He’s sitting in his shadow,
match lit,
iron sight shifting with his arrow.
Da Vinci with a trebuchet,
resentment at a younger age.
Don’t think I’ve ever fucking been the same.
Stay still please, so I don’t have to ever aim.
Heartbeat on my cabernet, gospel on the interlude.
Never into hurting you, but that’s probably hurting you.
Want to hear you love me, but that’s my crawling incertitude.
I’m sorry, you’ve heard it… too… many times.
Loose lips sink ships on the New Delhi line.
Blueberry, thyme, Seattle fog on the Bloomsbury dime.
Anxiety finds a new adversary for you every time.
Kavinsky playing Nightcall,
nightfall addict. Gun-slinging, moonlight absorber.
Eyeball static, upbringing made me too primed for torture.
Leukocyte warlord with a do-or-die sword code.
DNA punching out Morse, ’cause the nuclei’s disordered.
Sobering negative, gripping a metal shank alloy.
Overly sensitive programming on this self-aware android.
Therapists that call me the armchair nutcase.
Trying to turn back to bugged versions of his software update.
I stop to stare into your eyes, perfect oval-shaped opals, like Russian dolls holding more jewels in them like an enigmatic invention.
A hundred soft, hazel static connections, like joules that gather intent, that teach me there aren’t lessons in every traumatic event.
Tag: autobiography
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-
Dear anyone,
Heartbreaking, shattering, crushing, blasphemous, bludgeoning, over-saturated. Don’t be surprised if we can’t be separated. Science needs a new invention to mend hearts or a swab test for tears, where a story is written by the chemicals in them. And the chemicals in them are only ones that I can create with my signature on them, my blood, and my distinction. Nobody else. Well, that is interesting. Cristian doesn’t want it to end like this. The story is written by an author who has no business writing it. Don’t be surprised if one night we’re looking at each other eye to eye, holding each other close, so close, so close, I can feel you brush your passionate breaths against my lungs that fill with air, and move your head. I feel you slipping away. And by now, the category 5 hurricane by all and any expert is said to have definitely slowed down. The eye has shrunk. Our eyes have shrunk. It isn’t a category 5 anymore and it won’t ever be a category 5. And sometimes, looking at the weather, I believe it will slow down. I don’t want it to. The chaos of it all is intriguing, inviting, warming. Sometimes, though, other times, I don’t believe it at all. Other days it’s category 6, maybe 7, 8, or 9. Category 20. And I feel this storm going up in numbers, up and up. It’s the size of the entire planet now. I’m the only weather reporter that believes this. I have hope in my math. Don’t believe in machines. I want to categorize 20 different parts of you that I fell in love with. Category 1, 2, 3, 4, 5: I love you. Your love is a hurricane; it comes and goes in September. It came and went. It went. 6: Your honesty is like powerful gusts of wind that rip trees from their roots, that blow stop signs from their post, rip roofs off house tops. 14: I love how much we loved each other. It’s like, I thought it was real. Maybe it was. Maybe it isn’t. I have so much to give. You wanted to give, at least still do. I don’t know. 21: Please don’t do this. I don’t want to feel like an acting lesson, your only Oscar. Don’t if I couldI’d bring a version of you back from a time machine so I could talk to them about the future-you. Maybe I could understand better, feel better. I regret anything I did that brought me here. Did I say too little, say too much, love too hard, love too soft? Was it me crying? Was it my silence at 5am? I didn’t mean to. I’m… I’m going. Well, I was… I was going through some things. These things now are different things, though. Hurricane Artois. They say don’t chase what you can’t catch. I caught feelings. You caught my heart. I chased. Don’t be surprised if you can’t find something like this. Nobody can do what I do, like me. Not even close. Can’t extinguish flames with a whisper. Don’t be surprised. Don’t be surprised when I don’t stop. If you jump, I jump over frontiers written in bold text saying “invade me” with invisible feeling into bewitching allure of where my heart is kept in your cage, backstroking through the perfect sound waves where each word spoken fits in my ear, words where you made me imagine us together with wrinkles. I was so drunk when we were together. My submarine descends into our own fucking galaxy (I’m STILL HERE!!!) of silk and honey being handwoven by broken hands (20th time) into this fucking perfect perfection we perfected. I was so hypnotized. Was that an eclipse or did the moon kiss the sun and did the sun close her eyes while he did? I was captured by your solar flare, tunnel vision, tunnel feeling. The moon and sun deathly slow, slow dance to the Spanish passacaglia, raising goosebumps on your arms. We jumped to the moon. The moon jumped to the sun. The sun burned
hellhound.
-
Hi. I’m okay. My name is … (private exchange)
Oceanic delight, Mariana Trench – let’s lie on the waves
Get lied to with promises as you wave your goodbyes
The “we’ll soon see each other”s, the “I can’t wait to arrive”s
Gesticulating giant, wide-eyed naivety shines
Juan Valdez roast – a vagabond’s variant vibe
Cash valet parking – pristine ’85 BMW e28
Cabernet off-switch.
Tannins drip from my IV ’cause I don’t bleed DNA
Deviate from the norm. Heliocentric.
Her face is a star
She makes the sun turn violet, and gives rainbows their scars
Technicolor stitches, wounds wash radiant art
Do re mi, one-way street of living, who’s to say that we are
In Eden’s garden, dancing naked to Purple Rain
My dorsal fin can’t navigate the deepest waters.
Irregardless, blood print barely cracks the surface stain.
The takeaway is mundane themes.
It’s okay to want a place to scream.
The days are hard-fought battles, wars go on for weeks, and
Hurricanes are taking shape in the subway steam.
Every Sunday, he tithes revived percentages of hope.
So, a little bit inside me dies from the carcinogenic dose.
AM country station blazing through the cigarette tray.
Grandpa’s epitaphs engraved in indirect faith.
12-volt Citroën culture, French press grit in my veins
Vaudevillian silhouette, it’s like you barely saw her.
Stained-glass windowpane
Leather loveseat
Frankenmuth Bavarian auberge
Accompanied by airport sound wave dispersal
Dial pound eight, to reach the operator rotary nuisance
Call me a mutant, because we hate feeling lonely as humans
Let’s huddle around the baggage carousel until we depart
What bothers me is the converging of a million souls living apart
Common courtesy talks, airplanes are altitude civilian parks
We’ve been displaced by a culture aimed to minimize faith
And dilute consumer bases, zombified mimicking ape
My father used to say – take walks when it’s pouring down rain
Why? So you can revisit the bridges burned in your wake
Never had a father, it was just something I said to myself
Did I divulge too much?
My mother always said keep to yourself
‘Cause the hearts on your sleeve are a poker player’s favorite tell
Manifest themselves as sheep who hastily offer you wool
Did the vague release of my cry remind you of wolf?
Hell in a handbasket, Riding Hood tells us we fear who we are.
Too many questions, not any answers.
Period, pause -
I don’t know what I want,
Whether it’s surface dwelling alone at the swamp
Or an oak in a marsh, soul-searching proverbial want.
We’re more or less spawns of monsters nobody needs,
You were my star-spangled banner, and I was taking a knee.Subterranean breeze, vitamin pond, still smell your perfume,
Every once in a blue moon, Dahlia Divin creeps in the room.
Black lagoon creature, months of despondent malaise,
Never under the same moon, but always got in your way.Every constant is change, every constant in chains,
The sheriff to my merits, conversation warranted pain.
Follow the tunnel light or continue to walk among the shade,
Politics, topic delay, boxer on the ropes.You taught me to love, but to love to be alone,
A hundred teeth sunk in deep, ’til they’re rusting at the bone.
Propaganda-prone, post-traumatic melodic drama,
Copacetic cathartic static, momentary sedative saga.Mama said to me never mince words with Misses Karma,
Megabit verbiage, sapient alma in the trenches of mock prison,
Velvet and soft linen, cotton henley makeshift pajama,
Couldn’t figure you out…Kissed crevasses in your skin, you were indifferent about,
You’re awkwardly distant to things that slipped through my mouth.
Look at you now…
Sinatra’s lovers glance, blood-soaked sinful devout,
The untolds dripping, gun smoke cigarette clouds.Love grows thinner when the sun strokes negligent doubt,
What comes, goes,
Hum low under floorboardsOr they’ll figure us out.
Self-destruct sequence, count to zero with me,
Feel your feelings metamorph like metaphors in the breeze.I don’t know what I want, I just know what I need,
Better go home before I’m awoken, and I see you,
Full of momentary passes focused entropy seams,
Beams of light bustling through cracks in the stream.Pockets of time form like globules; we’d skip stones in ravine,
Everything’s too loud even when the volume’s negative three,
Nothing we do can salvage this irreparable dream.Qué pena me da, que lo tienes sentir,
Shouted at you to leave as I whispered the please. -
You can hear the
suburban chime, zirconia vertebrae, pearly white spine.
Glass thrown in stone houses, a regular suburban night,
whirring, rewinding. Chronicled childhood in olive drab paint,
monocle glass.
Wormwood and bottles of Shawshank
dissolute solitude. A wanderer who wallows in the maze
en route, delaying for tomorrow, never promised today.
A virgin diary, Anne Frank, Marie Curie disease, a tincture of rainbow,
even if the distance is blurry to me, he who knows the way to Zihuatenejo.
Furloughed father, demanding you to die when I say so,
26 pesos left in your wallet
lint and mothball, Merryland experiment omelette.
Laundromat arcade quarter exchange
2 o’clock shadow of death and follicle strain.
These boulders were supposed to be gone when I got here,
you shouldered me off, Sunday morning penny loafer with frost,
social commentary Gabriel-Lucifer talk,
metamucil retrograde, Jupiter star.
Bolivian roast, oblivion, and a toast goes to Mars,
you hold my hand, but I don’t even know who you are,
shout at me when indoors, but whisper weak when afar.
I’m so close to eroding, skin growth barely a scar,
in my house, the big wolf, lungs pulse ’til exhaustion.
I read a suicide note from the ghost in my closet,
I don’t know if he knows if this apartment is haunted,
by patriarchal pettiness, reminiscent negligent heart,
maleficent maligned, distant and forgotten insidious offspring,
with ammunition in their lips that keep you off guard.
Feel the metacarpal love letters ’til your fingers fall off,
once you step out the door, you hear the wooden creak in the floor.
Fell asleep at the creek daydreaming before,
every time before bed I hear footsteps coming from deep,
and I hide in my closet, until they delete.
REM hits me while I’m counting my sheep
counting rosary beads for every step wolf takes towards me,
like neighborhood freeze tag, counting to three.
Dysfunctional beings huffing in suburban breeze,
I know that I know nothing is in love when I speak,
into denizens, the medicine cabinet creaks,
when you close it and I haven’t heard it in weeks,
from bourbon to curtains burnt at the seams.
I’m so close to being the opposite of perfect, I scream.
What emerges, a bird sits perched in a tree,
what alerts him is the suburban breeze. -
Dear Journal,
Recollections of a picnic eventuate vividly in my mind. Amidst the reminisced scene, a profound sense of auditory quiescence prevails. What endures most is the ethereal spectacle wherein the heavens infused my being with enduring chromaticity. The transformation of a seemingly desolate desert into an entrancing marvel transpired. Heliotrope, lavender, and carmine merged in multifarious focal points, resulting in a mesmerizing spectacle. Orchid and suave essentials imbued themselves in a delightful communion of mauve and soft magenta hues. A liquid confidence transmuted into an exuberant blaze, akin to a prodigious ember. The quest for pomegranate, purposefully nurtured to invoke a sense of exquisite madness, became palpable. Moreover, the crisp frontier of ions proffered a steadfast verdure, and by that I mean, paradise..
Amid the backdrop of meticulously laid-out blankets, strategically positioned to accommodate our repose, an evocative tapestry of verdant tenderness and a tactile connection to boundless perfection ensued. It was something out of the ordinary, and a vibe that didn’t exist in our current world. In the realm of this particular planetary sojourn, the daunting discouragements of existence ceased to be of consequence. We ascended amid the nascent flourish of intricate patterns, marking the inception of an incipient romance ripe for metamorphosis into this shapeable, and lovable profound mastery.
The auditory landscape, when captured, was replete with a pitch so profoundly rich that visceral reverberations seized the very core of one’s being. A normative twitch manifested in response to the tenuous tension, so palpable one could sever it with the metaphorical blade of irrevocable sin that was ripe with blood.
The ambiance was graced with invigorating gusts of air, effecting an exfoliation of the corporeal integument. Our laughter, during this occasion, found itself immortalized in the annals of memory. Subsequently, following the consumption of the crimson nectar, the sandal-clad feet, and our resonant laughter, the scene transitioned to a majestic sunset. The vista unveiled a palette comprising a myriad of hues, numbering a thousand, gracefully transitioning across the perceptible spectrum.
Notably, the intoxication experienced was not a consequence of our corporeal imbibing but rather an immersion in the celestial panorama. The celestial bodies appeared to undulate and intertwine, mirroring the artistry reminiscent of Picasso’s oeuvre but amplified by a surreal infusion of emotion. The visual tableau was augmented with the seasoning of cilantro and love. Nonetheless, as the sun hastened its descent, we undertook the task of recording every fleeting instant, as we were loath to partake in its conclusion. The firmament seemingly ignited in celestial fervor, embodying a cataclysmic wrath that was paradoxically tempered by an amalgamated magma-like embrace.
In the present epoch, the vista appears eerily unchanged. Encased within the confines of a picture frame characterized by obsidian borders, the scenery is characterized by the presence of cloud-covered skies and smoldering verdure. A very fucking real and palpable sense of stagnation permeates the landscape, underscored by the monochromatic tapestry of smog and sepia-toned expanse. The term “blah” looms ominously, pervading the soundscape with an overpowering resonance.
The analogy of smoke to a claymore elucidates the oppressive nature of this atmosphere, leaving me grappling for words. My apologies if the words fail to flow; the constriction in my chest renders eloquence a challenging endeavor. The landscape that once evoked a sense of awe now projects an ambiance cloaked in ashen hues.
Amid this setting, I find myself seated upon the studio porch, engaged in the composition of tuneless melodies, in consort with an elegant yet unused silvery spoon. The skies, once cerulean, have now transitioned to a state of neutrality, lacking vibrancy. Amidst the prevailing inertia, I aspire to unearth a semblance of purpose.
In retrospect, the dichotomy is striking: the memory of vibrant hues rendered inexpressibly gray. It is with regret that I confess an inability to imbue this gray expanse with the beauty it once possessed. My deepest and well-suited gratitude’s for your understanding.
Sincerely, and my biggest thanks, Cristian.
-
All little boys need father figures,
Not to be normal or sane. You wouldn’t turn on a light switch without knowing where all the conduits are placed. You grow up with a fistful of hurt, a surge like a missile, without hearing a ‘miss you.’ But one thing is certain, nothing makes you question your integrity more than knowing that your very existence is a burden. You’re a burden just to breathe. I was just a curious boy, Curious George, Curious Cristian. I tried to talk to friends, but the look on their faces hurt just to listen. A burden. “How about a counselor?” Yeah, I know the ins and outs. I’m a soldier. Here, take my money, let me cry on your shoulder. How do you plant your feet in the mud? How do you turn your feelings into comfort? How do you know what you’re feeling is real and not some misguided daydream because you’re weak and, well, younger? I’ve broken my heart into pieces asunder, endured the most embarrassing trial and error in the world to learn how to speak to a lover. It sucks. Questions I wanted to ask, questions that needed answers. How do you express greediness more than leaving a son? Upset because I proceeded to ask them. On the cusp of 24 without ever really knowing how it is to have one. Just shells of people who didn’t want to take up the task. Another week, another meek undercover. Another daydream took a plunge. Now all I want to do is scream. I want to go into the streets and scream until I don’t feel anything. Until I summon beams full of thunder, until I shudder streets full of anger, until my teeth shatter and burst into a dozen pieces of rancor, until you see a beast take refuge on the streets with an anchor, and he won’t leave until sun-up and sunsets over under. Cloverfield breach. I feel mean. The form of speech “hate” leaves me unencumbered, until you learn that my motherfucking pain isn’t something to play with, motherfucker. There’s a bloodbath of ink on this pale sheet. I’m on a smooth pace of spilling, a new space and ceiling. It’s a tragedy that I had to reduce my father figure to newspaper clippings. How my favorite ballplayer scored 30 points. There’s a new wave of emptiness intended for millennials, and I write most of everything in metaphors. Soft explanations, so the interpretation gets lost in translation because as long as I know what I meant, your misconception is void, because I felt those words when I wrote them. 100 years from now, when I’m gone, children in classrooms will be dissecting my verses with no intention or purpose. I scribbled them into quotes, a message deployed through rejection, rage, an affectionate ploy. An inception became a reflection of my own inevitable pain. Because remember, for everything set in stone, there’s a knife where the edges are frayed, irreverent, sane. I clutch an invisible pendant made out of being ashamed. It’s like every portrait drawn of me, there’s a frown on my face. Every individual second is captured in a thousand frames, and those frames are just lost; they never see light, they’re just gray. I have nightmares of being indicted for being different. There’s a judge that looks exactly like me, handing out a sentence in vain. Bail is set at impossible, and the bailiff is me too. At my funeral, I want Beethoven’s 5th set as the prelude. Every physical sentence I mash out is obsession. I’ve invented the abstract, and what’s next is a flash, exposure to quiet. I sit alone at the dinner table, three hours past supper, spinning my index finger in the red wine. Dead silence staring into the glass, as if it’s going to stare back up, and it doesn’t. Every masterpiece I created is crap. I feel my own perfection is lackluster. I don’t know. I’m impossibly hard on myself, and the quality is starting to lack. Quantity takes its place to tackle an impossible task. I’ve tacked on a badge of honor for burnout. I’ve become so accustomed to exhaustion that having energy gives me PTSD. My madness is bottled up, swallowed up by a flask of somber.
I already know what you’re going to say before you say it. It’s non-euphoric, and even if I were to become complacent, it would be out of boredom. What a soreness to wake up out of touch with the world. Yeah, I see your pain, and I raise you my void. I’m hard-strung. I’ve coughed blood into buckets. I’ve sung songs to my lovers. It’s better to have love lost than to… forget it. Making people laugh is a drug, and I love it. I run out of punchlines and realize my life was it. Feeling implicit. You need to be me to relive it. These last two decades confined to the fetal position.”
-
Dreams and reverie boast,
Roasted with pearly green chimerical gold.
God Delusion. Hallucinating a miracle told,
Where lightning strikes the conscious,
Lively minded, constant.
Smile by a goddess,
Where perfection’s unfurled by Pangaea,
Curvy hips, sangria, and rooftops,
Inebriated in a sea, with a jukebox.
Charismatic, dispelling drama, adorable,
Gospel sings for the saga approaching,
Americanah and rooted, salsa and dance,
Savannah beauty, with a lot to command,
Sailor of wisdom, a body tailored for rhythm,
Samba routine, enigma, for her frolicking waist,
Marvelous taste, whiskey and fruit wine,
Yin and yang in spirit, spirits and moonshine,
Clamoring percussion, fireworks on the eve,
Ten seconds for eruption, heart on her sleeve,
Little black dress, static libido,
Attracted me, magnetic tuxedo,
Countdown in Manila, three seconds to go,
Loud sounds pound now, as we disrobe. -
Puncturing flows of buttery colors, exposed in
Post and pre-nuptial showmanship. Function control,
Amusing instrumental, effusive ode to hold this angel to a centerpiece.
Basil, with cloves, of energy that exposed a masterful synergy,
A weeded rustled drone that tumbled a quiet depiction of the color blue on a petal,
Succulent. Moss grows on my archer’s boot, and a straw of grass clenched by my jawbones,
A flux of rusty trombones that exude music through its metal.
I’ve heard poetry spoken in crux, bolded by a bellowing, bolstering,
Underlined by a snake in the grass, it’s so mellow. Just hold me,
Boisterous, soaked in droves of this sorceress satin.
She spoke in a language obscurely molded in Spanish,
Her lips curved, Sagittarius furor. Sandals and codeworded for passion,
Prescription for cures and an ailment aimed with her astrologer’s arrow,
A hollow barrow, and a node I focused on with a ridiculously pure heart.
Fluent in affluency, forehead kiss, and bewitching allure,
Potion and magic, with an inflection of sultry enchantment.
I’ve met a beautiful queen that I spoke to in Latin,
Aztec rituals led to a madman’s mystical matchmaker,
With slurps of a spiritual flask, drank from a vase of snapdragon,
Curvy dress with cottony ripples slightly past bony knees,
Impervious to the dogma your thighs created. Your soul’s a speech,
Red in a loud voice, in a cabin with a fireplace, abrupt,
Where the fire grows irate every time your feminine tone erupts,
Sensuous, cold, the scent is insane. I could hear your perfume luring me with incendiary allure,
Had enough with the tempestuous situation.
Where an ice-cold gloved gauntlet haunts your lightly toned marked garments,
Misses maestro lust. Larva finds a crawlspace where it bugs my life’s oak carcass,
I tithed to our religious cult-like chemistry,
Where memories like centipedes held life in their arms,
So magnificent, mount me to a crucifix, slow,
And show me the coloration of the sounds that I used to know.
Portuguese picturesque beauty,
Whisking along with curly-haired brunette insouciance,
Where a degree of our separation detonated my inner vignette of Vesuvius… -
Particle physics; radiation courses through every speck and grain,
But that didn’t mean infecting the inflections as per your hypothetical claim.
Bite the bullet, swallow the pistol; it shoots,
Harboring a hollow feeling, sipping Miller to boot.
Coil-gripped Corona, drowning out social persona,
We’re evolving into moths, wallowing toward the
Murky gray skies. Yeah, the coffee! What’s next?
Marvelous pillow talk over a body of sex.
Heel gone from the left side of my moccasin treads,
In particular, an inarticulate guy with philosopher’s breath.
Cotton linen robe; tonight, I uncover the secrets you stashed,
Underneath the cardinal chasm embedded deep in the cracks.
Try to unfurl the English through your lips on contours,
Christmas carolers’ scarf, closed-captioned lyrics encore.
Wept for concourse; a few have witnessed my character’s arc,
Behind the lighthouse, my sailor’s boat tried to signal offshore.
The shelf life of a dying love is only half of what you want it to be,
Being in love and being in dumb. It doesn’t mean I’d just drop it and leave,
Singing the songs for the markers, autumn leaves for the author,
Monastery blues, with the indents of my knees on the altar.
Statistician Jack Daniels keeping a crop of my phobia lot,
Who would’ve known behind every letter is a quarter of scotch?
A stench of me in the shirt I gave you ‘for the aroma in seams,’
With 4 inches of your middle carpal on a mobile digital screen.
A soul gazer in a trench-coat; I remember the buttons with such reminiscence,
Forgetting how to speak to me, Landau-Kleffner expression.
Promises made by executioners fueled by the guillotine lust,
Soft lips with a barbed tongue said your farewells with a clean cut.…Shoot me in the foot, sparing me any beamed blood.
-
Empyrean cosmos. This feeling I swallow; it’s real. It’s hollow, but it’s there. I know it. It’s growing, a hole full of sorrow; it’s weird. Some sort of eerie control. It has sculpted out a grave in my heart, it’s six feet into my soul. A clay soldier statue that’s woven and wound up by fear. Wounded by perceptions and ousted by fear. I’m used to it, ruthless, I’m near it, I smell it; I hear it. And movements that veer into me are getting boosted. It’s like every little thing is in motion for me. Emotionally, my blood pumps. It’s mundane humdrum. I’m so used to panic attacks when it happens; I’ve practiced drowning myself to get better at them. Crusted bark falling off the sharp edges of trees. Hearts with initials were pleas for adjustments in romance. CG + your initials here. Or Your initials here, + CG, because ladies go first. It’s old. And when the heart breaks in half, my part of the heart looks like a parenthesis ). It’s funny because you said I always kept everything a secret, like a sidenote, like a parenthesis. I get it, see. I’m holding the keys that unlock the deepest, boldest embarking trips to the depths of my soul. I don’t even know if it fits, homesick. If home is where the heart is, I don’t even know if my home exists.
Went for a doctor check-up and hugged him when he said I had 65 beats per minute. “Really?!” I said, with a smug grin on my face. That’s 65 reasons a minute why I hated myself. Verbal vortex ripped in coercion. I’ve lived a minute for 23 years and I’ve tasted helplessness in 65 different versions. I’ve envisioned never being hurt and it’s never visioned. Feeling defeated every second, I sarcastically think, “Is that why it’s called beats per minute?????” Overly saturated covert emasculation. Social emancipation; I’m vocally allocated. Totally placid. Manipulative dickhead. Owner of phallus castle, got my troops and took over the ovary palace. Sensory sonar. Very elective and deceptive. It’s no-arms combat. I’ve learned to defeat you physically by waving a pistol made with the way my lips sway and turn words into bullets. It’s only defense. I’m the least offensive person alive. I’d totally offend you though. Don’t hurt me; I’m ready to let you go. Let us go. In an emotionless scene, an ocean or sea of developing flowing disease. I could kiss the wrists you executed me with. Puckering kiss cracks like the whip that antagonized our failure. I apologize for actions that me, myself, and I don’t acknowledge in reality. I’m molded. Grown old and outsourced. It’s like the mold in a spore. I can barely afford to pay attention to myself; how would I know I was there for you.
-
It’s 2 am.
I feel interconnected through any vine or snippet of life,
A perennial inflorescence of any 6 seconds chimed.
Success is a hive, hummingbird wings in slow motion,
Hearing the crickets sing, so monotone yet obscurely composed.
Feels like they’re talking to me, as I walk on the leaves that I cross,
Demure, you’re so provocative, and I’m surely a ghost.Crunching of autumn is like a skeleton field for tiny trees in the fall,
To possess you is a perfect choice, and you’re as alluring, a host.
Sunbathed petals drowning in jack’o’lanterns of coffee and pumpkin,
Squash the soggy leaves after a beer, underneath the frothy assumptions.It’s cost me a fortune, ink-jets flew the loss to the profits,
That’s just the cost out of pocket, I wore the pants, but you wore the wallet.
Living a martyr, nose-dive a dotted plane into soil,
Where waves were uncoiled, from the amber gaze, to the point where it boiled.Hear the ether perform, a duet with 42 degrees and a choir,
Robotic vampire, nothing to do but to sink my teeth into wires.
Mechanical organism, metamorphosing orphan, with a heart full of gears,
Bleeding gasoline endorphins, pros and cons was the love you pretended to smear.Propane huffed out of my ears, olfactory prose transposing as mutants,
You wrote me off as a human, with me begging you to hear me out. It was ruthless.
Wasn’t enough, contraption malfunction,
The sound drowned out, a whisper was like dropping a mountain above it.
Teardrops were waves, where even an arc wouldn’t suffice,
You took two of each beast that I had, so immediately, I…
Just lost it.You whittled a soldier out of clay, from the earth a clone was conceived,
With a chisel that was made by the bones of the deceased.
You were the cotton in an aspirin, a linen in my attire I wasn’t accustomed,
To go into combat for you with a wardrobe and the cloth that it’s cut from.
Ungodly, the humdrum, I couldn’t acquire the taste,
You were so tongue-in-cheek with me, I blushed into haste when you asked if I’d want some.All I want is 5 minutes where we understand each other completely,
Where we aren’t drunk or having sex, sigh, where you just complete me.
Developments real, the buzzing of broken street lights is loud,
A suburban cemetery, not a real burial ground, that’s the imagery.You stole what I had, but now that you did, my soul’s deep with love,
You need so badly what I have, but now I don’t even want.
How’s it feel to have it? I couldn’t sate it but maybe I was deeply depressed,
It doesn’t diminish my character, but it diminishes you, exposes your weakness, you weren’t even a friend.You poked fun at my features, especially crucial to the dent near my nose,
Which were filled with raindrops from my pupils. There, now tears are used as placeholders, for now they’re never exposed.So hastily brash, sort of insane, but with class,
You took the sage and lit ablaze the incense with aroma my nasal could grasp.
Heart rates out of the bag, but a cat caught this lung! Out of breath and out of reach,
A tongue with an abrasive touch, I just wanna say what I wanna say, without the effect of me to stay in this funk.I don’t even try to be me, I try to be me, but for you, just like me, to see me as something else besides a jaded complexion.
You were into astrology, I read the sign of a Pisces for August 10th and copied it ’cause I knew you would make the connection.I manipulated myself, but in that, I manipulated you,
All it took was a simple placement of emotion, for you to be the creative ink of my next scintillating muse.
Pixelating, ruse, miscellaneous, who? I’ve never been vindicated ’cause vindication’s rude.
I’ve been to places you… couldn’t move to, in a million years,
Walk a mile in my boots, where bricks from the ceiling and the steel-toe sort of disappear.Dissipating, pointless, ventilating, poignant, vision-aided moistness,
Where physics plays a joint version of the Bible’s revelations, over and over again.
My wound is opening, fix the sutures, fix my future, remove gauze,
Remove smog, sterilize, feral eyes, then apply the ointment.It’s 2 am.