subtle storms. tease the loose bricks. in weakened walls. the rain falls. the rain stabs the air. a dire marathon of blood and indifference.

the flood comes quietly. in a creeping whisper of moments. pale clocks tame the stairs. red pillows sculpt the darkness. the art of dying. in punchlines and free drinks.

life is loud. it has to be. to be noticed at all in such a dense crowd.

the machine growls. rabid with choices.

the words corrupt. desire infects. the virus of humanity. a fatal disease.

small monsters make their music. host their parties. blunted heroes. Boast the sun in their blindness.

the wind swallows her. the journey becomes the loss.

crawl. conspire with gravity. lips like hard candies. to suck on until they are dissolved. the absolute. the tenative dominion. fingers in the socket. waiting for someone to flip the switch. sour fruits. tremors of touch. spilling over. like stubbron nightmares.

waiting on the spark. the remember. or to forget. whichever comes first.

walk. wear gravity in gold and silver. a wealth of intimacy. a debt of purpose.

she said she could see the sun. eyes closed. it was still there. burning inside her head. pretending to know how close she was.

she warned that it would happen. that it always did. that happening seldom waited for skin to agree. a bargains of flesh. corrupted by touch. a prison of lovers.

time has its own frailties. a student of the possible. is always disappointed. the numbers stutter. the math is weak. thorny masks and sharp claws. draw portraits in the psyche.

tender meat arouses the dogs. feral predators spoil the salve. Everything burns.

the geometry of choices. too many angles. everything measured in corners. everything is cold. nothing is soft anymore.

the atom growls. quiet and discontent. hungry and indifferent. a stranger in her bed. a Brutus in her cocktail. et tu in every sip. the murder is in the intent. not the conditions nor the results. the crime is committed long before the act takes place.

there were fingers on the storm. Small fists everywhere. As the weather moaned. And wept. And crept inside us. In cordial rapes and civiliQzed murders.

Her cheeks swollen with honey bees. Her lips full of hornets.

treble paths. follow passive soldiers. urgent actors in an empty experiment. the science teases. pleasure and pain intersecting. as they always have. the bustling traffic of flesh. quietly making progress. numbers like gods. drowning in the depths of their power.

suspicious flowers piss in their gardens. the chase resolves to the runner. the thunder listens for the wind. puzzle pieces fumbling with a broken image. time moves backward. from end to beginning. always has. we just mistook the maze for a map.

a boast of skin. like raindrops on a hollow roof. little dolls with their dresses in knots. and the chaos of eternity a sweeping pendulum.

her strength is temptation. the manipulation of wants. sour apples on the ground. her weakness is trust. stones on the apex. the callous geometry of touch.

blank faces. all their eyes behind them. all their word chewed and digested. Waiting. Always waiting on their piss and the shit. Tricked by the weak demons that are bound to this flesh.

she studies the nooses. the burns on their necks. short poems. mostly regret. limp monsters sharpening their claws. on cunt and science.

the tremble of paradox. as it solves for bone. the bleak of skeleton. as it confesses. little pigs with their snouts buried in the shit.

the end weeps. paper dolls and broken scabs. scissors and needles spoil the collage. a stilted freedom weakens the mob.

one night at a time we convince ourselves the blood has stopped.

the edge comes to her. says it's waiting.

pale ducks count their feathers. while the woodsman sharpens his axe.

manic stories awash in a cliche of touch. the temperate mayhem of pretending to wait for what you know will never come.

lazy bridges and lovers mimic the ocean. rising and falling in a tireless repetition. the smaller the hole, the more it seems to lose.

the blunted hammer speaks softly. negotiating with the nails. the broken zipper has its poetry. and a broken heart has its scales. but not everything can be measured. even gravity has its mercies



the world has its outlines. it's for us to fill in. the edge calls out. and she is tempted to grab it. the broken math of skin keeps counting.

the spiral. a tumble of when. the thicket. proverbs of flesh in a deluge of if. the helix. tremors of resolve. wear the storm in a science of touch. she is only a choice. a stark decision amongst a chaos of options.

the colors. claws and bullets. broke targets. the monster quiet. simple snakes in neglected gardens.

patient ghosts. still waiting for the shadows to fit. empty maps. fat  with paths. hungry for desinations. it's close. the end of the world. the beginning of it. it's dull. the blade that draws these pictures. in piss and vomit and wonder. hardly sharp enough to keep cutting.

these transient heavens not withstanding. these seldom gods unimpressive.

the machien initiates. the reaction absolves. hole in the darkness tell their stories. the small lies of skin expanding.

touch like fangs hollow with posion. bodies eager to be bitten.

glue gun eyes. reluctant apes. negotiate their kings. like flesh. paper tears. like wounds. ink bleeds. simple stories. nervous stages. always telling.

cracks in the sun. where the chill can seep inside. shadows on the grass. where someone would've stood.

rage and love. eager anthems. of the powerless.

the wind spoils over the ocean. lost in the sweet confessions of the expanse. adrift. surrounded. devoured by the naught. a tale told in whispers. a lesson taught in silence.

the numbers betray her. counting so much more than she had anticipated. a quiet math at the center of a ripening storm. soft faces given to darkening heavens. heavy ropes testing their knots. tired snakes dragging their apples behind them. small temptations. no longer seem so small.

the bent key. the flex of the lock. as it squeezes. a parable of flesh. in a slaughterhouse of touch. little girls wearing their men. tiaras and pennies. deep wells. where the echo never reaches the surface.

the simple doll. yarn heart. button soul. a series of masks. each one hiding nothing other than the obvious. ample wounds under the smother of conceit.

the smallest particle. too small to see. fears nothing. the cartography of skin is mutable. relative. the cold wind chokes on the dying things. everything disappears eventually. subtle monsters in their skinny jeans. fiddle with the zippers on empty magazines. the casual dominion that circumstance prevails. heavy drapes on shattered windows.

the science of people. in quick staples and slow infections. rumors of why. haunting.

tenative ghosts. solved by their mazes. broken colors that name her sickness. in rich pastels and fetid crayons. open bridges. circle the path. absent gods attempt to dance. to the missing music.

the simple lies of time. the chronic boasts of truth. nothing is small enough. to fit inside this manic equation. the weeping wolf. the nervous swine. the fever of the hunt betrays them.

soft needles coax the vein. in a panic of skin. the death inside the box uncertain. 

impossible trajectories. claws in the surface of the sun. empty hours transition. Burning stairways to heaven.

the mortar sets. cold and rigid. grinning paste. and sharp tongues. taste the white on the walls. the tempting doors. the curious ceilings. the missing floors.

there is duration to question. and there is distance to blame. simple games of stones and sticks. lengthy tournaments of batters and cages.

the sour math that time does. on fingers. toes and faces. fractions of gods as impotent as we are. lawn chairs and sprinklers under the swelter of suspicion. beautiful madmen. ripe with mania. tear open the clock. and watch as the minutes bleed out.

the end swallows. softly. farther still. it presses. the road unravelling like cheap carpet. the path undressing. like so many whores. gelatin nooses on paper gallows. violence makes sense of senseless things.

atoms prove how small we are. while Fission demonstrates how powerful small can be.

she wore the words. like legions. a temperate sickness. pissing its way through her veins. in sharp sticks and dull blades. all her maps a paradox. the same beginning as the end. all of her lies so innocent. as they told her.

the angle of the light as it bends to escape the clouds. makes it look so small and so far away that i almost believe it is.

paper bones. adrift in an ocean of flesh.

windows on the plaza. tempting the stars. steps from the gallows. as the rope giggles ghosts and murders.

the ample choke of apathy.

the moment. a simple tide. effortlessly repeating. as though everything is lost.

the light whispers. simple songs paint her skin on barren walls. the houses of men. so painfully small. no room for answers. Hungry roots in the throes of summer. Learning the storms.

chasing the rain.

static in her voice. turns all the words to junk. parties. like funerals for the living. watching them die. again and again.  they either don't know. or don't care. so why should i?

the wormhole of flesh. glimpses the future. teases the past. a long division of when. ripe for the singe of now. quiet eyes. postulate. the ratio. of matter to how. the truth is merely a generous lie. a heavy curtain between perception and sight.

i believed i had seen the world. from beginning to end. drugs and marriage and children. a muddy puddle. a dismal highway.

i thought that over was the end. but it lingered for so long. sweat and odor and semen. a thick noose. a reluctant hangman. a lengthy suicide.

if i ever knew, i never knew it enough. the chemistry comes and goes. evolves to suit the holes. the distance varies. the depth insists.

i used to ask him to tell me. how he knew i was. he'd just stare. i used to plead with him to come find me. when i would disappear. he'd just say. we were already there.

piss and vomit and blood. the weak antiseptics we apply to lingering wounds.

so there we were. when we were small. heavy with our picnic baskets. dwarfed by the path we took. lost in an empty forest. child. demon. angel. pet. the quality of surrender parallel to the depth of the wound.

terminal. the eternal paradox. that each moment is another death. thousands of graves to build one small life. the science. the surrender of skin. as it chokes on these hollow bones. the void. that animates all this darkness. giving names to every ghost.

counting. as if the hours know. pretending choices.

the simpler worlds of gods and strangers. wear the dolls faces in stabs and stones. stolen dresses try her on. but she isn't even close. gravity finally remembers. and she falls.

barking dog. tail still wagging. suffocating hen. fussing on its nest. silly songs sing themselves in her head. stabs of laughter much sharper than she was prepared to endure. he's lonely she assumes. by his reluctance to ask if she is.

the paper is nothing. the creases even less. the stories are told in lines and smudges. a stubborn virus. a simple sickness. a hollow world blinding with brightness. a grief heavy with want. blind thieves. swinging twigs at mountains.

moist kindling. heavy rocks. the fire finds a way to happen. the shadows are dissected. And the stronger embers ignite.

an abundance of bridges. hastens the journey. a shortage of places leaves her stranded.

elements. daggers. resolve. the structure of darkness. the algebra of lost. terrible truths ready to be loud. time travel suits her. static slacks in her strut. thick hours under the stab of her heels. gargling the blood.

simple bridges. the hum of absent gods. circling. the carrion is patient. though the starved are not. the trechery of time. chooses which pawns to sacrifice. the game adapts. polaroids of want erupting from  the milky candor of hungry eyes.

patterns squirm. the tedious evolution of touch. gnawing its way from crotch to chest.

life simmers quietly. water in a pot. over a low flame slowly building heat. until we eventually come to a boil and begin to evaporate.

bodies rot. go rancid with age. long before death bestows upon us its hollow mercy.

roads choke. lapsing into derelict corners. the mind is a map. a threaded purgatory. ripe with journeys.  sour with distance.

little men with their eyes missing.  taken. robbed. the heft of the climbing rope feels right in her fists. the itch of its fibers. the tears in her skin. like elections. for which hour will happen next.

every breath a contract. a poorly struck deal. the nightmare wears her. a ziper at the back and a button at the center. the dark sweats inside her. as weak as it is superior. pale engines flirting with dirty gasoline. rudimentary choices determine the structure of complex machines.

deaf lovers. listen only with their words. change confronts. browning leaves. tiring braches. gravity eventually claims everything.  it's not like we could fly. but it was good to pretend. that we were more than just the world we inhabit. more than just what it preceived of us. simple colors. vivid with the heat of moments. rooms empty with so many beds. a series of doors quietly closing.

tone and desire. her origins. tepid storms. quietly ravage. her outline. salt and scabs. passive aggressive princesses flaunting their rags.

her blueprints. big pigs. little wolves. same houses.

the measure is in reactions. chocolate and arsenic. the simple poisons that give us life.

the result occurs in hows. cinnamon and resentment. the urgent icing on so many stale cakes. the shallow moat which surrounds oceans of shame.

plum puppets dancing on a strawberry stage. all limbs coldly tethered to strings made of honey. wooden limbs drowning in the darkness. carved faces starved for change. she names the mountain. each one. soft matchstick. gone dark. yet still warm with the expired flame. she picks up the stitches time has dropped. thin needles coax the thread. deep holes finger the bottom. the surface grins. the calm  repetition of weakness. broken leashes.

the animal. the dust. the thin curtain between them. the alarm in her skin. the apocalypse in her skeleton. the universe collapses every night. she just doesn't always care.

Mechanical feet chase the stairs. Strays. Alone in the corners. With familiar monsters and strange gods.

choosing the numbers. templates of when. how it was old. before it was young. how it was lost. before I'd ever found it. the sequence like magic. reverses every consequence. until we are nothing. robbed of each of the moments that decided they would become us.

egg shells in the omelet. bones in the sauce. what we take to make things happen always takes back.

simple bridges. the division of want. sticks on the ocean's surface. just trying to stay afloat. the simple geometry of skin. shapes measured by lines and corners. empty sums for what we are.

mild fevers. the spoils of evolution. nervous time machines. the stubborn promise of flesh. tired pawns in the shadow of the queen.

tired games stealing from the darkness. bright fists. hollow punches. flirt with the mirrors. the world is singing, but no one dances.

life makes us. in hammers and stabs. the dark holds its breath. and we can bleed again. embrace the holes in this skin. find solace in the persistence of scabs.

long dresses and shimmering nooses. quench the alien.

Colors in the ether draw the choice in her path. empty cages still echo with the monster.

chasing the oblivion. thoughts like dandruff. moments like lice. simple creases form the accordion. until everything is gone except the empty spaces.

eager child. blank with need. soft songs played too loudly. voracious mother. rabid with offspring. Fed by her starvation. And hungry for another. life is ours. to give. to use. to take. a conditional tangent. measured against the breadth of the sphere.

terminally unaware. glowering in the muck of sight. soiled and determined. Hot matchsticks with their flame blown out. the futile debate humanity pretends. a fervor of beauty. the gravity of substance. grim stories told behind closed eyelids.

empty agendas. tepid eyes. the words smother. the meaning is absent. Her numbers, each one a small tear. in an otherwise simple puzzle.

listening to the corners. urgent angles in this impotent math. introverts solving for faces. a sea of people drowning in their masks.

yellow. like her sleep is. corrupt and foul with ladders and string. thin steps knotted together with fraying thread. small needles in the pale of her discontent. red. feeble sirens in the fog of how. red. loud crayons drawing the eyes on masks. empty skins. hollow faces. searching for whom to wear. orange. an ulgy marathon of skin. struggling with the race.

she has her petal. pink. she has her shadow. substance enough.

our desire evolves, though we do not. brute force defers to choice.

the blue settles. stretches across her face. the pierce of a needle in a filthy vein. nothing new. soldiers drowning in guns. nothing different. the same old wars still waiting to be won.

Dead things to dance with and ghosts to share the crown. Confident in this empty kingdom. Colors like numbers. Turning men inside out.

stolen dimensions. knots in time. the feather and the fire. calm apocalypse rages. portals. bridges. pale confessions. dead things dressed in neon.

a tortoise runs. courageously slow.

all the windows are open. no glass to break. but still it shatters.

divisions. calm assumptions. the tremble of the animal as we flaunt these cages. spoiling conditions. sour skin ripens to lust. her hungry bones ripe with repetition. life transpires in cycles. revolutions. we always come back to where we started running.

gardens waiting on their flowers. butterflies lifeless on the sidewalk. we follow the path. footsteps in blood. conspire to know us.

the darkness shifts. a thoughtless mitosis. spreads the sickness. empty baskets. thick forests. and candy houses infested with impotent gods. the fire speaks. small words. the flame wears her. in a prism of choices. bad robots and seldom kings. solving for x.

the price of strangers greater than she can afford. the promise of life broken again.

rotting apples. eager for the world to begin.