it hurts. the wound still exhales. i wait for it to heal, but it has different plans.

it's hopelesss. that's the first fall in a series of many.

it happens. the same way everything does. obedient to the flesh. regardless of reason.

the world doesn't end, but it may as well from my perspective.

the catastrophe of love. the lie of devotion. dwindling drugs in a broken syringe.

i was strong until i wasn't. cause that's what you do to me. and then i suddenly found i didn't care about the consequence.

my body churned. in a brutal betrayal of all my defenses.

i'd bled for you before and i welcomed the chance to bleed again.

elements erupt in a fierce conundrum. the texture of skin. the friction of want. the dangerous arithmetic of their seduction. we don't pretend that it's over. it was so long ago dead. we embrace the corpse. humbled by the depth of the graves we've dug.

 the simple measures of tomorrow and then. swift vessels on a meandering ocean. we easily negotiate the distance, yet are overcome by the isolation.

hinges and locks. doorways of the oldest ilk. the scrape of flesh. the stiff of absense. all predators in their own rights.

lost is easy enough. twisting roads in the panic of the sun. chasing fragments of places. the edge of when as narrow as ever.

speculating on surrender. absolute angles on the fever of consent. the sober economy of manipulation. flower petals swimming in venom. lovers as narrow as the bridges that connect us.

the distance accused her. a famine of when. as the timeline corrupts. the hours hunt. curious predators in a fury of impotence. crippled gods wearing the world in shreds.

pencil marks chase the edge. draw the colors against the grey. curious monsters assemble their machines. the empty autonomy of wasted lovers and paper dictators. as they negotiate the rain.

callouses form on the past. the timeline shrugs. what we were, we can never be again.

earnest predators wear the distance as loud as they can. broken bridges argue with the wind. the world in needles. the hours in thread.

the borrowed wealth of youth is spent. and we are beggars once more.

as tight as we tie the knots, still, they always comes undone.

the corners gave her away. in bits and pieces. a jigsaw of moments. a tumble of gravity. the simple bridges that remain.

empty plates divide. some for each of us. the road runs through us. places sour. maps dissolve. everything is lost.

the hours sweat. the alarm distorts. the stories are spent in missing change and torn tickets.

a bit of space. all broken watches and missing fractions. we didn't break the window. but i still took the fire escape. no use for conventional exits in those situations.

we found the curve. or we were found by it. the details didn't seem important. just one more empty bucket looking to leak all over us.

waiting for the world to end seemed such a tedious task. but we were fully committed. to all those beautiful monsters.

the crisis simmered. gently enough. no broken skin. just plenty of  bruises.

titled squares. heavy angles. the math is soft. the flesh evolves in stiff calendars. not counting. just listening as everything happens. an empty chessboard. deaf rules waiting on the shouts of war.

fraying dolls. with their breadcrumbs in their aprons. chasing lost in all directions.

the sweet ghost heaved in bricks and stone. stumbles into her box of words. a paisley of confessions. and awkward glances. time hiccups. its useless song often repeating. until no one hears it.

simple doors with intricate windows. it's the future that solves for the past. that's the physics of humanity.

soft villains in their hard faces wait for the lazy alarm. the only rule is that we are always going, but never get there.

tangents spoil the anthem. of salted gods and stubborn madmen. that rattle in the graveyards of the ugly and the timid. innocent treasures best left behind.

diminished by the curiosities of touch.

her paper skin. ripe. with so many small cuts. folded and bled. blank and afraid. the world claws and barks. silver nightmares slip and scream. on dusty carpets woven of shadows and grief. pressing the numbers. soft buttons of flesh. react and steal. she is gone again. into those seldom whispers that occur between the elapsing hours and dwindling years.

seeing only the colors. no outlines remain. to pretend there is order in the chaos.

indefinite randoms splurge on the science of entropy. this wonderous decay. which throttles each moment back to the first in a eternal apology.

bargaining with the weather for pieces of the sun. stabbing the walls for a missing window. she marvels at the emptiness of choices. she chokes on the frailty of decision.

the fist in the stone. time's mongrels hunt and wail. the bridges flutter. the tunnel vomits. where we go is who we are. vexed by the land upon which we travel. thieves surrounded by paupers.

the telemetry of her autumn is soft and sloping. the colors change. nothing else. the years are fickle lovers. more bargain than bone.

stuttering armies of flesh and words. empty their guns into knotted veins. electric scars and stubborn needles. more sickness than cure. her gentle scarecrows weeping. as the scavengers catch on.

knuckles to the turbines of the machine. the twisting gears. the thundering deceit. the science betrays. as she slips out of her skin.

the hour runs with choking thieves.

chasing reluctant heroes.

yellow bridges stab the dark. digging roads through the drowning. the grey suits us. stirred by the moonlight. to quieter wars.

broad soldiers boast their atoms. the brutal science of division. and the lost.

we are only young when we are in love.

want blossoming in purple and blue. swelling bruises tighten the skin. on mangled bones. at first, this small world makes us big. later we discover how easily we fit inside it.

dying comes in the pinches of cocks and the shudder of intoxicants. god lives in the piss of cocaine and the vomit of heroin. anywhere else he is only a visitor.

all the songs lament the same. wanting more.

she welcomes the word in chokes of skin. a parable of thunder and silence. draws the storm in her palm. jittery pencil marks suckle the gods. thin grey lines solve the world in stabs of when. it was enough. or ever could have been.

the hound lurches. cutting scents and biting maps. navigate the child. until the woman emreges. more naked than the girl began.

all her holes roaring. portals on a broken paradise.

the puzzle of touch in whsipers. thin needles. thick drugs. the kaleidoscope of epiphany catches her edge. life needs her. not the other way around.

her turn. the obvious echo. soft ramps on to busy highways. the machine. her tired convictions. witches at their cauldron. ogres with soft arms deciding who we'll be. and the stories that betray us.

the severity of her demons salvation enough.

travelled by confession. colorful bruises mark the moment. the proctors of skin abiding lightly. the end of the world squirming in her fist. tales told. races finished. a morality of circumstances.

she is told in short stories and long poems. a thick scar running from marrow to surface. life chases. the naked fluctuates. painted portions and hungry boasts. solve the riddle in lipstick words.

the negative rises up. taking its shape. like so many soldiers. a quiet war that takes place within. an army of soft pencils.

draw their outlines.

and wait.

for the colors fill them.

the predator prepares. folded napkins and sparkling glassware. a very civilized murder.

seizing the drum. fingers sway the origins of dogma. the weight of dolls like panicked windows. the abrupt weather. stifles. measures. missing doors.

the child. carries the wolf in her pocket. fangs and all.

grey stories negotiate the hours. in straw and swords. time takes its captives.flesh builds its dungeons.

the moment is all that we are.

a tempest of thieves still loyal to the shit of dogs.

one pupil small. the other one large. dark and light each the same. the howl. slipknot strangulation. the sputter. partial hangings. toxic gas. the realization. powerless. surviving god by nickels and broomsticks.

calculating the distance between strangers and sex. in ratios of carbon to oxygen atoms. the obtuse  science of faces wasting so much beautiful skin. one eye opened. the other closed. near and far each the same.

a forest. a psychosis of choices. always autumn. always losing pieces.

a road. a funeral of faces. an autopsy of trust. always winter. always bleak. everything barren.

nothing moves. or feels. no one sees. or looks. a panic of open bridges. so much hungry water below. so much empty sky above.

two eyes. one vision. one blindness.

worn. frayed extension cords. partial hangings. used. vacant rooms. idling engines. neckties and twine like streamers. a cocktail of blood and vomit wakes her up.

one pupil dilated. the other refusing change. the world viciously invading. a barking dog in the distance. rapidly approaching. 

her skin dripping off. her voice melting. everything is liquid. nothing to grab. 

the atom growls. quiet and discontent. hungry and indifferent. a stranger in her bed. a Brutus in her cocktail. et tu in every sip. the murder is in the intent. not the conditions nor the results. the crime is committed long before the act takes place.

there were fingers on the storm. Small fists everywhere. As the weather moaned. And wept. And crept inside us. In cordial rapes and civiliQzed murders.

Her cheeks swollen with honey bees. Her lips full of hornets.

treble paths. follow passive soldiers. urgent actors in an empty experiment. the science teases. pleasure and pain intersecting. as they always have. the bustling traffic of flesh. quietly making progress. numbers like gods. drowning in the depths of their power.

suspicious flowers piss in their gardens. the chase resolves to the runner. the thunder listens for the wind. puzzle pieces fumbling with a broken image. time moves backward. from end to beginning. always has. we just mistook the maze for a map.

the grinning sky. not listening. the soft street. chasing. papers in the wind. before there was ink we had blood. now these veins are empty. as quiet as the world that owns us. tiny pictures. staining the glass between. engine and lantern. light and power. murder and mercy. it's when it's darkest that best I can see.

the tear in the fabric. weeping on her skin. the needle in her fingers. pistons thrusting in a vacuum. strangers playing god to the devils in her head. the simple paths. the broken leaves. storybooks in tremors. breadcrumbs in machetes.

the apple ripe. the garden eager. the choice still sowing seeds.

it's quiet. the numbers. the faces. looking for flowers and footprints in the mud after the storm. everyone shares the raindrops. but the dirt is always our own.

a narrow road. a hungry man. they are each the same. a mile. an inch. under these circumstances they both measure the same.

soft darts. lick the bulls eye. patient kisses. lazy target. each moment is an equation. I've never solved. it begins as it must end. helpless and arrogant. demanding and useless. venom hungry for veins. fangs eager for flesh. monsters with wagging tails. saints with hard dicks.

it's all about counting. how close. how far. crippled rabbits. missing paws lucky elsewhere. eager tortoises. crawling as fast as they can. determining the difference. it's all about ignoring the results. focusing on the components.

time in lengthy staircases. the dank cellars from which it arises. time in rented tuxedos. and crashing the parties we weren't invited to.

the poison always dominates. matchstick bridges across an inferno. the steps try to teach us. But the aggregate is all we know. we burn. tilting towers fouling the sun.

the night pretending to wear her and she tries it on. small cuts in the curtain. that separates. lovers and strangers.

yellow. lost eyes and stolen limbs. forward. dead hours. wingless vultures. picking at the carrion. burnt lollipops. to choke on.

red. born again. helpless and needing. into a soup of foul flesh. and desperate confession. plastic lips stoke the fever that boils below at the back of her throat.

limp dolls do their dance. without a song. their stage broad. their curtain drawn. and no one listening.

her thighs cinnamon. her tears coriander. biology defeats her. and she is just a woman. scanning the darkness for the words to explain. what is missing.

the flame is patient. the flesh is not. quaint bridges left open. to let the tall ships pass through. how small we are the only lesson. that crowd of gods and demons has blessed us with.

the steep of skin. brews hot. a hemorrhage of lullabies. bleeds the process. like broken fingers. reaching for bigger sticks. the lie overwhelms her. and she confesses. that nothing has changed. she's as weak as she's ever been..

blank lips sweat the lies. perspective. the smallest cuts leave the biggest scars. texture. the friction of silence. her last bridge. wheezes. hiccups above. roiling waters hardly charmed. by the pontifications of humbled madmen. the swagger of their empty dicks.

arrogant pauses. mete out the addiction. in trembles so soft she barely knows how much she needs what she's never had.

portals. the fever of when. sickens her pursuit of tomorrow. with past infections.

it's clay. we are. spinning. sticky. malleable. dense. turned into and turned by. and turning with. the orbit of lazy moons. shaped. strained. convinced. that there is a definition. for the things we cannot name.

spies. soldiers. flags. the breaths between battles become the definition of the war. we are winning. because all else is lost.

long strands confess their knots. sweet candy houses bargain with orphans. soft tangles keep lovers near. a lengthy trail of breadcrumbs behind. a longer path ahead.

skin like levers. catapults. weapons. immune. to the strum of gravity. as it orchestrates her fall.

outlines. needles. faces. the deviance of numbers is not to be contained. she is found in her lostness. she is loud in her silence. a proton. teasing the template of physics. with short numbers and long division.

paper plates. a feast of conditions. betray my hunger. the more i swallow the greater the intensity of my starvation.

rubber bands. plastic forks. spoil their lovers. with choices. close. haunted by the pale suicide of a stranger's touch. or distant. content beside them in the solitude of the grave.

he says i was. but i don't remember her. child. writhing in trembles of touch. a circus of skin. eager to impress.

i can recall the clowns. and the animals. time travels through her. a dull dagger. drawing its picture in blood. i recognize the monsters. but still don't know their names.

swells the stem. the flower not withstanding. incursions. of the temporal kind. we remain young in our heads. but grow old in their eyes.

for all the miles we'll travel. for all the machines we'll construct. as far as we can go. we still end up in this place.

greasy pistons. simple moving parts. in a complex and thoughtless machine.

brush strokes. isolated swatches of paint. small drops of color. in an elaborate and empty landscape.

burns the match. rapid and devout. drawn to the consumption of fire. everything is the same. it either leaves us behind or else it devours.

tells the doll. fingers sewn to the dark. gentle lies. barely enough to press the button. on idling engines. deaf gods. that see our prayers. but cannot hear them.

static. transition. barren trees. bony fingers grabbing at the sky.

choices. temptation. old women. studying the blurry maps drawn in their heads.

i reason with the numbers. though they seldom reason with me. long distances expressed in fractions. a lifetime down to a decimal place.

fragments. division. the tinny flush of surrender as the drug finds her center. the angles within. so sharp. even the math is lost.

the hours. stray dogs. monarchs of skin. smelling the scars. gorging on the diseases.

rapid. profuse. feral. the time machine coughs. spitting us out into a world where we hardly belong. its engine foul with the madness of choice.

a paradise thick with the corpses of strangers. it breaks down. stranding us here.

in this dank garden. caught between who we were and who we are.

patterns. the wake of the seed. as drought ensues. angles make their marks in pliant skins. the geometry of sex is there are only parallels. no intersections. sharp corners that squeeze us too close. shapes confessing we don't fit.

fingers see much better than eyes. the weakness. in strokes of skin. jack rabbits kissing foxes running from huntsmen. thighs learn so much quicker than heads. the parody. of love. that uses us.

it's a commodity of flesh. that finances this living. just listen. disappear into the quiet fury of failing bridges.

there is freedom in that grave. the dead draw their maps. through our madness. alone. the journey through it is all we have.

it's magic. a dense grimoire of touch. that works its spells. wakes the dead. convinces the deaf that they can hear its music.

it was always there. we're just only now learning that we can dance to it.