we're only real when we want. and i don't want anymore. the condundrum remains. lifetimes after it began. we can't be found unless we're lost.

severed scripts write the future. from high ledges secure in the folds of when we were whole. thin wrinkles in history that threaten to forget. the clowns with smiles drawn too close to the edge.

no numbers. we dare not count. how long. or far.


the atom sighs. adrift in the vast science of faces. that tends to become us. given the freedom to mourn.

rotting fences. and running chalk.  so much rain makes us question the truth of the sun. worn masks. wear our faces. as we pretend to touch.

we thought there were rules. but then they left us. and all we had were choices.

all of them wrong.

tame and bright like orphaned lovers and empty arms. atlas shrugs. this hollow world too heavy to bear.

over grey motion themed aparthy. in red tempered solitude. gone to exits unfetched. no blank anthem remembers us. the future vomits. perpetuity corrodes. rancid cakes and molded cookies. abundant with levers and switches. lacking touch.

raw meat. suffocating in its own fluids. messages in the flesh. sirens. sew their stitches in the broken creases. the folding shadows. like infected needles.

dying comes and goes. in thick whispers. and nimble diseases.

drowning. in the algebra of want. deeper than she imagined. learning. the arithmetic of touch. screaming. an urgent apathy.

nowhere has her alone. plain skin and missing patches. inked and designated nowhere again. forfeit lessons wait for release.

down last open goodbye. sunken mountains. find their core.  closer yet to burning faults. breathe. break spoken tears. swallow. chew. choke. on cold raw lies.

torn late the stone. all the weight of the journey. a hurricane of honied grief. and the sighs of the Earth. seldom caught by gentle tongue.

the moment. in unravelling seams. the choices in heavy boxes. lifetimes inside them. more copper than wishes.

quiet houses. stumbling men. curious children. boasting their backdoors to heaven. finding only exits. the flowing ink. rivers of when. the simple contract of touch. that inevitably defeats our ambitions.

outlines. in stark light. the tender breath of contrition. broken yolks. with blood in the middle. the simple room. the lingering lost. time chews, but never swallows. the rancid  meat. ultimately glorifies starvation.

she spends her nights arguing with dead men. her days reinventing simple things. the stab of raindrops. the vacancy of conversation. the soft mortar that negotiates the gaps between heavy bricks.

it's only ugly if you look at it directly. from the edge it's almost beautiful. the choke of time. as it chews on the cracks in already broken skin. a necessary parasite. a curious machine. relentlessly driven to determine the distance that separates words and voices.

her paper flowers wilt the same as all the rest. her plastic armies die just as easily.

the numbers fuss. the engine whinges. the science of god is embedded deep in the bowels of men.

she caresses the predators with a heavy fist. chasing the last moments in a blind fury of rebellion. forgetting how young she once was. knowing how old it is. navigating the darkness by sparks and eddies.

the failing ambitions of disgraced ghosts. there is only one lonely freedom.  there is nothing in the world so wonderous as lost hope. the edge of the cliff exploding. in a panic of discovering. the moment had other plans.

the solvent angles. the disruptive scars. the ugly medicine. simple volcanoes of skin. quietly erupting. the end of the world. in slipss of paper. and blunt scissors.

arrogant artists. a confession of colors. the monster. teases the paper clip. the numbers wear her. nervous confessions. more sidewalk than distance. ample thieves. negotiate the sun. hungry kings name their prices. as low as it is.

the waiting always suited her. the beautiful temptation. tomorrow. farther. always farther away.

colors counting out loud. a slender rope knotted at both ends. the taste of if sweetly sour. the girth of how overcomes her. the slight of when all too sober.

the stubborn motors of abandoned time machines. scavenge their fuel from every infection. the blood draws its maps. in soft scabs. we are the disease. broken butterflies flaunt their sneezes. the world chews on and chokes on us. the empty poison of trust not withstanding.

a quiet chair chokes down the mounting silence. a curious raindrop questions its fall. there are no replies. only the indifference that tends to strengthen weakening knots. a cold and sinewy ladder connecting the apex and the nadir. little folds in the paper. like choices shitting their pants.

the bending hour. in so many threads. the eager needle. taking more than it gives. the whispering storms are always the most destructive. 

the world ends in stutters. chokes of words and stubborn glances. the story progresses. in the broken way it must. empty pockets and smiling monsters. this skin its own purgatory. this consciousness condemned to an eternity of self-awareness.

the softer bridges tending to bend. as we make the trek across. ignoring the distance when confronted with the depths.

the heavy eyes of when. weary soldiers. in this war of temptations. a stroke of math. we are at zero again. just for a moment. counting anew. the pauses. discovering life in the dimmest corners. a rumble of strangers. thieves in big grins.  time snaps closed. a heavy door. a dark cellar lacking windows.

all gone again. as quickly as it came.  lost. chalk in a blizzard. Shrodinger's box open. only the poison  inside it. 

the world ends on the tip of her pen. a subtle chaos more content to linger than to protest. the hovering clouds. the intricate choices. a diary of how far we are from any given gods.

time begins at the base of her breasts. and stops at her lips. the shape of the world is woman. the rest of us just bend to fit.

she discussed with the atoms. the simple things. the obvious ladders. as the storm predicts.

the world ended yeaars ago. a series of bridges. more detour than path. she gambles her seasons on hollow wiinters.  and stubborn solutions to mutable monsters. the sweet of candy houses. the sour of patient corpses.

the awful lies that have always known. the extremes of flesh. the many potent treasons that fuel the hearts of men. just a solitairy tomorrow on the sharp edge of her grin. like a distant song pissing its music into the gusting wind.

the words stall. dense with stipulations the maze yawns. the rodents swallow the corridors. the experiment becomes us.

the world in bridges. so much drowning underneath it. the shadows loud. the confusion dense enough to bleed.

tilted windmills linger in hero's wake. hot kettles force their cold into the flame. yesterday boasts a fist up tomorrow's ass. distance can be measured in so many ways. making near and far both absurd.

she listens. hungry for those seldom moments when time graciously departs. she chokes. chewing on those rare hours when gravity lets go.

a hummingbird caught up in gust. the nectar chasing its fall.

these shivering towers. of skin and bone. manipulate the math.while love festers. an infected wound.

polished scars shine against the grey of the edge. the long drop sneers and beckons. a hyena swimming in tears.  waiting in folds. arriving in creases. just like the way time elapses when you're lost.

reversing turns and failing orbits. chase the strings on distant stars. brightly lit kites. long dead. brave enough to still burn for us.

the naked snakes still wander the garden. peddling their temptations in a perfect geometry. the steps still tremble with the choke of the world. a beautfil disease eager to become us.

her red words bleed into void. screams without a sound. the darkness presses down hard. a growing weight. on a rotting stairway. the choke of gravity whispers its empty song.

the hollow sky. the seldom rain. do their work. to extract years from minutes. the pleated doll. the anxious stranger. a frail epiphany of choices. more wrist than razor blade.

the ugly voices. the simple scrapes. the face of god still reflected. In all the broken mirrors.

tepid nightmares linger. curtains and bridges. in thunder and drizzle. hysterical predators stroking their fangs. the hours guess her. no color. only black and white. empty autumns shit their hues. the wind turns. blades bend. angles bite.

simple wars. flames linger. swallowing tomorrow. in thirsty gulps. grab at switch. were the moment sufficient i wouldn't have to write at all.

even lost. touch finds its maps. mended skin has its scars to show. even in the dark.  broken bulbs have gravity to negotiate. the edges whisper. of wolves and picinics. and lessons leanred in stabs.

the world whispers of betrayal. measuring lotalty by the depths of wounds. heavy with choices. ignorant of the execution. drowning in the distance between monsters. 

dense partitions between then and now. long wormholes boast their knots. the lesser gravity. of thinning hope. shivers and expands. the hunger of descent blossoming.

solvent stares steal the dark away from itself. in gropes and gasps. sharp cloaks diminish the man. in favor of a thicker ghost. 

borrowed sympathies resign the kingdom. pencil mazes forfeit their walls. the only truth is in the skin. the only lies lurk below it. amateur gods weighing their thrones.

the grey glass. the delicate walls the whisper within. the soft murder that is how. the infinite suicide that is if.

the open door. the churning fog in every breath. growing. the dense yawn of why. that swallows.

the obvious wars of mice and men. the unfortunate soldiers condemned to save us.