schema

I drip circuit boards, curl my toes, wrong fingertips, staring out sleepy windows, chewing on limp skies. I stare at the ceiling, places where I have never looked before, paint I have not tasted, creeping slowly, pressing water from its lips. please just keep me here, in the chipped foil, cracked smile, cold shadow. I can live here. I can tell you about, the telephone wires passing through her hair, the way she bites your cheek, all chess moves as she strives to move.

and the sunlight, everything, propelled into question marks.

and you go to these things, and you're full of life, and filled with alone, and your eyes might meet, his stumbling on the script, and it's never enough, to not feel the war, or spill your bones, or give up happy.

the why machine

there is metal cut through my brain, from the sound waves thrown. and I close up, a small mechanism away, mechanise away from their love, pulling levers for eyelids, sockets for vocal chords. and you might plug me into the grave, plug me into, liquids falling to my feet, my face to say: my aeroplane wings are lost.

i tend to the graves, i keep all of the names, but it must get so hard, with hands losing colour, to hold to another, to tell anything in this, world of rain along the wire.

(though i slip in every puddle, skipping a hope you will stir and, like the water falls through your hair, i'll drip the punctuation, a tide you can swallow, and offer only ...)

what is the point of love? it's a cruel thing cut deep into us, poison that the lungs don't know, that sips at our limbs, and talks to the stars, us, dim, half stance and unable. we're playing to the same sacrifices, hiding our teeth and holding onto trick rooms. if you try to care for it, it will snap your neck. if you reduce it to war games, it will sew itself to every rotten calendar page.

the stars still linger here, can't they know that they're dead, but they go on feeding, and fuck with your fate.

this isn't fair. i don't deserve to put in this fucking corner, every single thing with rot, tearing my limbs away. just, to come close, and end me. you inscribe me, remind me, i was put together to die in pieces.

all i want is that fucking chance to live. i want to fill your mouth with blood. i want a song to shatter my skull, paint the stars with what they have denied, scream until its all gone, gutted, absolutely fucking nothing and destroyed, ruined, raped, torn apart, alone.

You were the madness of soil.

when the black wave crashes down, reminding you how to wear your skin, and you stand up, spitting wounds from your mouth, that blaze of heart, you bear.

the bones of gulls that hold the room, the albatrosses that stretch across knuckles, the feathers at the corner of your teeth, how they shimmer for, all death, all flight.

if there is to be magic in this mess, then we are to be magicians, and all magicians need assistants, those friends and fall-guys, to fake-out the blade, and piece your heart back to your mind.

i was already feeling small tonight, and i wrote down the knives, recorded them safely away from my skin, but not safe enough, not without pockets full of blood. no one warns you that you'll end up this removed from the world. they tell you to be brave and ugly, they tell you to live so goddamn bright, and now i've seared my eyes, all ash and smoke in the sockets, all remains in my ears.

alone, loud and roaring in flames, wretched, wracked, trying to wonder.

but it's so loud! this silence! this fire! this. this. this. this. if you could see, you would probably help. you might take an ember away, you might kiss at teeth.