softly the world ends. at the coax of hollow terminals. and the choke of empty prescriptions. her gentle ambitions never did her justice. whispers amongst the chaos. the skin is the last step. the final threshold. the humble lock on a deeper treasure chest.

the colors have their portions. the science of circumstance. as it focuses its ripples on the stilted silence. worms in the earth. the always moving soil. microscopic quakes carving their veins in the world.

the end is always close. when the edge is where you choose to play.

the wind remembers. the shadows keep count. the longer we drift, the more likely we are to be found.

the flame manifests in angles both acute and obtuse. a prism of choices bathed in the blood of circumstance.

a fraction of when is everything.

it might be over. it might have only just begun. a scar on the wind. a thread in time. same puzzle. different solutions.

the obvious chemicals. the slick slope that they ride. the absent miracles. holes in the world. steadily deflating us.

yellow lights cut the darkness. red ones make it weep. and the white ones. they just whisper. telling stories much too hard to hear.

the magic has its moment. if only for a blink. and then its over. we're all thieves. stealing different pieces of the same puzzle.

the angles shift. the numbers betray. little girls becoming old women.

the seldom edges. the trembling paper. a cruel mercy of indifference.

the broken stream. the soiled motive. an apocalypse of flesh. in a blizzard of loneliness.

words are anvils.

skin is treason.


scars make their art. in withering flesh. time paints its folds and creases. wordless lessons in humility.

a quiet hum. a simple path. feels for the the edge. seeks the descent. swaying uneasily with the fractured resonance of souring ghosts.

blood and lessons strike their stones. the distorted mechanics of touch. much too sober to know. how much it hurts.

choice is a funnel. a straw house. surrouned by hungry wolves. tomorrow stutters and wheezes. a bitter cloud of hope and ash. still  hot, though the flame is dead.

it burns. it begs. hungry wounds. ripe with scabs.

for the picking.

Conversations with the walls always end the same.

margins fuss and fiddle over the textures and the friction. the edge rarely speaks. except to say that it's close. wild atoms flaunt their tender nuclei. hungry patterns in a stubborn universe. chase the hollow colors memory uses in  the blanks.

the middle seldom notices. fading footprints. as the weather effortlessly erases us. the trajectory continues. the path simmers. like a tea kettle left to boil. violently we scream for purpose. in a deaf world.

a snicker of choices amongst a roar of conditions. confessing clowns drowning in their masks. curious monsters examining their claws.

no blood. just pieces. a morbid jigsaw puzzle. collecting faces.

gravity in slopes and flurries. the tug of the weather on skin exposed. no rain. just bites of cold. and the hot precision of time's poison.

perhaps it was then. that she knew. the difference between gods and monsters. the full girth of that ample  kingdom where all regrets live.

her paper fingers reach for, but cannot hold. the heavy inks her silence confesses. open doors on frantic rooms. the hysterical math of pussies and penises.

permanent creases in a temporary world.

the blue angle works the stitches. a hungry needle that swims through

soft dials on the hard machines. torn pictures. struggle with the gravity of light. the urgency of memory as we begin to forget. wrinkled dolls. their shrivelled fist. holding so tightly to the absence of something we hardly knew we possessed.

faith falls in stones. hope is an avalanche.

we keep counting. vacuous clocks. broiling on instinct. we keep looking. the blind clinging to that last moment of sight. kisses caress the wind. like so much vomit. the measure of touch. in dull shattered windows.

the addicts draw in fists. the sober in only touches. but both are wrong. 

quiet parades invite an ugly audience. to lingering funerals.

her villains are simple. it's the heroes that can't be trusted.

yellow dreams spoil her sleep. the nauseous sun struggling against the pull of the atmosphere. she carves her pillows from the remains of the slope. the awkward math of letting go.

glib puppets puzzling with their strings. find their gods in knives and scissors.

her geometry is ripe. the curious angles of a woman flowing like medicine.

the arrogance of touch leads her on. the witheriing humility of flesh begs her to stop. a curious soldier. a heavy gun. a simple war. constantly complicated by death.

life comes to us in butterflies. and leaves us in bee stings.

a lingering infection. the cure for which remains unknown.

dark outlines. bleed through the fabric. soft pillows chase the needle. the colors arrive. a broken voice. in a chaos of flesh. struggles to speak. long strings relinguish the puppets. though still, they continue to dance.

the arbiter negotiates hungry threads. the epiphany of our inevitable surrender. the empty chairs. the quiet tables. the subtle differences betwen happiness and death.

dull claws on the canvas. pretend their art. indents in the soil suspect. stained beds. dirty pajamaas. casual gods flaunting their faulty time machines.

the falling barometer of touch. the impending winter. in a sneer and a chuckle. as if we've always been naked. and are only now noticing how cold we've been.

what is gone. or never was. the crime of sympathy. punishes each of us. in its own way.

the hungry doorstep. rampant with phantom knocks and winking lights. she was shy when it mattered. and bold when it didn't. she spoke like it was the end. and listended like it'd only just begun.


the wounds choose their chairs. as the music stops.
the obvious angles always gave her pause. trembling flesh and buttery kisses. each moment devours us. lives of torn note paper and scribbled maps. the antidote teases. in dry coughs and terminal cancers. the cure has fangs. it bites down and pierces. unaware of how important the sickness has become.

sharp corners forged in the remnants of when. the memories are stale bread. but hunger doesn't care. time speaks in angles and walks in circles. the wisdom of strangers is that no one really is.

we are always lost. only sometimes for so long in the same place that we start to forget.

a dwindling warmth succumbs to the winter. a fickle sun negotiates the darkness. each of us merely creases upon the faces of our demons. faint echoes of their laughter and frail shadows of their tears.

there is light only in the contrast. that's life's sinister bargain. Be it random chance or the wisdom of the universe. the flowers still must die.

Even the cold comes with conditions. Even a shiver is a hope.

Maybe the map is drawn in moments just like this one. Perhaps the victory is just taking those first steps.

We are all alone. Lost inside each other. A labyrinth of people. Chasing dwindling ghosts. All the gods. All the demons. All the drugs. Making paradise from nothing.

the fractured math of broken skin. the simple division of the scars that are left. there is no more blood, but those wounds still listen.

she cups the future in her hands. a mercury blob of catalysts. she watches it run. no edges. no center. just the chaotic path of things that don't know. never can. the agony of the beginning nor the ecstacy of the end.

the brief timeline. the splint on the heart of the child crippled. she was ready, but she never was. it came suddenly. in rich colors and slow bullets. she admitted she was not prepared. and left them to their rusted nails.

hollow particles scrape the thin film. between this universe and the next. the science of strangers speculates on the quality of touch. in all its succulent  variations.

a spectacle of angles. a conundrum of light. refraction telling our stories in its own way.

the soft bear sits on the edge of his tender bed. imagining who's slept there while he was away. perhaps she was beautiful. Or maybe she was ugly. No matter. Either way, the wrinkles left are the same.

the connections spoil. like fruit left out in the sun. the memories turn rancid. but hunger supersedes.

she walks in the rain. gravity not withstanding. the falling has its purpose. a brutal lesson in absence.

the process is mostly skin. the science of want. like drowning kittens. and soiled condoms. a little bit of choice. a grieving autumn of questions. breathing the sharper edges of the darkness. confidently falling. as if no one is listening.

her moments. fists full of melting ice. her chances. creased paper too easily torn. random shapes. folding. scraping. overcome by their own metamorphosis. 

the places they go. the pale abyss. she usually calls home. the stringent methods. of future and past. like dripping wax. and thirsty flames. investigating quiet corridors. challenging the silence with more of the same.

life happens in shallow cuts.very little blood. more than enough pain.

the name of the ogre escapes her. the plot of the fairy tale resolves. to open bridges. and lost children. their breadcrumbs still sweet. their witches still heating their empty ovens.

slender needles. the weak hum of gravity. tears the seam. approaches the decent with an ugly accuracy.

the flavor of surrender sweetly blossoming. 

the yawning world. replete with windows and doors. looks in on us. the loud student. the quiet teacher. familiar lessons with strange new faces.

scratches in the glass hum. knots in the beast sing.

pliant gods name their price. in sweat and sickness. this thinning disease we call life trundles forward. a bright bouquet of so many dead flowers.

the taste of possibility. sour, sweet and sharp. pushes its way deeper. the obvious ritual of submission stalls at the finish.

words broken. in strokes of skin. stony soldiers of when. the puzzle could still be solved. remnants. fetid atoms do their math. on the fragments of us. beautiful thieves in a world ripe with want.

the pleasing torment of how. draws its stitches through the hardened blood. wounds never heal. they just fall silent. waiting to be awoken.

the rain bends. pursuing gravity's feithses.  in ticks of skin. all lit up by the halogen of apathy. the world ends where I want it to. moments. chokes of discovery. solve the riddle of us. simple sketches awash in the fever and the overlap. of choices and surrender.

pencil marks thunder. stories confess. there is no end to the world. just pauses. as loud as they can manage. the tilting clock. the granite conditions. soft shades on the window gradually let the sun in.

a quiet parade. through a tunnel of screams. a cheap purchase. tomorrow's nickels and dimes making us rich.

the knowing refuses us. the anthem can only whisper. finding the edge betrays. in that tart licorice sober.

the bitter has its place. in sweetening what we are left with. 

paper cuts and delicate monsters.at war with the world.

soft corners name their angles. without voices. the journey bites down. the distance swallows hard. there are ways to measure. but none that matter now.

the cold comes and goes. the bluster of life. all screws to turn and nails to hit. creating nothing new. strangled by the relentless bleak of her hope. a silken noose that strangles, but doesn't kill.

the science of touch is a gorgeous treason. these bodies all combustion and thieves.

flesh like maps. leads us. everywhere and no place. empty boxes. full of life and death. broken gardens teeming with snakes. the shadows beat their drums. the darkness sings. tomorrow's metaphor solves for now.

the flame starts and finishes by the same small spark.

the end of the world is quiet. it's only the beginning that's loud.