soft scabs listen for the u-turn.

the journey happens. in used matchsticks and dirty bedsheets. smoke and cum. the perfume of love and crisis. stubborn ghosts wasting their pastels drawing flowers and flames.

it's cold. it has to be. the arrogant cancer of touch sweeps us up in its disease. the cure comes in colors. no words. just sweating angles. swallowed up in the inertia of the people we've become.

shedding the numbers. the vague math of broken needles and open windows. petitioning the darkness. in simple equations. ambivalent strokes of submission. quietly poison each moment.

until the sickness becomes a blessing.

the ballad of time. slow and soft. as it stabs. a gentle murder.

not falling.

just letting the gravity win.

the distance. here and there like separate worlds. the apogee. the blink of the sober. as it draws us into itself.

the falling leaves. the roiling seasons. of skin and choice. a withering exchange of flesh. and the outlines it imposes. these unfamiliar skeletons sneak inside us. changing the shape of everything.

the generous science. the incredulous resolve. of the diseases that make us who we are.

the yellow moon on its cradle of clouds. the sparse harvest that flesh allows. hunger is both a medium and an art.

the loose skin that we use as guideposts and catalysts. the awful chemistry of want. threading like a screw through the deepest bowels. the measure of humanity in the smallest voice. the unravelling moment that boasts no end.

a certainty of conditions. the narrow angles. of sweat and blood.

as we die again.

these hollow epiphanies. draw their maps on empty coffins.

a scarcity of ghosts among an abundance of impossibly haunted houses.

the distance swallows much more than it unfolds.

her tender arrows. her sharp scars. choke the on the moments.

a dark theater. still echoing the play. long after the audience has gone home and all the actors have left the stage.

patient thieves in their torn raincoats. trace the edges. careless slopes and thoughtless angles. the fading pastels of her want. the persistent stabs of regret. through the thin paper memory presses toward the sun. these shaky lines define us. these hollow edges rage for depth.

the stubborn inertia of a touch. wags us forward. limp and derelict ghosts perform the calloused rituals of life. red candy lips. sweet and sour with dissipation. cold pillows. smooth with entropy. barking dogs. fierce with circumstance.

the end is always the beginning in these scenarios.we struggle against the linear. Caught fish. Gills to the sun as the water mercilessly recedes. intimacy is always a fool. distance always a tyrant.

the thunder waits. for the storm to catch up. as we simmer in our discontent.

we wither in the desert. blood shadows. bone darkness. drowning in it. parched, yet unwilling to drink. 

the theory of  the machine. the peculiar pendulum of the heart. as it sways us. in every direction. and takes us nowhere.

failing skins. dwindling bridges of flesh. the rupture. the gap. hysterical with gravity. and the frail partitions that separate the cold and the heat. the blunt pen. spoiled with ink. confident in the epiphany of stagnation. the order in the chaos. the madness in reason's wrinkles.

the choice becomes us. stabs of time. an avalanche of confessions. the murder of mirrors. in beautiful graves. dew drops on the concrete. giggle like school girls after the rape.

burnt wicks push the flame. the seldom geometry of touch. hard angles scrape soft faces. the volume. the capacity of us. pinholes in the cloud cover. knotted strings beaten by the wind. the frenzy of her. all color and needles. hope as much a vaccine as it is a cancer.

the blinking embers only listen. the choking storm only stares. it always ends as it begins. in darkness.

the uknown finds its angles. dying flames shake their fist at the moon. the stranger. trembling lightning. soft, cracked stairs stop short of the stars. her eyes say now. her heart says then. and somewhere inbetween reality imagines us. as if we might be real. in some frail fantasy. that childhood long ago surrendered. we are what it makes of us. jagged puzzle pieces fumbling with the memory of a broken image.

the tunnels find their way through her flesh. little lies and small confessions. enough to survive. such as survival is. just bones. drowning in the penetrating want of skin. furious and stubborn.

little bends. creases in the linear. time gives chase. a rabid dog with worn out fangs. bites, but draws no blood. just the feeling that we're closer. an assault of angles. bending us.

touch compels, the woman is. but never was. wolves and piglets. chasing the sun. with needles in their fists. and numbers on their nooses. the dead stay dead. no matter how much breath we waste on corpses.

she sleeps like everything is gone. it probably is. what was ever there. a bald illusion. the weigh of how. sober fists. the end in drizzles. no storms. just clouds. the grey more than friend enough.

these borrowed lives slowly spending us.

paths. frail knots in the eventual. slowly coming undone. the colors. the heady gasp. of each moment suffocating on its own virulent strain of agenda.

the broken highways that led us here. in stumbles and chokes. small candles in a surging darkness.

the outlines name her. in speculations of when. the science of the flesh. a long division. always a remainder.

the end. like doses of poison. attempting to cure this sickness that is self. the end. hollow doors guarding room much more empty than I care to remember.

the obvious hysteria of knowing. gradually growing louder.

Her voice like fireflies in the dying dusks of summer.

everything is distant. everything is impossibly close.

the obvious monsters fall like confetti. in a parade of strangers.

an Epiphany of skin. louder than reason.

these simple monsters flaunt their math. in stutters and coughs. flesh as blind as the rest of these bodies are. now that the world is ending. as it always does. dead leaves. and brown grass. the vast fields where we disappear. the endless cooridors that fizzle and simmer. pretending that we ever were.

pin pricks in a heavy veil. the grim algebra of touch.  the lonely nucleus of when. in a feverish array of broken atoms. the science of surrender is well documented.

the angles of a woman. soft and sharp. and so addictive.


the cut. the wound's precision. the sharp claws of paradise. almost gone.

the heavy blunt of cracked dolls. their frozen fists clutching absent gods.  the frantic stabs of potential lovers. a sharp mosaic of flesh. grouted in blood.