the typical monsters in their usual garb. broken thieves chase the horizon. blunt corners and loose poisons bend the walls.

she limps. she slouches toward. the comfort of the expanding void.

the flesh is paper. the heart is clay. the art is living.

she folds. time pauses. she stumbles. shatters those flimsy locks. and the distance lets her take it.

simple measures. elaborate devices. as are the natural algorithms of the lost.

it waits. its patience infinite.

the kettle simmers. the bubbles form. husked dolls grow into their bones. clever wolves manipulate gravity.

in torn maps. in the arrogant math of lovers. and the stern vanity of grief.

it's only skin. as thin as it's become.

telling the red. in coughs and scratches. her dirty glasses. her hungry eyes. eager puppets with so many broken zippers. it's cold still. even in this fire. pieces. the jaws of the puzzle find the center. neglected the edges have their own wars.

ugly ducklings paint their mirrors. in thick asides. the story chases, but falls behind. the machine rumbles and churns. confident with rage. Time boasts and brags. Shy predators circle.

So many folds. An oragami of moments. Revise the shape. Betray the math. Of two dimensional lovers.

The deaf colors try to listen. The mute chaos strains to speak. As everything converges. in a mistrial of flesh.

simple boxes. their dusty lids. a poetry of proximity and confession. a labor of gentle madesss. the ugly duckling alive in a beautfiful finish.

Her grey ocean still licks the edges. Her sinking boat still leverages the wind. drifting. the storm is easy. It's the afterwards that stings.

elements. daggers. resolve. the structure of darkness. the algebra of lost. terrible truths ready to be loud. time travel suits her. static slacks in her strut. thick hours under the stab of her heels. gargling the blood.

simple bridges. the hum of absent gods. circling. the carrion is patient. though the starved are not. the trechery of time. chooses which pawns to sacrifice. the game adapts. polaroids of want erupting from  the milky candor of hungry eyes.

patterns squirm. the tedious evolution of touch. gnawing its way from crotch to chest.

life simmers quietly. water in a pot. over a low flame slowly building heat. until we eventually come to a boil and begin to evaporate.

bodies rot. go rancid with age. long before death bestows upon us its hollow mercy.

roads choke. lapsing into derelict corners. the mind is a map. a threaded purgatory. ripe with journeys.  sour with distance.

patterns. the arithmetic of change. steep hills. bloated with journeys that have all been taken. the quiet of her lion possesses the dark. a weightless roar halting with loss. Her colors all stickpins. In roads too grey. The journey stolen from her.

The pivot of the fulcrum. every star slightly closer. the choke of the world. in colored pencils and torn pages. the walls all glass. the rub of strangers. animals. bargaining with the shame.

Gasping under the moon. Suffocating in the fist of god.

Liars and saints. Bartering with the illusion of power. the fantasy of omniscience. The parity of religion. Curs and strays and victims. Flowers and dew and exhaust. As we hunt. Filthy roads pressed too close. Distance measured in faces.

They all betray this flesh. The one thing that makes us real. Burnt tinder, her eyes, her skin, her want. The ribald manifesto of physics. We are animals. Manic and secreting. Foul and crippled with want. Patterns in the numbers. Pretending stories. Pressing hard on the glass. As if there might be a lesson in all this falling.

The thief. Nimble fingers on the seam. As it splits. The vagaries of choice erupting. In a fountain of consequence.

Blue lights. Drunken tulips. Struggle against the zen. an empty garden. no apples anywhere.

the layers. cautions to the castle. a mockingbird on the ledge. the echo of an old song dissecting its beak. not enough monsters. too many men. humanity's grip tightens around her neck.

thin stews steal the lie from off her lips. a pause of breath to measure her panic.

a treason of touch traces her silhouette. Until only the idea remains. The plague of want. Arrogant with rebellion.

I would measure him in stutters. A focused repetition. Like everything must be. Loud and feeble. Keys stuck in the lock and soiled  handles. Short drives that take too long. We're always going to or leaving. Never are. There.

As if there is a place. A black stab on a map. Where it all converges. The crumbles of flesh and the gnashing of touch and the speed of the hours. In a beautifully controlled chaos called destination.

I would draw him in pencil. No colors. Just grey. Soft mutable lines. To trace the whisper of his words. The frail thunder in his voice as he would gently drift away. Into the vacuum of his loneliness. A victim. A monster. A friend.

No voices. Just skin. Like carbon paper. Picking up. Imprinted with what's on top. No reason. Just a game. Throwing and collecting stones. An empty dance. To the music of touch. Choreographed by the deaf.

Little women and smaller men. Fluorescent fingers charm the corners. Of dark rooms impatient with flesh. Her beautiful time machine panics. Gone too far. And no way back.

color and conundrum. the grave spark. beautiful witches. all their warts listening. eyes open. lips thin. a rainbow of vaginas. to quench thirsty dicks.

she tells me to wait. count the squares. as the pebble stumbles. a flourish of flesh. the rumble of touch. on the scab of her kiss. the pertinent drama of want. in a thunder of touch. i wait for her to feel the weight of the monster. as the slope steepens.

small pegs. big holes. cardboard and Ferris wheels. in a frenzy of mucous. alone. apple pie and venison. layers. scotch tape fingers and checkerboard kisses. he prepares for the winter. one leaf at a time. purchasing snowflakes in an auction of when.

there is the future. ugly and eager and impatient. foul bricks on the knuckles of slaves. there is the past. buttons and bows and nooses. stealing its victims. in small stones and numbered squares. Sirens and buckets and needles. All stabbing and pretending to know. the depth of the abyss.

dry ink under her fingernails. tells its stories. in chokes of orgasm. the fold. desire into skin. the thrust of the sale. the limp of the payment. as they combine. to make us smaller. dreadful suspicion. naive hunger. the end of the world in dirty dishes. and that dark place we have to keep them.

I was alone until all these strangers invaded my head. I was the world with all the lights out. the lost holding up their candy flame.

holes dug. skin like sheet metal.

That first poke. As the vein spread its legs to receive. this epiphany of this disease.

thumb the mire. kick the moat. stubborn aliens in her oatmeal. fail to wake her. touch is a dismal stopwatch for how fast we've run. empty tents sleep the servants of songs no one hears. heavy buckets spill weighted truths. memory is a poor measure of how far we've come.

the mind is a blackened mirror. Heavy arrows bend the bow. the future is paper. the past is lead. now is flesh. our only chance to feel something.

little pigs basting in their beds. succulent with sin. petulant protagonists is this manic mediocre tragedy. purple priors with their pants around their shins. the winter's thick tongue lapping at dwindling grass. the stab of the hunger. Rising up from where she began. Pitchforks and puppets. Testing the stretch of confusion.

the poetry of want. still undecided.

it's ugly and grey. the plunder and pitch of breaking bridges and splitting skin. the needles. full of oxygen. fail to kill. so many poisons. so very little death.

the patient numbers. construct their stratagems. awkward machines. scrape the soil for roots.

the world is pliable. pieces to fit. lazy fangs skip the artery and go for the flesh. the words are stubborn. shovelling the coal. lenient monsters. seizing her choices. the caress of the sedative. barbed dartboards. abundant with hungry targets.

treasure. a monopoly of condition. presses gravity. for compromise. her alien awakes. swollen bridges. too confident in the suicides of lonely men.

eager witches. leave their cauldrons to be found. the stab of the moment. reluctant, but deep.

the oboe wheezes. a tentative bridge. between when and if. now and then. the drug excavates. hungrily mapping her innards. engaging each mountain and revelling in every crevice. she trusts it will keep taking until there is nothing left.

she revels in the panic of bitten fingernails and unprotected sex. a curious kitten eager to be suffocated.

her thin dress teases the sun. a temptation of unknown depths. the simplicity of childhood wagers what little coin she has. it's only a game she reasons. dirty windows in empty houses. and keys left in the lock.

doorways. memory's chapped thighs. spread. telling their stories in melted ice cream and vacant chairs.

places. words. lies. friction coefficients. velocity still undetermined.

she solves for gravity. though she knows that's working backward. and distance is still an unknown parameter. she assumes there must be a constant. though her need is the only evidence.

the weight confronts her. the density of skin betrays her bones. Lips like a zephyr. Eyes like a tornado. Every intimacy chafed raw. By the vigor with which we approach it.

stagnant lions. feral lambs. the curious commodity that once was her.

spent.

chasing the slither of futures without footprints. the rabbit. the hat. the symbiosis of illusion. in soft crayons. on hard paper. her magician flaunts his cape. waves his empty wand.

and we are undone.

there's poker in the skin. there's science in the heart. we gamble on the first. Depend on the last. curious victims. brittle fists. blame the sand. for being too small. that it escapes their grip.

choking on the hours. as they stomp down her throat. brass. and cymbals. and drums. a din of years. interrupts her coma.

as he is undone. choking on the grey where once there were colors.

the often. fragile threads attempting to mend. the seldom. the weep of burgeoning holes. that found us close enough. to know what we'd missed.

so many years untanngling the corpses. only to find the knots still intact. and the dead still daed.

the fruit is anxious. the tongue even more so. to taste. swallow the both the meat and the skin. steal from the vine. delicate flowers sweet with morning's dew. and thorny roses wet with the blood of admirers.

her thighs ripen regardless of sun. blossoming full and wide. a sun bursting from an eggshell. the soft yellow center thickening to the heat of touch. each moment arranged. a library of lovers. to scribble on her costume. as she discards her mask.

an army with empty guns. vultures hungry for the dead. not killing. just taking what the killing has left.

the sun might yet rise again, but even if it doesn't. i will remember.

the dirty bandages we used to cover our wounds. the apples that convinced. paradise was not enough.

the masks confer. skin debates. what is debt. what has already been paid. cracks in the glass. play with the equations. but the math is weak. and it forget the feel. of loose skin. all the small stitches that make it fit.

the villain comes with many names. so you won't remember. the trial churns. a blind tornado. deciding what to obliterate.

it's all the same.

empty hammocks. the grace of the wind. pretending to know. missing fingers. grabbing at the broken pieces. a picnic basket. a wolf in her bed. such big teeth.

a choice. so many of them. not asking.

everything too small. to see. i might be too far away. but too close is just as likely.

the drum. the caution. of stomping feet. little lies to make the night pass more quickly.

the outlines filling in. the fire finding its rage.

small epiphanies stretch the skin of that battered drum. changing the rhythm. the locks dance around her ankles. the shadows collapse. deflated ghosts. searching for the stairs. out of their dungeon.

talking to the evil. it listens. too well. too easy to love it. when we're this close.

her lips thick with a kitten's grin. her touch ripe with choices. ultimatums involving swine and condoms. puppets taking over the stage. in a glorious applause. the universe in shallow cuts. pointing out the villains. ignoring the victims.

debating with the first. it all starts with one. and then we begin the math. a contagion of numbers. infecting. determining every moment.

as if we are powerless.

a string. from the earth to the sun. pulling us closer. to that fiery finish.

a stone. in her hand. longing to be thrown. the edges coming into focus. nothing left. to keep me away from them.

Patterns draw themselves across the numbness. Years in brittle leaves that crumble against the dire thrust of the wind. The cold comes calm and abrupt. Like all monsters will. With clenched fists and torn eardrums. Trying to grab. Desperate to hear. What teases in the distance.

Patterns she instructs. Are not chosen. Are not to be deciphered. They watch. They decide. Whether or not we fit.

Every number is a whore. Giving away the things that have cost us too much. Selling for pennies what we assume to be priceless. The ladder stops short of infinity. Teasing at its dominance.

No end. No beginning. Only the hours pressed between. Gravity and choice. That make the void so tempting.

Patterns. Cowards and victims. The subtle equilibrium of naked dolls. Pigs. And whores. Frail machines and impotent monsters. Beating on reflections in the glass. Countless. Growling. Gaping holes. Separating the disease from the cure.

Patterns she claims. Are all that we are. A long series of stumbles. Slouching towards Bethlehem.

I was busy explaining to them. How I had gotten there. From so many worlds away. It's only clouds I explained. And nervous rain. The portals have always been there. Regardless of if we can see them.

The lies play on her skin so lightly. Swift chameleons. And fortunate ghosts. Tell their stories backwards. The end after all. Is the only thing that matters.

And the end.

For us.

Came a long time ago.

The sun sets. I don't notice. It's dark again. The day is over. The champagne bottle waits for a reason to explode. The scale struggles to balance. While we stand on our tiptoes. Pretending we can see through the glass. Imagining those monsters in our hands. Ambitious dominoes. More than ready to fall.

The game obeys. The rules will bend. For stubborn strangers. The puzzle will assemble. All on its own. Gods in their dirty aprons. Waiting for the yeast to rise. The dough quivering under her stare. These closets. Like forgotten friends. Who remember too much.

I see her there. In her billowing sundress. An accusation. A pocket of light absorbed by the darkness. Small things. To covet. These small things. So much bigger than I remember.

The mannequin on the cardboard stairs. Pretending to ascend. The empty skin. Hard and hollow. Cracks as I press on it. The same as the glass eyes she uses to see me with.

I would tell her stories. As if there was a difference between. Her and me. I would goad the monsters. Because fear always made sense to me. Little slivers caught in the skin that keep it from healing.

The eclipse coming as suddenly as their clothes came off. The hunt in layers. Difficult to undo. The smell of meat in the dogs' noses. As they suffered through the ethics of the kill.

The judge in her robe. Contemplating. My various futures. The bullets in her pocket looking for a chamber. Or any some excuse to hurt someone.