| This afternoon awakes into a soft breaking
Dry clay crumbling
The tide washes my bones into a breath
Into dead
Air. |
| |
| The word sits cross-legged on the pillow
Blue collared and foreign at
4 am
I ask you how something so honest
Can be so unnecessary
I am really asking myself and I don't think you heard me anyhow
Twisting in the phantom sheets, I face you and find
I already know the answer.
|
| |
| Return to the redundancy
The redundancy
The small
Possibilities like tiny gears
Turned around in the smell of gasoline
Return to
Night fog, a room sunken like a corpse
Pitted into dark sockets
Wrenched into the
Redundancy scowls over my shoulders
A pipe dream like fingers
Across this day
The world is burnt and gasping
Quiet but for the spinning of my thoughts.
|
| |
| tonight thunders through sulfur and flame
we wrap the world tightly like a blanket
waiting for the sky to fall
the sound romances the dark like
quiet dusk and tables on the sand
we cower and laugh at the fear of
unknown beauty
dying nearly every moment it arrives. happy 4th of july |
| |
| The dusk is as heavy as bricks and
Tonight the red roofs spill gallantly across suburbia
Those who dedicate novels to loved ones still die and
All the scurf of the world floats silently
As my tongue spits frost.
Veneer is
The word.
A thin cover of intention across
Painted fingernails
Sand
Purple fields filled with sun.
|
| |
