Open the buckle. Ignoring stuck zippers. What she wants isn't there. Never was. Turn down the scream. To a whisper. Black holes. Catapults of flesh. Launch the victims like weapons. Tempests transport these fictions to places where they still don't matter.

The socket wrench. Chugging against her grin. The future in adjectives. Cheap admissions of want. I use them too often. The past in verbs. There farther back I travel the more it becomes obvious. I never left. It's just physics. Not that complicated. Once you remove your skin. Then we're all just chaotic atoms looking for an empty container.

Cold fusion.

It happens.

Too often.

And these small containers are too big again.

The moon was close. The stars were far. She had her time machine in her back pocket. So she could go back without being seen. So she could prove the doll wasn't naked, but later undressed. To sneak the poison into those needles. Steal the vaccine from the disease.

Don't try too hard she warned him. as the dress obscured her face. Blindness is a condition of wanting what we can't have.

Tell me the truth. That I don't matter. And never will. That you're more defective than empty beds can cure. Tell me lies. That I mattered. The friction of clean sheets on dirty skin. The cage door opening. All prisoners afraid to leave.

The moon gets too close sometimes. Especially when you're looking up. The lies will do. Melting snowmen. Time machines to argue with. As everything and nothing.

changes.

I thought you knew better than to trust. Broken levers. The selfish math of time machines consuming us.

Mars in her eyes. Distant fingers. The sun at the back of his head. Knowing everything. As a child does. Assumption and ignorance. Fire escapes not saving. Instead Letting them in.

Knowing nothing. As anyone must. The years encrypting all those lessons.

Going back. Because I can. Touch the time machine. Memory the catalyst. It's easy to find what I had wanted after the fact. Diminished patterns. Mathematics of lust. Prove to zero again.

What I wanted never attempted. What I needed only took the numbers as they stood. Divisions. Deep equators in the body. Where the hemispheres bisect. Formulas. The profound absolute that is the solution.

All valid equations.

Useless.

When attempting to count backward.

Some blind judge called then sorting all my epiphanies into the shapes of men. Smaller than I can fit inside.

Anything they haven't taught I've still managed to learn from them.

People. Lopsided mirrors. Flushing toilets. Overflowing with so much shit.

We protest the numbers, but are powerless.

I count the minutes out loud. As if someone can determine what's missing.

I had a label all ready. I lost it. The insidious metaphor of sex was overwhelming. Men. Penises wagging. Useless flags. Of irrelevant conquests.

I could kill the clown. Say it was the trapeze. Claim to know why things die prematurely. And maybe someone would believe me. When after all that I try to say it didn't matter that I lost.

I had the Hansel and the Gretel. The woods. The ax. The witch. I had all the grim fairy tales to choose from. Still I wanted a bigger wolf to argue with and more pigs in sketchy houses.

You don't throw the penny. It throws you. I don't swim. I float to the surface too soon after having drowned.

Skin transpires between us. It modest explosions. Touch. patents filed too late. Now I must begin again. New designs for those old lies.

The villain in the window. Bad movies on her breath. The war between her legs. Flanked in soldiers unaware of the premise. Just men wanting to kill more than to save the rest.

The ghost in her fingers explaining the math. Multiples of when subtraction still mattered. Fractions of people happening all around her. Pallid incidents of men. Like cancelled checks.

The future. In careful doses.

Clowns without their noses.

Stuffing their tiny feet into those big shoes.

Pulling those windshields from under their fingernails. Teasing the future more than trey should. The ambulance threatening to prove her wrong.

Little battles. Smaller soldiers. More evidence. Silent alarms in the creases of flattered men. I can hear the siren in his touch. Feel the ambulance in his words. Adding parts to the time Building it because the world leaves us too quickly.

Testing the terminal with bits of men. That's the only kind there really are. The robot in her underpants racheting his dick tighter in. She's a window. A fragment of moonlight on the eyelids of the blind. The universe in bitter gulps on lemondade. The sugar teasing from between her tits.

You're never too old to to regret losing someone.

But they might be lost contrary to your remorse.

You're never too old to hate yourself. Or to be hated.

Tiem has its kindness. The give of young skin. The press of memory intent to fulfill the wish.

Of lonely people. Tall windows in blind houses. Arguing with the rooms. Beds that won't listen. Nervous pillows pretend to want that stranger that are left.

The glass. In fractions. Gods that can't see through. All the lies I have to tell to keep heaven close.

Trusting still in the logical manias of discarded skin.

mellow bunnies on pretty paper drugs. the swamp. too sure of my struggle. death is a greeting card. it matters almost as much as it doesn't. ugly little love songs. dirty crayons coloring in black and white. every word is a colorform. waiting to be shrunk down into nothing.

silly cadavers making ice cream sundaes out of embalming fluid. The morgue is the place I love. Rife with mouths that cannot argue. The logic. The madness. Of waking up every morning is caucus enough to discard them. My eyes are my attorney. My fingers are my jury. Innocent isn't even an option.

But I know that I'm not guilty.

Delirium comes with many insights. anyone know where to find a good monkey replicator? ask me after I've finished translating my vomit. Primates on the patio leave behind just enough shit for me to determine I don't want to go there.

Maybe next time, she wheezed. As the cum erupted between her legs. All the sounds in her head. Vomiting at once. After a long frat party of men.

It's their cures I find offensive. Seducing the diseases. The banalities of profit. We are cartoons. Their anvils falling on us. We are pop up story books. Grim fairy tales saving ungrateful princesses.

Overwhelmed by the option of giving up. Dormant volcanoes. Their fingers hot with lava. Searching for willing asses.

We weren't even close. To where I thought I wanted to be. The backdoor. Broken bra straps. Calculating. How far we've travelled. How distant it still is.

Just Einstein. A Little bit of Asimov.

The science of thoughts. The robotics of love. As we work ourselves into the puzzle. Brief seizures of touch mislead the enthusiastic. Dying every night only to be born all over again.

I'm not trying to find. Only attempting to prove that it ever was. A few moments here. A few more there. And I am soon enough.

To know I was easy to forget. Pretty child spit out from the throes of choking gods. Swallowed up in the abortions of devils.

Fugues of skin vie to protect the tumor. Lumps at the base of her skull waiting for villains in short supply. Death ignores her. Much the same as life does.

It's strange how that happens.

So often.

Spiders on the porch. Darkness wakes the web. Laughing through her fear. Her embarrassment at having been born. In stages full and bright with she tries on the threat. Patient to let it consume her.

Her eyes exploding with people. Parachutes of skin that navigate her fall. The bile of hope fouls her dress as her cloud wretches. She continues to climb. Noticing too late that the steps to the bottom are so far apart.

She sells herself in little bags. Small handfuls of change. She removes her face. A vending machine of woman. Doling out fractions of touch. In minor orgasms.

The lie of the self is that it wants happiness. Or is even capable of producing it. The majestic feats of drug we imagine are within our means.. The abyss of consciouness only chemicals can quell. Delicate kisses of ocean on dry beaches. Deposting the dead in the same places from which they took us.

Stealing the living.

These empty hands helpless to stop them.

Coming and going as they please.

Eternal. Uninterested in the mating rituals of broken men

Spiders on the porch. Neglectful of their webs. Paralyzed prey waiting to be eaten. Light bulbs inside the wounds. Switched on again. Illuminating the disease.

The constant.

The gods of lesser men.

Everywhere I am. Sultry lies in the cough of skin. As if I could go that far. In either direction. See you there. Make sense of these long equations we call touch.

Ants on the cake. Cockroaches in the frosting. The ensuing explanations of dead men. Long novels searching for characters. The density of inhibition convincing me that time was mistaken.

Them. Overhearing. Every minute of until. Escaping. Realizing nothing was the same. Except what had always been.

Awoken. By the sound of dying. Or those that would pretend. To know how close it is.

The pig smiled. Bloody. Lacking cheeks. Laughed loud. Through crispy skin.

Feeble are the moments that insist on this life happening. Dead snakes sifting with poison. Wearing the fangs. Flaunting the footprints. In frozen eyes. Seeing. In thick ears tempted to hear. Fat tongues. Trying to say.

Everything.
Is strange.

Lies I wish to live. Sheets I cannot replace. Though they are stained. Words I cannot take back, though they've never been said.

All these gods shouting my name in unison. As if I exist. As if I matter at all in these numerous worlds we vainly attempt to claim.

Everything is strange.

All these paradises are tentative. Every curiosity is a threat. As the tree leans in closer to tempt us with knowledge.

I don't want to know. Never did.

Everything is strange.

As her panties come off. The sincerity of the lie is medicine enough.

Everything is strange.

Everyone is a stranger.

Gentle is the anxious skin. Irreversible conditions of the flesh. Faces like ice cream melting. Sticky, sweet dead things luring the scavengers. Doll's eyes and vultures necks. Empty clothes at the foot of the bed paraphrasing the wrench of my toes as I slip into that familiar conundrum of touch. Naked time lines. And the people who would flaunt them.

Not afraid. Not deterred by. Consequence. Weak demons shoving their blunt needles into dead skin. Arguing with puppets. Accusing the stage. Minor treasons in lengthy alibis of men. Weak cures for strong diseases. The tornado of when. I was not alone. Or didn't know how well i was.

I had my gods ready. I had yards of skin to use against them. Negotiate my ideal hell. A carpet of lovers to burn in. And no excuses for anything else.

Cut those strings That make me woman. Sew up this hole to which I am indebted. Dance the puppets in your grip. Spoiling the poison between us.

Lateral evolutions weaken the ape. Try on these triangles. whispered the alien from its hover copter. Discard your books. And your nimble thumbs. Concentrate on skin. That's the most you can hope to understand at this early stage.

Slaughter the cows. Steal the fish from the sea. Consume it all. Accelerate your starvation.

I was laughing because it was quite humours. The prospect of dying because we'd never estimated our future. The hours so proper. The minutes so slutty. Progress in doses. Easy to swallow. Harder to digest. As tomorrow approaches.

The luxury of life becoming a burden.

For all but the richest among us. This is what America wanted all along. But what no one expected. This is the legacy of capitalism. The apathy of the everyman.

For which all our children will suffer.

This is the car we drive. The condom we don't wear. Because we don't ever think about the end. Even when it's this close.

There are villains in the soup. For sure. Old stews that sat on the stove far too long. Flecks of gods in damaged men showing us glimpses of heaven. The real one. Not what the angels would have us believe.

Martyrs she squealed. All of them. Sweating the smell of panties like an unjust execution. Penises trying on every aspect of the woman. dissatisfied with the complexities of becoming men.

Flesh judging quickly. The accused. The desperate. The victims. All the same it speculated.

Justice is in the first taste. Everything after is punishment.

In the prick of the dominoes on their tongue. As each one knocks the next one down. Confessions of truth failing us. In the faults of skin that crumble like whole cities. Still the earthquake is a disappointment.

This whole disaster wasted on the dead.

Colors. Corrosive. Skin digesting the moods. Of mediocre lovers. The sugar hard. On decaying affections.

I am not a tick on timeline. Scoffing at the futility of touch. While I suck in my gut to squeeze myself into its rigid form. Minutes. speculating on the children they neglect. Hours. In crass reform. Pigs become bacon. People corpses. Food for maggots.

Years. Time is a clown. Face painted. Too many of it jumping out of a car that couldn't possibly fit them all. Life is a circus. Bored animals. Men with whips. And acrobats without a net.

The fickle treadmill. His look travels my skin. Anxious. Indifferent. I'm a magazine. To glance during a long shit. So many miles expended to get back to the start. See the finish forming the other sides. Pull the puppets from our hands. Just fingers. Pointing. At nothing in particular.

The obvious. That's what revelation is. Horrendous songs to listen to again and again. That's what epiphanies are destined to become. Awful truths. As the tortoise inches ever closer to winning.

The hare is still sure he's ahead.

There's the moral for your story. It often taste like victory, but it's usually just sex.

Alternatives. Casual dilemmas thicken the words. There are no lies. Haven't you learned? Just variations on truth and the dragons that guard the treasures they keep.

Old comes quickly, but young is slow. Happiness is piercing. A siren. Life is everything after. Life is a long process. Of recovery from the things we think we need. And most of all from those we cannot have.

The decisions. Corkscrews drawing out that deep cork. Releasing the drug. In fits of skin. Trying on all those people. Testing gowns I'll never dance in.

Pretty girls under the porchlight looking quite sad. As they drown in their own blood.

Wake up. The electricity is on again. Skipping through the walls. Headless zombies stumbling calmly toward more dead.

He was reading a magazine. About science. The way molecules arrange to become different elements. Hangmen of people. Games to guess what we already know. Turning pages in his head. Little slaps. On her ass. To fill in the question marks missing from her cheeks.

She was sleeping. Not dreaming at all. But trying hard to remember what it was like.

Answer me.

Or at least acknowledge you heard the question.

The world is a dress dripping with women. Buttons, sleeves and hems. Anticipating my every stitch. The needle. Choices. Bad ones. slithering through. Connecting the edges. Until I'm small enough to wear.

The world is a mountain made of pussies all bigger than the biggest dick.

It's easy to believe in everything. And nothing.

I tried to reason with the chasm.

It just said.

Wake Up.

I'm not the problem.

Shit your diaper. I might be the mess, but it's not for me to clean up.

Go to sleep. Dream more of your scarecrows. Nailed to empty crosses. Wake up. Pretend the dream is gone. That I can see again. That I know how far.

Calculating the runs in her pantyhose. Counting the steps between love and sex. She consulted the encyclopedia of her skin. Deciphering the freckles she'd discovered since the last time she'd been touched. A million men ago. The grave providing a reason to live. Amongst so many dead things. The disease providing humor where none should exist.

His eyelids weighted. His fingers accusing her. Of wanting. Moments pounding at the backdoor for us to let them in. As if we owe them anything.

The men with their daggers. Blood grooves doing their business. The women. With their gowns. Answering the monsters with broken balloons.

All of us chasing the string.

Was as right. Why ask slaves what to do with their masters?

Alone. A. Lone. No one there. Inside the sweaty cradle where the needles first painted our blood. Stoic rainbows bending hard over the spine of the sun.

All lost, owing no excuse. All found in the dead of my skin. the perpetual ignorance of hope. the stuttering fluorescence of breath. Still insisting it can escape the dungeon of my lips.

We are remembering. We are resigned.

A light out not expecting.

To ever see itself again.

This hidden eye. Peeled from my flesh. Sighted by the cut that has blinded the rest. In the perpetuity of arguments with touch. A lie neglects only everyone. A. Lone.

To me, reason finally admits not knowing. Why there must be darkness in order for light to exist.

A loud orphan.

Near Enough.

To see what was never there.

Do you have a piano handy? Someone is standing by to be crushed. Don't want to disappoint them.

The big things. The heavy motherfuckers. They're the most fragile. If they don't arrive broken they're broken soon enough.

Say what you will about liars. At least. At least you know what to expect.

I was all caught up in deciding how far the future was away from the past when it occurred, or I remembered some one's theory that they're all the same. Mutual plane, different time lines. A messy, messy debate. That ultimately always ends in more skins than I could ever fill.

So maybe physics isn't the best answer. Or at least not the one I can best control. We spend our lives arguing with gravity. Trying to convince it we are better than it.

We try. And try again. To convince it that it's mistaken. But it always wins.

We could break. Spoil the egg. Fragments of shell. Like rain. Falling. Not ever landing. Calm Judas in the noose. The suicide absolving practical sins. The whimsy of saviors is cruel. The definition of god too narrow. Crumbles of dead sperm on a warm tongue. Life instigated. In the hash marks of friction. Fusion. Molecular epiphanies wasted on giants.

Waking up. To someone. Not myself. Wanting to remember. The lies that once made it possible to lie again.

Waking up. Wanting to remember.

My life is on the diving board. The pool is empty.

No more moments like the ones we had. The bleak discoveries of hungry skin. That everything is nourishment.

That it doesn't matter at all how it tastes.

All I want is to be fed.

Waking up. Wanting to remember.