toothless dogs chew on the bones. of grey houses. windows without curtains. rooms to look inside and envy. the nothing that is there. the vitriol. the fetishes of strays. the hiccup of gravity. that gently tugs on them. as they count their absent legs.

the math menstruates. much too feminine to respect. the numbers bleed from her. a madness of moments miscarried.

the science thrusts. erect and eager. the hum of life stabbing. a swarm of touch. like dying drones. sick with the hive.

the small. bigger than expected.

years betray. a parade of infinities. the loop expresses gravity diminished. there are no furthers depths to fall.

she chases the ghost. the manic despot that holds her crayons hostage. she draws in pencil. she erases in ink.

she negotiates with gravity. for one more chance to prove everything is small.

little girls. empty dresses. the numbers unsure. the skin too certain. the equations suffocate. the bridges tremble. the gap widens. the distance grows. the silence screams in darkly soiled sheets.

the torn doll. her fingers carelessly sewn to her lips. afraid to speak.

i found her. softer than she wanted to be. long trips to the edge. gentle blizzards. dirty needles. the uncertainty a drug. the hopelessness addictive.

she wore us. an incredible feast of skin. like erupting suns and heroin needles. to lick the brain and pause the consciousness. the moment. like piss. burning down her leg. in cuts of when. young was still just a demon.

the ice. the snow. the vague sense of darkness. that wears the remnants of her skeleton. she's dead. a ghost. but they don't know it.

the end of the world comes and goes. like melting chocolate. sweet and dark and lonesome.

her moments tremble with choices. like men. soft and sweet and forgetful.

just as she wants them to be.

this is the opposite of prayer.

the supple thighs of time spread. to accommodate. the ravenous math of love. tepid strangers drowning under the weight of their unpleasant faces. the foolish caution of skin. like rampant sirens. shivering all through the bones. tracing the path. following. the thump of madmen. as they beat their pillows.

the world is impatient. this is the opposite of god.

a thread. hungry enough to breathe. the choice erases her. Bullets screaming at dead things. Triggers still virgin. The questions in her head gently evolving into answers. The hysteria of touch deciding. how close she'll get. to knowing. those strangers.

deaf men in a sea of blindness. listening to the colors.

the pig bleeds. caught in the doorway. the knob turning. like autumn leaves. ready to fall. incidental math. divides us.

the sand is soft. the lie is kneen and studious. obsessed with the opportunity to multiply.

the pig squeal. stuck. dying. suffocated in the urgency of our richer needs. her fangs soft. not long enough to kill. negotiate. the plaintive funerals. of stalled ladders and empty elevators.

going up. like broken pencils. killing the paper. worthless stolen jewels. the chlorine. harsh chemicals. that sweat the filth off of this drowning. the thread. the tiny knot. that convinces the needle to hang on to it. Even after it has failed to mend. the holes. that cry out. for stitches.

cold tortoise. sick with breath. chases the hare. to its darkest places. gentles lies. poison her resolve. thick curtains. cut the play in half. leaving behind only the blood.

her animals all speaking at once. a satirical debate. the weep of addiction. tries to tame her. but the leash is broken. she walks. like the bridge is her. Though the auction is ongoing. Its ownership still uncertain. She wonders whether the math can be trusted.

Hard triangles broach the map. Soft geometty. Weak measures. She wears the pattern. And is worn by it. The simple thrust of confession. pierces the apple in her head.

she reaches into the thick of her monsters. ready to begin counting again.

the broken bridge sings. softly. deaf fingers shape the image.

tortoises to chase. races to lose. bad dogs. beauty queens. a storm of condition. swells. slips the ugly into her medicine. plays the cure against her recovery.

the distance ripples gently under her feet. the thump of the engine. like a perverse heartbeat. ripe with skeletons hungry for new skins.

weakness in stones. games of hopscotch. where she bends to reach. and the winner is humiliated.

stiff walls. patterns of skin. the mania of touch. like blindness. the choke of touch. corrupting flesh.

the mountains. the moon. the sun. the arbitrary distance overwhelming. the panting dog. drawing maps. to the center of this psyche.

the falling trees. bark and vigor in a generous pantomime. the charade of choices. solving x's in fits of skin. the thin pencil. the thick pen. teacher and pupil vexing. for empty ropes.

the jungle. a puzzle of touch. pieces eager to fit. disappointing their pictures.

the color of her tulip rarely changes. nervous monsters humbled by the spectacle.

the cage becomes its animal. panting metal. finds comfort in blood.

their choices belonging to things they cannot see. atoms and molecules. and the science of strangers. years like a pendulum. swayed by the thrust of inertia. indifferent to the force that gave it that first push.

her grave is impatient. as she lingers on his eulogy. she's closer to it every day, even with all those people that get in the way.

the slope. the simple surrender. that distorts the cliff. as she calculates the slender distance. between heroes and villains. and the monsters they choose to worship.

the colors. the prism of skin. that works to refract. the dull light that pierces. these stubborn caverns.

the madmen. with their tunnels collapsing. the addicts with their dwindling heavens.

selling lost for a profit.

choice. the slight of decision. accusing flesh. soft lies against the hard wall of truth. tender leashes. tame the thirst. of rabid dogs.

the pull of the streetlight. too independent to care. the weight of the fog. like stiff pedals. broken glass. the halting rituals of want. like insects infesting. little bites everywhere.

the old man. the italicized kiss. long walks. atoms stretched thin. soft explosions. full of invisible tears. and absentee skin. the choice comes to claim her, but she is unwilling to confess.

pale birthday cakes and melting candles not ready to be snuffed. the shadow on her shoulder. a dagger long, but not sharp. the darkness like a motor. drives her closer.

to the edge.

small decisions. rapidly expanding.

the spy on its back listens. as the mountain sighs. the plaid of her frown not as obvious to them as she expected. tentative needles test the heroin. Caress the vein. too patient with gravity. Impact tells the stories she never has.

Checkerboards of skin. Poor players strutting. Fretting. The Shakespeare in their game. Falling. Clumsy poets obese with more words than wisdom. Stabbing. With plastic weapons. At clay monsters. And the dwindling futures. that plague this flesh.

The ladder bends. Fatigued and obedient. Nervous fairy tales alter the costumes to fit them. the snake. Confident with its temptation. Let's the apple fall.

the child bends down. to taste it. and is devoured.

long stories. told by strangers. the shy plaint of skin. the egregious errands of bone and breast. bargain with fickle utopias.

the world ends in tiny kisses.

and begins the same.

tracing the tongues of madmen. trembling vessels. similar to woman. the crease of proportion deep. the lurch of condition ambivalent. puppets. theater. stages bursting with the dialogue of when. the light was dim. but she could still see. like a dull needle dancing against the end of its thread.

the calm of the witch. comforts. the fever of the ogre shakes. the straw from weak houses. her lips like thunder. echo the lightning. of virulent storms.

the punch of time. impotent. smothers her in tiny kisses. like the world is ending.

it is.

tunnels and bedsheets. precariously predicting flesh. the traffic in her skull. congested and urgent. travelling such great distances to take her nowhere.

the rush of stimulant. weak, yet so much stronger than I. the flood of opiates. the sigh of lazy gods. eager to abort.

she draws the lion much the same as it would tell her. if it could. write by the sharpness of those fangs. if the meat were rhythm. and the blood were song. a symphony of predators hunting for the sanctuary of hunger.

the heavy bricks. a momentary dance. the moist mortar of touch. a cacophony of purpose. where the roads all converge. humming halos on the backs of demons.

just the one stumble. the prick of how. the sweet satisfaction fo suspicion. soured by choices.

wait for the trapdoor. the snicker of gravity. as it exposes. separates. gods and poets.

her monkey screeches. evolution a cruel satire on touch. she defers her protest to biology. slender stairs with their fists beating the carpet.

the dubious slopes of her skin. an infestation of choices. to be eradicated. the urgent curve of her breasts. a problem better left to be solved by science.

her fountain holds its breath. trying not to vomit. but their wishes are just too sickening.

the earth is easy to forget. shy lever in a catapult of confessions. humble axe to the fallen tree.

her heavy dress wears her. in loose buttons and nervous equations. the humility of decision. like sober promises.

treasure. a monopoly of condition. presses gravity. for compromise. her alien awakes. swollen bridges. too confident in the suicides of lonely men.

eager witches. leave their cauldrons to be found. the stab of the moment. reluctant, but deep.

the oboe wheezes. a tentative bridge. between when and if. now and then. the drug excavates. hungrily mapping her innards. engaging each mountain and revelling in every crevice. she trusts it will keep taking until there is nothing left.

she revels in the panic of bitten fingernails and unprotected sex. a curious kitten eager to be suffocated.

her thin dress teases the sun. a temptation of unknown depths. the simplicity of childhood wagers what little coin she has. it's only a game she reasons. dirty windows in empty houses. and keys left in the lock.

you can try. telling the stories in dull crayons. pretending there is paper. that something will last.

the rudiments of touch. confessed in a shiver of contrition. the coax of surrender lost in the thump beneath her ribs.

you can sleep. zombie in its mayhem. oblivious. saturated with death. digging at the creases in crumbling walls. until all your fingernails have fallen off. yet your prison still intact.

it's a bad day to be a monkey she whispered. evolution is coming for you. you're caught on the tentacles of a fairy tale. trying to drown yourself in a puddle of choices. all of them much too shallow.

you're alone in a panic of skin. it's all too small. it's all too big.

it's a sad day to be an addict. she confessed. all these pretty dresses to try on. but none of them fit.

the world arrives in portions. carved meat and loose skin. the nervous thumbs of ghosts. thumbing through the bibles of our flesh. she wakes him. because he her to. if the ratios changed.

quiet monsters. loyal to their purgatories. devils in their fuzzy robes sort their valentines. it's not enough to love the disease. you have to want it.

she wears the moments. in subtle poisons. the beautiful surrender. pale mirrors. fervent ghosts. and strays. like thread. woven. cautiously throughout. molted skins.

life is metamorphosis. change is constant. the hour surges. gentle brimstone. for soft devils. to discover the sharp of their horns.

the trial. the conundrum. of humanity. lies to her. as it always has. stiffens her brow. steep bridges. across shallow rivers. pressing deep. to draws the lips. on empty mouths.

earnest angels tugging on the heels of disobedient heavens.

broken suitors. arrogant monkeys. polish their dice. dalliant victims of the surging throng. evidence. purchases the eyes. in patterns. in needles. in the torn capes of heroes. and the smudged makeup of villains.

the night worships. a scripture of skin. a thunder of surrender. by which to to name their gods. ugly doors. content in the empty of the faces. that watch them. forgetting.

years like rope. scratch the necks. of dead dolls. still on trial. for the crimes of their thumbs. time chews. dull fangs still dig for the blood. life is always as close as it is far. loud stop signs and quiet landmarks. in a race around a colorless world. Boxes and equations. Carve out their art. From small stones in the dirt that surrounds.

The series follows her as she chases. The quake of numbers that erupts from flesh. The panic of tomorrow that swallows her past.

precious hours fight the slip gravity. as she teases the edge.

yellow. lost eyes and stolen limbs. forward. dead hours. wingless vultures. picking at the carrion. burnt lollipops. to choke on.

red. born again. helpless and needing. into a soup of foul flesh. and desperate confession. plastic lips stoke the fever that boils below at the back of her throat.

limp dolls do their dance. without a song. their stage broad. their curtain drawn. and no one listening.

her thighs cinnamon. her tears coriander. biology defeats her. and she is just a woman. scanning the darkness for the words to explain. what is missing.

the flame is patient. the flesh is not. quaint bridges left open. to let the tall ships pass through. how small we are the only lesson. that crowd of gods and demons has blessed us with.

the steep of skin. brews hot. a hemorrhage of lullabies. bleeds the process. like broken fingers. reaching for bigger sticks. the lie overwhelms her. and she confesses. that nothing has changed. she's as weak as she's ever been..