soft sores on the lips of the clock. flaunt their pus. a simple infection of touch. slow to heal. the trembling steps whisper. gentle songs. of gnarled fangs and beaten predators. the end is quiet. and abrupt. for everyone. each of us.

pale cinderellas negotiating with their princes. imagining words are enough.

the long rope. empty at the end. unravels toward the sun. ready to reveal the black. in silent fits. small and large. as everything is  from one moment to the next.

lingering choices. the throbbing wrist. the deafening colors. tomorrow shouts. yesterday only whispers.the simple sin of silence draws its picture in the corpses.

short stories. long faces. alone finds her confessions. bleak as ever. bold as blood. the cuts not healing. the blade still eager.


the quiet surrender. rising. like so many colors. fading. her dismal catalyst. her discarded dress. the poetry of nothings. flesh sick with a fever of when.

the jagged slope. the blissful descent. all voice. no eyes. as the darkness reasons with the nearing edge. these soldiers staid. pendulum whispers and siren skin. time gives chase. in a marathon of choices. the hours ignite. and we are content to burn. for the chance to engage the demons.

everything we are is hungry. slopes and daggers. a labyrinth of faces. an echo of colors. as the canvas breathes. her timid predators not withstanding.

the end in whispers. tumbling decimals. defer to the original division. chasing the clones in all directions. gravity shifts to compensate.

broken pencils and empty pens. pursue the king. struggle with the pawns. every breath borrowed. soft motives smuggled and lost. the broken hammer argues with the nails. waiting for the walls to listen.

down in falls. cold tame wail. rising wild. hot blue monsters. more skin than eyes.
the trembling stair. the broken song. louder still. now that we are resolved to lost.

black portals below the touch. grinning membrane and lethal guise. electric fever.
scattered hope. torn envelopes flaunt their jagged flesh. the tumbling path. the heavy numbers. thick with exceptions. and splintered crutches. for hungry men and absent gods.

the numbers stolen from her barren feasts. the ink usurped from ambivalent purgatories.

her soft demons put away their horns. pretend to sleep. though dreams seldom come.

her small time machine. traces the beast. the fury of youth in loose buttons.

The monsters worn. Pliant paper dolls. Holding faster to a broken clock. the diminishing luxury of having died  before.

these expired dreams linger still. the solvent aristocracy of flesh not withstanding. the shaking wolf with tender fangs. still devours. hungers the sames as any ordinary beast. a crest of skin. a tsunami of moments. a flood of birth amongst a chaos of death.

each lover to be worn. in button holes and zippers. undone. the fit of the hour dependent upon axiomatic encounters.

the fading bulb. tells its stories to the dim. the dull pencil draws its images deeper into the pages.

spoiled by the machine. eager to go back. negotiate with the hours and the minutes. carelessly adrift in an ocean of lovers.

tepid trials. the coin barely flipped. one choice divisible by a series of strangers. her ruptured future. more pus than blood. .

sinking bows offer their dim lights. the empty forest still hums. defiant of the darkness. her listening corprse has numbers to offer. the thorough horizon of flesh. separates lands and sky. her time travel is internal. her marathon runs in whispers.

if it's over and only the grave still waits. the taste is more measure than the sin.

hungry moments. chew on her. tumbling grief flattens. hollow hours.

the torn puppets. steal their dance from simple synonyms. the battered strings.define the madness. with letters from the future and choices from the past.

we name them. as we would any ghosts. processing the scars first. before swallowing the blood.

wear the thunder with a shifting serendipity. just barely loud enough to hear. voices turn colors. the scrape of the wind. nudges the shadows. as the stubborn glass fights the sun.

the idle numbers. this sweating betrayal. as the world slips away. meekly interrupted. rumbles of skin. like heavy clouds. too shy to rain on us.

every monster with a new name. every corner with an angle obstuse. the motor fumbles with the mechanics of idle. motion all it knows. time is a series of nooses. we are not linear, though our skin would argue differently.

time boasts its angles. and swelling circles. the shapes cast their shadows. but nothing is tangible.

pale fevers name the faces. in a long series of shattered tiles. heavy ladders fall towards the windows. marvel at the glass.

the cool distance. the crumbling numbers. the struggle against life's impossibe math.

the future. the dismal geometry of touch. quietlly calculating the volume of an empty man.

you'll see me there, but it's someone else. a goblin imitating the mirror. a stranger trying on my skin. ignoring the wrinkles. excited by the darkness. searching for alone in a hurricane of faces. desperately remembering the quiet edge as the loud one approaches.

you'll see the tar. the dense portal of silence that sits between us. i've been searching for the map. all my life. still haven't found it. voices like blank paper. taunting me to read what was never there. i try to remember the world i knew before. the inside. all jelly and vinegar. thick and sharp stabs to the senses. and their virulent amnesia.

we'll trace the lines separately. wondering how they could ever meet. people. distant thunder. pouring rain. a preposterous flood for me to drown in. the distant echo of the margins. the hollow poetry of my disease. scratching on the glass. digging in the fire. content to burn.

you'll meet the broken doll and wonder how she walks. you'll talk to the empty chair and marvel at the shadow it casts.

simple stitches threading through the eye of time. hollow numbers. and their servant skin.  choosing each madness with open fists. the trail softens. the blood dries. this body is the coffin. time is the grave.

heavy scars like soup and bones. spoiling. the lost meat lingering. steeping in the foul baths of frail wars. the deaf soldiers of skin. and our words' blind warriors. perishing together in their thirsty apocalypse. patiently waiting. for our pencils to break. and our blades to bend.

the edges spoil us. with rabid temptations. consequence on the other side of dense walls.

sober songs put her to sleep. an invasion of flesh. more curtain than wizard. the fairy tale choking on the science. as the space comes forward to define us. so small we are. in the shadow of these crippled clouds. all empty limbs and weighted weapons. drag marks in the sand revealing the arc of our crawl.

quiet guesses. with their teeth in the bone. a thready rebellion of whispers and naked dolls.

the storm arises suddenly. the slumbering apocalypse. the end of the world in her fist. salt and atoms  dancing their last waltz. the space between us breathes. growing the disease that once was us.

broken locks and heavy doors. scribble absent faces. the charm of death uses her. a blackjack of strangers. guilty with kings and aces. a dead flower on the barren floor. mindlessly giving names to things that have no faces.

identity comes in floods. waxing wolves with faces in their claws.

this temporary pain is exciting. as the infection spreads. swelling gods with transparent robes. dole out life in a mosaic of skin. broken shards drawing their images. in blind metaphors and heavy medicines.

she waits for the wind to inhale. in her broken cup. on the tedious mountain. she climbs. the coy flames pretending not to notice. swelling graves. and nearing edges.

she dresses as a poet. in cracked windows. she laughs as a stranger. in empty parallels. the hungry bridges insisting their path. as the memories revolt.

the fairy tale louder than it's ever been. witches and wolves confident in the raw. heavy meat and hollow bone. to chew. the arithemetic of god is in the waiting.

the language of humanity  is in the taking.

when the end comes it will be soft. cardboard eyes and clay tongues. trembling with whispers dew drops. the broken lamp. the dead switch. the tornado. all these things virulent inside her head. a long and painful infection.

the razor boasts blood and pus. only tendons interfere.

the bullet promises a quick oblivion. only cowardice poisons the plan.

the drugs leverage addiction and release. slow and deliberate. never enough. a thin spectre of death that tears at every tug.

the end comes in silence. a funeral absent words. and starving for the dead. a constant hunger.

tears in the glass listen to the wind. as it carries the darkness. deeper still. small infections spreading.

life is a treason.

the disease always wins.

the distance becomes her. quiet scars  draw their maps. in fraying veins. the world ends every night. with a whimper and a piss. a dull blade on the wrist of time. the scraping measures of if. dew on  a cactus. her life a long and unsuccessful suicide.

the moments spend her. odd coins and rumpled bills. flesh is a franchise. the soul is a commodity. but i have noting left to invest in this failed human enterprise.

the ceiling is too close. the wallss are too thin. broken is all they notice.

the distance defines her. feet. years. seconds. explosives hidden in each encounter.

i am born again. into a strange place. left alone to learn. or die in the process.

the dying suits me. the finality and the confusion. a wonderful distaster of punctuation and arithmetic.

like a tombstone waiting for the words to tame it.

her voice empty cups. words sweating and evaporating. her skin swallowing her up. in growing folds. like quiet hurricanes.

tripping into the world one scar at a time. chewing on the stones.

chasing the horizon.

her thoughts volcanoes. her words ashes. it's gone. the future is over.

finger paints and scandals. elevators and friction. fading evidence of survival.

hungry ghosts feast on the wormhole. the distance raw like meat. compelling comsumption.

little shadows in their tall hours. stroke the moment. the ratio cold. the math betraying.

the machine gasps and moans. the bitter servitude of pistons and gasoline. coloring.

time has no such luxury of faces. only the tremor of bones as they struggle to shape us.