five lines about five things

someone left the gas on.
and the shadow following me dropped dead.
i fell out of the sky like a burden.
words populating his page as shadowless imprints.
scaling five.

the benefits of perseverance

the battered, brown door
eaten away by irrationalities
by its own guilty conscience
rather than its defeat
creaks open slowly, ajar.

hope, mixed in tragedy
is brewn there.

's supper plan before medication

"Oh my blase indulgence
in the intoxication of little
important things!"

...... stars beneath my gazing
eyes like pieces of stale bread...

"I wish to consume the
length, breadth and width
of my existence by nibbling
on the surfaces of little
important things, scratching
their soft skins, and biting
into their rotten centres,
savoring their similarities,
the little important things.

They all come around,
crashing into the ennui
of my insomniac sleep."

The notorious stubbornness

The histories of reticent
men perch upon the
pedestal of poetic memory,
(the tiny figment of love
that buzzes around as
a fly while you thoughtlessly
sip tea) akin to insurgencies
validated by advantageous
advantages (those lives you
took blindspotted by your
shadows). Their histories cling
on to their fused, wrinkled
monuments desperately;
the marrow of humans
gluing them together.

These memorials are fragile;
they will repeatedly crackle
in silent futures as bones of their
monuments relive again and
again, their poetic memories
(reliving for example the
artistic splash of color or
the pinpointedness of moles).

Of forks and eating

The time it takes
for his voice to drop
mutely into her
ears....





dug up graves of
waiting victims.






green wrinkles
itching foliage
in her proximity







the aftermath of
ravaged numbness








is the measurement of
growing spatialities
gnawing on a voiceless
fairytale conclusion.

The dissolving men and women

In the morning rain,
confined to flooding boxes,
men and women wash
resolute yesterdays for
the upheavals of today.
As they scrub off their skins,
their exposed flesh peeters
off, away in clouds of vapor.
Flesh diseased by its inability
to wrap itself around something
other than the hopes and rules
of oblivious, self-deceiving
arbiters of good lives warms
into smooth evaporation.
The vapor of this flesh, these
peoples' only claim to humanity,
dissipates into the corners
of their deluged stalls, stagnant
now with the fragrance of their
revolution. They take their
time hybridizing into pure
infinitesimal sponges of
themselves; a slow, ignorant
process by the conclusion
of which as they step back
into the world, they have
already dissolved invisibly
into the morning mist.

Traces of goodbye

Vestiges of sound
stick raggedly to
earwax, vacillating
between the high
timbre of a sigh
and the ineffable
joy of wisping fears.

In the realm of
silence, human
communicability
stumbles like
unrhymed metres
only to rise towards
divinity, as any
great tragedy

Roots

In the corner of
the park (unfamiliar
to sunshine), in
perpetuity these
limbs climb up
the granite feet
of the human statue.
Their tugs raise
little by little anatomy
invisible to the dark,
these limbs straining
to be born like buds
in the middle of
the arctic moon.