Brothers, In a Sense.

I feel like writing myself into a corner. Trauma skin period piece: the size of a mouse with the weight of a gravestone. Dislike of specific people with regards to their passports and how they talk. Mental masturbation without climax bringing red eyed madness jogging often with presidential candidates and stopping for a slow motion fast food meal. The cash register appears to be malfunctioning as the buttons are greasy and the keys are jagged with the whetstone running quickly like some recent jailbreak. French people having animated conversations while the cold ekes into my arms. Everything seems to be happening together. Looking out the window of the internet I see that Tom Waits has a daughter my age. For some reason this inspires a vague feeling of longing and despair. As if her life must be a testament to my self worth. It's better over there and worse over here. A flash bulb explodes above the bouncers shiny dome of a skull and there you are. Waiting in a line for something that will bring shame and loss into your life. Street drugs lessening the blow and this is why we do them. This is why we let go of the reins fastened to our stampeding panting rueful waking dream. I don't see you out there, lover. I don't see you anywhere, lover. I don't even see the possibility of you. Lover.

Echo Echo Echo Echo Echo.

Where is this going? This line of fresh daisies and acrid smoke. This line drawn taut like fishing line bringing up this total abandon and friendly parents across the street from the depths with the calm breeze of blue and gray. Crashed out with a streaming fire dolled up with blisters and cracks along the ever present freeway of your heart that circulates the longing and interruptions of freedom. This isn't going anywhere. Is it? I'm just gaining weight. Emotionally speaking, all this baggage. And the brain surgery didn't help. And these ink trails leaking down my sides: the dramatic dripping off me like pinstripes. Ah well. The emptiness is like silence and the filler is just a cacophony. If I could hear correctly I wouldn't want to anyways. Get it over with, take out the parts that aren't doing it anymore. Cut off my limbs and paint gaudy smiles upon my upper arms. Take off the lampshade and squint at what was dampened before. Feel along the underside of the crease. Fold in my heart where likenesses of foolhardy explorers were carved to the disappointment of me, myself, and cry outside near the casting glance of a river that fills up with the clouds all so blue and clear. Is it pink or blue? Is the mind a tone? A hue? Does it change color when it deceives itself? A procedure will be needed soon to make sure this doesn't go too far.

Is Anyone Even Listening Anymore?

Be careful when your fingernails stop growing. I am in a sea of milk: cloudy supine like roots growing around a baby's bottle. I am in a sea of ink: depths unlike the shallow bathtub blooming with slit wrist flowers. But different somehow, when the serene twilight looks down on you like a father. When your hair curls around your cheeks like my desire. When I lose sight of my want, there will be the moving of the feast from far away to right here. My hands all atwinkle and stupid with fright shaking delightful. The fingernails stop growing: yes, just be careful. I want there to be this unfolding mystery getting darker and darker with every light we turn on. I want to drink of lactating nipples and draw upon soils tasteless and auburn. But I want to stare it down as it descends and let the knife slowly enter my heart. I want the blood to pump hard and sear metal pins through me with a driving rain. My knowledge of my own mortality. It comes quick. It bears a fuzzy little pill that shuts down my very function. It lets me off softly. To just drift, oh, just to drift out there with the tons of often forgotten aspirations. This life is funny when you pretend. Just pretend. Say nothing when you feel yourself slip away. Hold your tongue. Like a fine catch upon a crystal hasp. Hold it there writhing.

Almost Museum Quality.

Crinkly: The only way to describe a thirteen hour work day after three hours of fitful sleep. These tender hands like frills on a rug and the body billowing without conscious wavelengths. Empty tender: sallow, creased eyes rolled up like dollar bills loosely piled upon something for someone with a predisposition for lamb destruction without a purpose. They're grazing upon the bedspread like tiny balls of cotton and my eyes lolling, looking out upon the expanse of tailored squares led to believe they are some landscape full of tiresome creatures made to grow hair and die. Made to blow fair and timely winds across this verdant patch low down on the planets waistline. Upside down and harpooned with the urban lightplay shooting up in my eyes I've realized the seasons are reversed and I'm having a holiday barbecue with someone I abhor. The alcohol is a calm hand upon my brow and the tears leap into the pores like pre-drowned kidneys all wasted up in the long forgotten inebriated early morning hours. Where someone drained a bottle and someone looked out upon a city landscape with a sentiment akin to infant gurgles. Where something fell without sound. Where no one heard: I've lost a good thing and gained a good thing. Where no one saw: I've severed a good thing and attached a good thing. Where there was an abduction in the woods and at that precise moment, the preteen debutante was released from her horrifying ransom grab situation into the loving embrace of her preternaturally endowed financial predicament. Some sort of arrangement must be made to keep a logical ratio of sleeping and waking lest the zombies walk out into the fields to become me in a moment or two.