she welcomes the word in chokes of skin. a parable of thunder and silence. draws the storm in her palm. jittery pencil marks suckle the gods. thin grey lines solve the world in stabs of when. it was enough. or ever could have been.

the hound lurches. cutting scents and biting maps. navigate the child. until the woman emreges. more naked than the girl began.

all her holes roaring. portals on a broken paradise.

the puzzle of touch in whsipers. thin needles. thick drugs. the kaleidoscope of epiphany catches her edge. life needs her. not the other way around.

her turn. the obvious echo. soft ramps on to busy highways. the machine. her tired convictions. witches at their cauldron. ogres with soft arms deciding who we'll be. and the stories that betray us.

the severity of her demons salvation enough.

he would dance to the song of her corduroy lips. base conditions fermenting sharply. on the solvent edge of relative time. the surface frivolous with gravity. falling. always falling. choreographing his words to the rhythm of her hips.

the temple dim upon approach. threaded randoms for the ratio. simmering armies wear the conflict. in failing fires. steal the quark. in a tunnel close. measure destiny by the circumference of her throne.

the hour paints with fingers in the pigment. stained fists and trembling fingers beseech the images already drawn. the colors sprint. toward some distant finish. while we wallow in our outlines.

impotent gods rattle the sky. ripe with the science of dolls accused. seeing loudly in a silence of soldiers.

soft skin in a tumble of when. the war between the past and the future expanding. her tits. a pair of anxious thieves. her cunt. a treasure map.

touch. the simple math of obvious men.

shallow saviors and impotent gods. scratch the glass.

impotent monsters shriek and roar. determined to prove how menacing they are. naked dolls clutch the shadows. disappearing gauze on ruptured scars.

the stories fester. infecting.

yellow songs whisper. of fires extinguished. and those still burning. gravity weeps. spurious stabs of skin. choke on the freedom.

wearing the numbers in stiff fractions. counting life in stolen breaths. the object. the geometry of desire. butterfly wings stabbing. myopic moments.

listening for the scrape of the fraction. as the whole bears down.

following the script. a miasma of predators. chewing on the ladders. grabbing the stones. as the square split.

simple lies overcome. by the treachery of choices.

solvent predators chase the swing. pressing the arc. withi arrogant division. there are no numbers. only breath to be sacrificed to the war.

the long rod bends to the short angle. it's not difficult to see why.

simple martyrs as they are. flesh and bone and the gentle beasts that dwell within. any number of imagined paradises waiting for them. and yet they are still afraid to die.

she opens too easily. secrets betrayed by missing buttons and broken zippers. yet she closes the same. snaps shut. abruptly. heavy doors at the whims of touch. open windwos pressing on the wind. shy kisses spurred by hunger.

the villain and the champion. same science. different catalyst.

the butterfly coughs. sick with change. the future masturbates to the arid feasts of despots and saviors. stories calloused by the pinch of gravity. the language of her lips. translating strangers.

the science of skin. the fractured gravity of men. not withstanding.

gentle souvenirs. panicked prizes. the world erupts in predators and pacifists. the broad nostalgia of soiled flesh. her awkward dolls. tiny hitlers. her scraping hours. solvent martyrs. in stories mostly dead. trembling veins. whsiper the locomotive. in vomit and spit.

tender lies solve the skin. in crippled metaphors. the delicate monsters that color men.

prying rainbows from bloody fists.

the cold slumber listens. muscles whince with the fraud. of futures fetched from the fists of gods.

quiet masons fashion their walls. tears as their mortar. gravity becomes her. stern captain of  this sinking ship.

no leesons. nor hollow math to defend. the chrnoic suicide of touch. as it forgets. the teeth that bite.

soft blacks surrender to the deeper greys. if such a thing could be. knots in the thread. holes eager to open. long shadows bend to release. time comes in chokes and needles. a furtive drug more arrogant than effective.

chasing the edge of the paper. hemorrhaging ink.

time speaks in riddles. flesh answers in numbers. she chases away the monsters. like any good dog would. but is more defeated by their retreat. empty plastic arms. discarded dresses. spoil crippled dolls for their barren heavens.

the future gives chase. a rabid dog full of froth and kill. the future takes us each. big shits and little pisses.heavy daggers in paper fists.

quiet stories whisper below the skin. measuring victory in frail wars.

life is a series of mirrors. all of them broken.

lonely regents in the tar lands of the body. toil their spells and coax their magics from heavy stones and gaping winds. holds the hour fierce with tremors of fallen kings. the void is sharp. the ink ours. the edge is lost.

only the cruel gods remember our names when we weep upon the shore. the fist of the moon in our throats. the heel of the sun dug deep in our thighs. stripped of voice. robbed of run. soft corks swallowed by the hungry mouth of time.

the end presses premature. clanking fists at the feeble gate. beauttiful seers robbed of their eyes. swift kings flee. while slow peasants die.

broken colors spill the hues. empty songs left behind. the last of her wars. the first of her lies. the simple thieves. lovers and friends. the great artists. enemies and allies.

the walls rot. the windows crack. everything is gone. except choice.

soft stones brave the black in a fury of skin. the last edge. the paper blade cuts with sharp treason. she writes the hours in orphans and curs. temples culled from deepest marauders.

name the monster as you will. in pale thunders tame or crushing reds. it bites just the same. fight the wind or let it take you. same jaws. slightly different chew.

the choking clock flaunts its power. spurred by willing slaves. the hours fall to fetid bullets. love and other such unkind things. that steal heaven from bastards and martyrs.

her small machine rumbles and quakes. slight of gods, but thick with purpose. her dress falls away. her flesh dissolves.

until she is only bone. the hard edge of a breath. stolen from the shadows.

the arithemitic of flesh. counting backward.

the innocence of an atom. as it explodes.

the thief is always arguing with the machine. since distance is often measured in what's missing. the pilot never counts. though years are at stake. because time is not ours to own.

the steps go down, the same as they go up. the difference is the doorway.

the engine idles under her skin. a mechanical dragon of grinding gears and chomping pistons. the hour forfeits. beholden to the architecture of gravity.

all those invisible weights that would keep us in the dirt.

arrogrant crows mock the wind. emboldened by their beaks and feathers. flight follows strangers  to the edge. with soft tipped swords that prefer words over blood. the animals. in each of them a piece of humanity. or the shadow that remains of it.

the sky bleeds white. the ground chokes on each footstep.

slender needles boast the thread of monsters and champions. stitching together the frays of winters as the cold stubbornly persists. there are no names. nor reasons fetched from the barren ridge. just heavy cloaks absent faces and the heavy eyes that would soon forget.


these bodies are only a careless gamble.

we know not where we travel. the map buried far too deep. we only know that we must go there.

Leave a stone like any shadow would. Be as you are. Fluid with time as it squeezes through your skin. A parched nomad ripe with the world as its weight.

Yellow songs echo through the dark. Orphans in borrowed tuxedoes flood into the ballroom. There is only the measure that persists in her smiles. There is only the distance that lingers in her tears.

Weightless as all lies are. And tender words too soft to whisper. The story chokes on her every verb.

She writes one letter at a time. Defeated.

Biting at sleep and other muses. Snarling softly in her impotence.

Time scalds. Red whispers tuck her into her bed.

Places shuffle moments. The stiff poker of Darwin. Thin calves ddark potryrowned in the milk they couldn't drink.

Thick scabs flaunt new skin.

Even the beast has his limits.

Seldom angles chase the arc. Of queens and dolls as they speculate the whims of poets and madmen.

The moment tears. Soft as paper. And just as loud. Everything else is quiet.

Plastic tits  and clay fingers. Betray the heart. Empty dolls pleasure absent lovers.

Simple bridges confess the distance. Take us too far.

salted cocks shrivel and yawn. like so much thunder on the edge of the storm. it never rains anymore. the sky vomits tears. and nothing is quenched.

following the path. dutiful in our submission. the worst thieves are those that take nothing. but still leave us wanting.

she kicks the star. testing its resilience. She weighs the stone. Power has narrow parameters. Its providence even moreso.

A template of curiosities. Broken horses and bent bows. Position their needles. the soft churn of chemicals. as they shuffle her pieces. old images, new edges.

turns the hour with detached insistence.

She dines on tomorrow's grey perspective. Darker still with each chew of the meat. Borrowed eyes and stolen ears. Hungrier still with each meal.

Black of the blue in strands of crippled fists. Tepid ogres spoil the walls. Yet the windows remain unopened.

travelled by confession. colorful bruises mark the moment. the proctors of skin abiding lightly. the end of the world squirming in her fist. tales told. races finished. a morality of circumstances.

she is told in short stories and long poems. a thick scar running from marrow to surface. life chases. the naked fluctuates. painted portions and hungry boasts. solve the riddle in lipstick words.

the negative rises up. taking its shape. like so many soldiers. a quiet war that takes place within. an army of soft pencils.

draw their outlines.

and wait.

for the colors fill them.

the predator prepares. folded napkins and sparkling glassware. a very civilized murder.

seizing the drum. fingers sway the origins of dogma. the weight of dolls like panicked windows. the abrupt weather. stifles. measures. missing doors.

the child. carries the wolf in her pocket. fangs and all.

grey stories negotiate the hours. in straw and swords. time takes its captives.flesh builds its dungeons.

the moment is all that we are.

a tempest of thieves still loyal to the shit of dogs.

time enough. wilting words. barking slaves. soft hammers caress. the hard edge of the world. we've always tread too close to it, stubbornly refusing the fall. stolen hours. moist with fainting gods. and all the many simple lies that are the archictects of everyday life.

the gravel road. paints her journey in blood. as she stumbles forward. on her bare feet.

the future stutters and chokes. stupid and infrimed. the future dances and shouts. the same as any prisoner in the throes of freedom.

her pencil finds the edge and follows closely. a fever of strangers. deeply embedded in the thin threads of purpose.

time confesses. a sinner just the same as us. absent the constrictions of heaven or hell. stilll desperate to measure the man against his demons.

the paper creased. the seams all cut. the shapes exceeding their form.

the eager monsters that offer us war. where peace whispers. the simple cuts that trains the beasts to attack.

time whimpers and tugs on its leash. entirely unaware. that it's been captured.

we listen. with our broken ears. to words we don't understand. wearing each moment in nick of bone and pieces of skin. the monster close enough to kill. but the thrill is in letting it live.

Dominoes. as linear as our perception of the world . Fingers. Moist with intent. And the things that lie between. Cold hands struggle to determine. What is the difference. Forward. Back. Simple breadcrumbs draw their jagged maps on vacant skin.

the world didn't end like we were promised.

so we remain. fickle valves debating with a flood of when. we knew all these strangers.

the world didn't stop like we had assumed it must.

arrogant children with too much knowledge and not enough experience. time came and went. disregarding the milestones of mortality and courage. time scores its path equally deep in each person's wrists. only some of us bleed.

the machine is swift and indifferent. a callous god not at all of our image. the chase is long and uneven. but constant is the hunt. 

hard things in the crust of her fist. playing each stone. as if every wall is deaf. the hollow songs of
touch. repating in an endless echo. like the entropy inside a wormhole.

we go too far.

the distance between us still lingering. long after we've found our way back. 

tense solid and bright. the static in her fist tremulous and excited. a rusting sword. in a dying war. a  sleeping song.  in an old woman's head.

teasing the wolf. with bits of straw and pork. a curios device. this living. this funnel of flesh. swallowing life in huffs and snorts. it always changes. sharp pencils hunt the ovals. the answers more collapse than bridge. the absolute of touch spoiling all expectations.

faces far too heavy. the timeline shudders. stiff with nervous arithmetic. a series of terrible lies and beautiful ones. mingle. like birth control for thoughts.

miniscule autumns burst from the winter. with sharp claws unwilling to retract. Talcomed dolls slant their hips and laugh. At the things we'll do to perpetuate fairy tales.

a malady of monsters. tries her on. a soft skeleton. a rigid skin. finds its way inside. the consent of war. stirs the pot. defers to the withces. of so many candy houses long gone. 

sleepless men argue with the wormholes. the pale art of want. in faded dishrags and barbed confesssions. soft drizzle stirs hints of  freedom.

she leans into the storm. seducing the destruction. from empty bottles and broken windows.

perpetual confessions resolve to burnt spoons and scalded pots.
empty meals at hollow tables. the truth is licorice. addictively tart.
worn by her words. in broken zippers and stubborn knots.
each new sentence finding her more naked than the last.

churning. ample discord finds its toes. despair draws its maps
and only after discovers the treasures hidden. in pierced fruit thighs
and melting ice cream lips.

she's not who she is. years now. as someone else. a blurry enemy.
at the extent of her vision. a coin frozen in the air. a predator fitfully sleeping.

spoils the chase. in resting atoms and hungry chaos.

the sweet sip of surrender. a welcome poison.