turn the earth into a hot house.

shot you with stars until you were pockmarked and cratered. where's your guilt spilt measure in this call and response of vis divina secularity?

you're still running the lotto rotogravure sluice of life. you're still drafting the words for your world revival dust-up.

show us a little heart, dancetté wolverine, show us how to chevvy your tinder.

the adventures of a girl named lackadaisy and a boy who is god incarnate.

selling out goodnights for a dollar apiece and living my life in batches of friday afternoons. all this despair over a renaissance affair has left me as whitewashed and unseen as a ghost. shock rock and your hallowed laurels will do nothing to douse this nation's fever. you boast thirty-one flavors of ice-cream and i lay claim to gems like wycherly's wife.

i'm mellowing out like fine, rotting mead; golden and acidic and absolutely distasteful.


(precisely; i know you remain indecisive under stars i know you cannot sidestep sundays or proximity shots i know you slick your lips before you speak i know you down to the bone marrow and i've mastered every form of chinese torture unspoken and unheard of that will extract from you those words laced with lithium.)

first quarto.

bred in anthills, buried on shores. there was never a middle ground for our grand picnics. she's the shroud of turin stigmata against the eigenlicht behind my sleepless eyelids. the weather is persistently seeping into my skin and i'm a coagulating mess of the person i once was. around you i could stomp on eggshells and around you i could have dead worlds revolve. fell in love with the canadian gothic farmhouse fallacy. the tip of my tongue is my biggest traitor. there is no tailor talented enough to sew me the visage i want to wear. there is no house large enough to rival the domestic vacancy in my bones. what repels you; i eagerly await it. what enthralls you; i am actively seeking to destroy it. it saddens me that we are all sacks of bones and sinew and absurdly innocent egos and dove-like, frail and frigid prides.

this vastness will be my one and only.

with air like fiberglass and your system like a swarm.

run like the wind with the world rushing away beneath our feet, feeling the onslaught of soft summery air against our faces. run, like we used to when we were young with pinwheels in our hands and with the sunset on the horizon, racing each other home without a care in the world. run without a pause for breath or a hesitation of momentum, run like we did when we were sweet and young and made of quicksilver because right now, there are bounding wolves snapping at our heels.

stay smart, stay sharp, stay lethal. and don't let your shadows stray in this triboluminescent storm.