Tuesday 11/24/2015 12:31:00 AM

the colors left. she made her path. in stumbles and impetus.

bits of glass. torn pages. all the rich betrayals of thought and circumstance.

the journey is brief. the distance is endless.

the clouds were stubborn. as was she. shuffling her burnt bridges. Dealing what was left.

doused in her panic of sober. all arrows and hatchets.

she went too far. she always did. such is the nature of surrender. it's full of crooked ladders, broken time machines and lazy heroes.

she whispered to winter. it shouted back.

she thought she knew. had practised the arithmetic. it was supposed to be simple. the dark. the cold. the severe autism of want.

in many ways it was simple.

temporary thieves in their seldom epiphanies. and the cold remainders of their indifference.

Sunday 11/15/2015 11:55:00 PM

pauses become permanent. the angry goblins work their blades inside her thoughts. the blood listens. with missing eyes and empty fists. a suicide of bridges. and the barren ritual of seldom skin. knives on the glass. leeches to the virus.

poison apples. lingering scars. eventual endings.

manic patrons. the shimmering glass. her voice antonyms. her future prepositions.

the tools. the helical threads. a gasping utopia on the fringes of her breath. paper dolls. plastic dresses. and the void in the interim. blind hunters cradle their bullets. lazy fables accumulate their panic. a confederation of orphans flaunting their stale religions.

the overt wind. the subtle context. the centrifugal poetry of momentum.

one foot. then the next. and so on. the missing ladder. the measured depth. the internal harvest. the window intact. . the impatient gravity of lovers, particles and pragmatists.

Tuesday 11/10/2015 11:38:00 PM

the broken door. the empty hallway. the crumbling caravans of dwindling cautions. seldom pistols in frequent conflicts. the tired anthem of sober captains in an army of squandered pawns.

the miles easily kept her. a bit of tissue in the crease of a fist. the years wore her. fragments of when in a frenzy of if. the hours like soldiers. the years a war. she melted. solid to liquid. the soft chemistry of anxious skin.

she drew pictures of the signs. though she knew they'd all been seen before. she kept track of the miles. though the arithmetic of further hadn't mattered for years. she pretended to smile. because it was easier.

it was only yesterday that she knew. or had forgotten. the things she'd always been. paper wings that defied the wind. stone footsteps that vomited gravity. softly beating scars that always found deeper openings in shrinking skin.

the truth is its own paradox. deaf shadows. blind whispers. temporary weapons in a permanent war.

Wednesday 11/04/2015 11:43:00 PM

she always went too far. cotton mouthed whispers caught in the crease of the scream. empty eyed predators. crippled by the enormity of their hunger. defeated by the clutch of the perpendicular. lost in the sway of the calm.

the chew of the moment took her. the grip of distance. the ache of the stone. the fever of the wind. the impotent rage of such a simple sickness.

the yolk. the crux. still soft. it bleeds beautifully. smothering every surface in its perfect trauma. the timid monsters draw the maps. adjacent to paradise. with no way inside.

the obvious angles. the skeptical math. as if there is a proximity. some measure of if to define this sparse scale.

all the predictable colors of skin. like dirty knives. the ugly tools of arrogant deists.

the chaos of when. all those random voices. getting louder.the habits of humanity. timid treasons.

Tuesday 10/27/2015 11:42:00 PM

it was dark. the road found its way beneath her. damp shadows in their curious surrender. impotent bridges bargaining with the abyss.

when she walks she sees too much. faces in the traffic. dim and blurred. distant lives happening in blunt jabs and delicate cuts. all of us travellers. going nowhere.

it was quiet. the words lingered in midnight's tired council. all the short stories. all the nervous verses. just a series of people turned inside out.

when she walks she is not there. her reality is suspended. the world continues passed. in all its mollified glory. lives like sour candies slowly melting on time's venomous tongue.

she doesn't have stories to tell. though a few have told her.

she doesn't remember exactly when everything changed. she just knows that it did. there wasn't a catastrophe. or any kind of war. one day she just woke up and everything was different. the floor was missing. the ceiling was gone. nothing to blame. no enemy to rail against. just the hum of idling engines. just the traffic. the faint flicker of dimming lives against the stiffening thunder of progress.

the wounds. all the temporary bandages we use to cover them. we're thieves. we're merchants. we skillfully negotiate skin and bone, but distance requires more finesse.

fussing with our wrinkled maps. the quiet fury of the places we've been. the empty rage of those that no longer exist. footsteps. that take us.  nowhere to go. but it still finds us.

she consulted her detours. she shuffled the usual bones. everything had changed except her.

it's just a voice she lamented. the ambivalent providence of conscience and regret. a quiet inferno of intimate choices and casual consequence.

the road is closed. the distance is spent.

Wednesday 10/21/2015 01:52:00 AM

she chafed at the idea of the world. that it could go on without her. a carnival of bodies. a circus of cuts and bruises. raging against the science of fading temptations. everything paper skeletons swimming in buckets of ink.

there in the enormity of the silence she pretended to shout. at cracked bowls and dirty forks. the vague nourishment of despair. the wasted canvas that wears her like confetti. the math taut and feral. the absolute surrender that's always in relentless pursuit.

the hollow cries of broken beasts.

the road like licorice. sweet and dark and bitter. the distance tries her on, but she doesn't fit. she dances in her calm panic. she sleeps in her hysterical war. steeping herself in the rich marrow of her apathy.  frantically bargaining with what remains of who we are.

she spins in place. convinced of her progress. the distance aching out loud. deflated antagonists. spent sympathies.

it had always been the end ever since she could remember. small twigs embracing the abyss. the loose arithmetic of strangers and thieves.

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