bloom, the skeleton
soft flowers of bitter flesh
fetid in winter
bloom, twin dreaming hearts
empty womb carried forward
graves sprout from within
bloom, the mourning soul
tearful embraces of snow
wipe joy from blank eyes
A Platonic Lover
I have seen the beauty of this place
I know its name
I have memorized the very pulsing of its melody
the way the air of it feels against my skin
this place we go to
my lover here is Wildness
we do not know each other outside of this place
somehow we have come here
flowing alongside each other
parallel rivers on their way to the sea
he reminds me to be the wolf in the night
in this place which is clad in night
he holds me in the arms of a dying sun
we make no love
only savage memories of this place
choppy waves beating against distant, mirrored shores
calling out to each other
rolling rs into thunderstorms
he is free, he is freedom, he isI am Balance, the tight-rope walker
the madness is coiled within me
no place is this place
no star is the star we set our compass to
we pass our time knowing not the face of the clock
nor the ticking of our own heartbeats
there is simply inspired eternity
the boundless horizon calls us home
we turn our prows the other way
lost in the labyrinth of this place unknown
feet upon the Milky Way
constellations sewn into her sweaters
each star was a hollow reminder
there was better
somewhere out there
there was better
the fire in her eyes rekindled
in the empty parts of her body
she was a long-lost zodiac sign
a bygone superstition
she was made for wishing
for the pointed gazes of telescopes
for mathematical dissertations
she swings Andromeda a little closer
disappearing into the red shift
rain falls soft on the slick city streets. we are animals trapped in the blacktop. we do not float upon the stream. the torrential flood flows above us.
there are four traditional elements in western culture. earth. water. fire. air. worship is a circle unbreaking. there is no end. life is a spiral inwards and outwards. there is no end.
my mother is a monster. i am going to hell.
we place our hopes upon the altar. we call its smooth planes ‘god’. the opium makes us believe in mysticism. the occult drives us to take the opium. vicious.
a penis does not a (wo)man make. this is the ultimate truth. all who fall before the third wave in obeisance do not fear the fire. the water only lives in their lungs. or so they believe.
blessed are the blessed. that is how definitions work.
egalitarianism and other false falsehoods bring the populace to its knees. none of us are righteous. make love to my clickhole.
youth is wasted on memories. the rain is now a soft drizzle. we are spirits hung in the aether. tap one blue mana. exile yourself.
to walk is a verb. the concept of walking is freeing. and a noun. such strange delineations we make.
one eye tells me right/write. the other says nothing. perhaps there is no other. the self is such a limitless being after all.
all men dream. that is our curse. not to dream but to know we dream and deny its power. psychology upholds the tenets of random thought. spirituality preaches on constant meaning. somewhere in the middle is rest.
i do believe in god. there is no evidence against its flying, spaghetti-powered might.
cause of death: too much iron in the blood. this is not the plasma you seek. there is no rain in the burning heart of a dying sun.