for staying in perpetual motion' in
thirty languages before my death? how could
i ever learn to say: 'i'm sorry for all the
pain and trauma and shock and stress
i put myself through' at least in three?

what if the oceans dried up to reveal thousands
upon thousands of golden starfish?

hubris.

perhaps i'm now familiar with the turns of your pale
mourning dove wrists and fingers tipping on china glass.
perhaps i'm used to the cold metal clinking in the sunrise chill,
keeping time on late nights sinking into liquid amber mornings.

perhaps i'm familiar with our lex talionis settlement
and trained to retort over grim triggers and dilemma.
and trained to gauge the incandescent heat through
your flustered hair and your fresh, formless clothes.
with both our sides deadlocked with hephaistos's chains
as a sorry testament to our guilt and shame.

"your deus ex machina is a sorry excuse";
spoken in a coiled snake's whisper. ineffable, irreverent.
i feel your death crawling through my veins,
through the tendons at my clenched fists
and it stops one swerve short of your next heartbeat.

sometimes, you confess you are lenore, eulalie,
ulalum, annabel lee, morella, and eleonora.
or all that which they have in common; to me,
you are iustitia's renaissance humiliation.

perhaps i'll be fed to your furies, perhaps
i have come to grant you the status
of my nyx borne nemesis.

between our words laid bare like an open book, only written in braille,
are a thousand worlds lost in context that a. conan doyle would have envied.

schema.

my two-cent blueprints would be million dollar game plans, but only in some other dynamic station.

wild cards for wet dreams.

sublime
unlocked
scotch pine
swiss knife
tea leaf
lisps
harmoniphon
vagabondage
catatonia
dinnerware
porcelain
contortionist
blackberry
rainfall
electrodynamics
arrowhead
warzone
low-calorie
desolate.

erotomania.

i remember thinking it was a sign
that our machinations were so aligned.

medications, patience, you chose those clothes
on a corpus christi thursday. what would you wear with those?

love song.

come one sunrise, i shall sink my talons into your cold, morning skin, and shred to pieces the throbbing, slippery strands you're woven of, even if i may have to rip the hull of naglfar to forge myself the claws.

i'll cradle your severed head within my victorious arms like you were a child again, and whisper in your temple stories about the gods only you were meant to hear.

and then i will eat your ears. but i will not put out your eyes, so that at night you, like the uncountable stars in the skies that i have conquered, may hold vigil over my sleep of the kings.

euthalia.

the last piece of the puzzle is the prize.

(and just to spite your settlement, a gypsy moth flutters its wings to the south of atlantis.)

much of a muchness.

i'm all caught up in the idea of being composed entirely of strings.

outside of our attention spans, there's an infinitesimal, curled-up world licking up our spines.

(closer to you than your clothes or your warmth or mine for that matter)

but you don't have to think about it, and we can carry on resonating as sweetly as ever.

staccato.

(i do not regret how)

i broke the dawn and blamed you for it.

(now, answer wisely, given the current circumstances;)

what are you going to do about it?

sync.

she's a little less afraid to open up, but she's nothing more than a case-closed hypothesis.

i'm going to go with her for a nice long walk down the urban precipice, and maybe my theta waves will be the perfect rhymes to silver and orange.

god forbid these pitch dark skies.

ultraviolets.

does this button brighten up the sun?

been pulling at stings and sympathy stains.
i'm made out of cotton and wishing for rain.

haven't been myself in quite a while, but i feel good knowing you've never even suffered the chance.


test drive my cadillac backseat limerence.

prisoners of fear; death row duty call.

i've been playing way too many videogames.

unrelated: at some point, we all have to defenestrate our dreams, because we're growing up to become gossamer ghosts. still, i can't escape this sunshine rising through my blood and flooding my insides. maybe the onslaught of negativity still lingers in lines under my eyes and on the corners of my lips but that's pretty hard to dwell on with a world of new questions, but all of that is of course, quietened under my fingertips.

quid pro quo, we're expected.

the social history of neverland.

i'm giving away trash as fond and favorite presents. too bad none of it is treasure except for the packing it all came in.

i know you get the point, but i'm just sharpening it a little. i always catch my fingers in the process. i still have nowhere to go but i can't stand the journey. i don't want the world to be mine, just a few latitudes and longitudes and everything in-between that i can hold close and keep safe.

i love you but the bottom line is that we're all selfish.

as if by magic.

everything tied up with strings in my hands.
bring it on quicker; this is an ephemeral stance.

it's easy waving wands and to honey on the words. conjure up a miracle, a flock of sunlit birds.


but to expect a real cure would be quite absurd.


i'm one-fourth farfetching idealism and three-fourths of lowdown overdramatics. see you on the slipslide ride.

vice-reversa.

you're all alone and hiding behind the second person.