the angle barks. tremors of if. colors of how. clay fists. paper daggers. make their marks. in theories of when. in a perpetual war.

bean stalks and giants. cast their shadows on her path.

the light stark. the shadows severe. heavy daggers trace the edges on unfinished portraits. the slope winces. the blood drips. waiting on bandages already occupied. he chokes. on the poullution in his voice. the dense smoke. the trundling cancer. of want. that's steadily consuming him.

the sweating monster. the deaf poison. of hungry skin. the gentle suicide of strangers. still willing to wear her. 

soft hammers pound the hard nails. the lens trembles. sick with sight. the scale wretches. spoiled by gravity. we continue counting. all through the nightmares and the waking up. determined ghosts. still in the clothes they've lost.

shy predators press their fangs to the glass. the ceiling low and transparent. but not without its locks.

the hours choke on the geometry of flesh. a dissonant sybiosis. shapes and colors. maps and distance. a fever of when. like stones against the broken glass. no resistance. just empty spectacle.

the weather turns. the paper gives. creases and valleys. the stilted science of  surrender.

her purchase only a narrow shaft of moonlight. her choices more slender still.

the vex of time truant of the flesh. we tumble. arrogant in our freedom. ignoring gravity's chains.

vacant cellars boast their paper dolls and fraying ghosts. The empty arithmetic of all the strangers she used to know.

maybe i'm yellow and the blue is just imagined. he has his super heroes and i'm okay with what remains of fading fairy tales. perhaps i pressed too deeply on the fold. and the paper had no choice but to remember. the flame that lures the insects to their suicide.

the simple art of choosing. if it hurts enough. whether the shame still fits. stiff corspes and pliant worshippers of these tangled puppets.

maybe the stage is choice enough. the corrosive wagers of solitude. raising their voice. for the dead to hear.

lost breadcrumbs.and candy houses. boast the shadows. the empty syringe. the folding muscles. the surrendering skin.

a simple lever. fritcion easily solves her. a decimal place. the math of moments. cradles the hours in its fists. the punch. the frivolous guile of absent gods. burdens us all.

this vacant freedom whispers treason.

the game plays her. a series of orbits. crippled as the crooked center. is. the surgeon cuts. the clown stumbles. the patient sickens. the infection heals. the pencil scratches. shitting its images all over the page. we die in fractions. for the amusement of neutered gods and familiar strangers.

this narrow stairway. steep with vague utopias. kisses gravity with open lips. everything  falls envetually. everything is weighed down with emptineess.

simple traps.

the choices carve their path. she crawls inside her monsters. grateful for the warmth.

her shame the needle. her disease the thread. gravity her prison. falling the only exit.

she wears them. in torn gowns and poisoned medicines. stubborn ghosts. tapping on the glass. simple murders.

she undresses. drowning in the moment. the last god choked on hard candy.

the primer. the defeatist religion. of science and skin. the blood pools. the scar tissue argues. with the end of the world.

the darkness sings. the geometry betrays. poor calculations. and mispent fairy tales. manipulate the ink.

she tries them on. a series of hollow skins. a tremble of stiffening bones. struggle to heal as they swallow the bullets.

the skeleton dances. an absent charity of when. gravity digs. every moment has its treason. but the fall is hers alone.

it's always the end of the world.

play soft, fetid charms of waiting and impatient monsters. grip the tender scabs on shivering dolls. the stiffening air. the thinning corners. the chaos in their whispers difficult to ignore. the failing minutes grey enough for us all.

no sound. just engines in the darkness. rabid predators stripped of their claws. pacing at the base of utopia. quite disappointed. she folds. she creases. but does not tear. there is ink. and edges. and thundering margins. still the path is no different. and the edge remains just as sharp.

the narrow veins of time struggle to accomdate all the posions I choose to embrace. gentle tornadoes visit the truth upon waning ghosts.

a frenzy of skin. a panic of faces. time's appetite determined by our desperation.

the foul atom spoils for the stagnant nucleus. the weighted skeleton struggles against the skin. qeustionging the shape of every villain.

the math knows her. the arithmetic of her skin. in subtle additions. and silent subtractions. the knots are cinched. frail colors bleed. soft winds confess. a tremor of choices.  tilt the machine. a deluge of decisions map the darkness.

the numbers solving for us. the axis and the angle narrowed. to compensate for the weakness of gravity.

her tired needle. surrenders its stitches. the holes are too big.

breathe. chew. swallow.

the meat is all we are. the bones are just crutches.

taste. spit. choke.

the hunger is the sum of us. the suffering is the ratio.

soft tornadoes spill through her veins. life. in stabbing locks and tearing glass. no blood. just the hum of traffic. as the road scurries under foot. gentle suicides fill in their outlines. the art of dying. in mortar and brick. uneven walls submit to the wind. willing to fall.

paper skin and clay skeletons. give too much.

blunt angles whisper. of jagged roofs on hollow houses. the narrow path. that teaches the deaf not to hear. and the blind not to see. follows us all.

the heavy ax. carries us. as the forest slithers into place. we are all strays. abandoned in a recurring wilderness. hungry for some other path. yet all too willing to be lost.

her basket of faces. her tunnel of when. all the illusions that justify the human mosaic. of capture and submission.

incomplete drawings. folded paper boxes. the infinite surrender of possibilities.

pencils to the sky. erasers to the wind. the stab of pictures. longing for a voice that i can't give to them.

tracing the sun with empty pens and broken tweezers. the quake of her skin soft, yet penetrating. as she collects the world in jagged strips. the obvious puzzles. their slender solutions. pistons in the engine. imagining the world outside the machine.  an economy of choices. rich with consequences. spend us.

a series of folds and creases. transform. the delicate illusion of want. betray the genie in favor of the lamp.I need the light more than the wish. Alwyas have.

dared by the pen to begin anew. the blueprints of solitude. the shakey construct of when. chews on her tit. seldom nourished, but always eager.

the test takes her. multiple choice surrender. no count on the graves she dug. nor the ghosts that linger above them.

life has always been a vague series of suicides. the only difference is now they are clearer.

soft windows bend to accomodate the wind. soft stairs struggle to support their climb. she chokes on the colors. eyes closed. pretending not to see what's always been there.

it's the end of the world. but she's the only one that notices.

quiet thieves. whispers of lost. the stages of gone. come in careless folds. leave heavy marks. her wolf is shy. its fangs not yet tested. in neither the killing. nor the thick of the meat.

seldom maps trace her course. through amonia kisses. and perfumed corpses.

choices. the impotent gods that draw these paths under our skin. for the blood to follow. for the moments to get lost. hours like benign tumors. minutes to feed them the cancer. time has a face. as every monster must.

tutors in blood solving the sickness with more of the disease.

the blame becomes us. a tilting wall. leaning into the sun. a broken window. choking on the wind. freedom comes in  doses. like any medicine.

flesh origami.

these broken toys still play with me. a corruption of colors. an assault of skin. the appeal of the edge is in the possibility of falling.

hard corners trace the arithmetic. barren soldiers leave behind. the obvious cages  selling disposable freeedoms.

the needle. thoughtlesss metal. biting the knots. the thread just long enough. to satisfy the noose. this tentative poison. wounding, but impotent.

the body's vacant epiphany. a brilliant storm of touch. the sweet surrender of numbers. invades her. a brilliant catastrophy of when. pretending to know her. a soft bucket of skin. eager to dig. in the surrounding mud.

hungry dogs. flaunt their bark. torn cocoons. still whisper of paper wings.

soft slopes draw their lines. a timid virus. eager to infect. the number throbs. the words beat. small storms in a series of hurricanes. she bends to reach the monster's lips. her moment forged in the anticipation. costly choices spent too easily.

they touch the glass. the sober arithmetic of want. needles without thread. stitching together moonbeams and whispers. their proximity to preception a telling embrace.

empty drawers clutch the darkness. with aching fists and dull pencils. the story is always the same. faces on the dime. ripe with familiar edges. and missing walls. a ritual of faces. each one more distant than the last.

a scrape of wolves. all disguised quite well. eager to devour grandma's lunch. the thick of the woods still at her heels. as she notices the claws.between their fingers.

a chaos of conditions swelling to create. each tiny moment in a series of trillions. a cannon of flesh. in a war of absense.

the rabbit coughs. hungry muscles tease the sun. the fall paints her. a series of colors. each one darker than the last. permanent ink on transient skin. a paradox of temptations. thick with choking zippers and blunted needles.

there are only so many words. for the lost faces that beseech. shakey steps to a paradise of questionable origins. the stilted arithmetic of lovers. as we subtract ourselves from the moment.

hot ovens hungry for witches. candy houses thirsty for lost children. paradise found in torn paper. and lost in the folds.

negotiating with the machine. the futile mechanics of touch. pretending to know. how shallow the drowning is. the trembling depths. of waiting. for the world to end.

dull pencils. a fairy tale of choices. giving names to the dead.

the fundatmental progression. wolf to pig. witch to woodsman. chains speaking. prisons still deaf.

we are only angles. soft corners in the skin. drawing their maps. in blood and semen.

heaven close enough to grab. but too slippery to hold.

pries the fang from the corner of her mind. thick with the taste of diminishing choices. small drops of blood build their stories. One letter at a time. She tastes the scream. Bitter and hot. The stale purgatory of youth. Stubborn and hopeful. As flesh concedes.

solved for if. the numbers dance and giggle. spoiling their breadcrumbs in a broken trail. searching for back in a frenzy of torn faces. like so many lost children. content to run away with whatever they can take.

the bridge chokes into place. the loud mechanics of when. draw their paths  with dull pencils and empty pockets. she flaunts her monsters. willfully. as any poet woudl. negotiating the task of skin with the mirrors she's been given.

only tomorrow has her face. the adamant masks that dare to know us. confiscate our tears. alone digs in the soil. planting moments to cultivate. every hour diseased. desperate for the medicine of strangers.

and the ache of friends.