into wires

You left us to our own devices, stretched out the wires, plugging into all of our worst vices.

reverse strings

"If you could translate me, wouldn't that be fated, wouldn't that save you, from shedding all that skin. You bite at my cheek, told me to forget about the truth, I recite every song that, spoke volumes to my feet."

Ian William L.

story arc

"You are a picture, trying to tell my thousand words. But where was the flash of sentence, the camera structure to save us, from a story arc, paralysis arched, from the tips of my teeth, to your shining throat. Now, my ugly feathers, wash across your bald heart—tell me a photo with worst intentions."

Ian William L.

i can't compare you to the mess i keep, for you will be nothing like it, to ghost scripts strung round my head, for you keep such rage. i can't write a letter to you for every day removed, i can't write to you, the sun, that spark, my truest breath.

For you are real, will be real. you will steal eyes, and bring me down, chip my favourite mug, speak savage tongues, turn grey and remember only steam. we will fuck in violence, you turned away darkly, my sweat and slowing skull.

you'll test ink on mail i ignored...

i can't finish what is forever.

rest assured, the things i forget are the most important things. and how your eyes, forget my days or, of dark.

BEAUTY.

all this beauty just, boils within me, the colour of ages, the faint toll of eternity, the distant scrape of once infinite. i am a dying architect. i am keeper. i keep this, all of this, i feel so strongly that it will never dull, never dim, ...

i am not dead for i keep death writhing.

strange warm limbs.

i am not very stable right now, but i think this is okay. i always find my purpose in this state, where i draw special focus on cold feet or how a smile feels. right now i can tell you that it is not a simple feeling, really. it kind of skips within you, draws your elbows inwards, covers it with balled up child hands. a smallest sun inside you wakes up from its infinite hill, with too many trees and oak and shadow things... or how it makes me feel? the smallest sun, child hands, i really do smile and cover at it, such loud uncalculated happiness. i like this smile. can it keep me?

i am not very stable because (and i might use a list. i like lists because they make me feel safe. but i never use them here. i hate so many rules like this.)

1. i keep feeling alone. other people finding someone that makes them less alone, leaves me still alone, or maybe even slightly more alone. this does not mean i am not happy for them, because i truly am. you can only celebrate happiness, not try to tear it down, even if it's not your own. i keep feeling alone. and sometimes music or gym or making lists or staring at the ceiling does not help.

2. i still do not have a full time job. though, this colour of the list is actually a good thing, i think. not the not having, but i have started looking and participating. this means hopefully i will have one soon. then i will be tentatively normal.

3. i always get sad anyway.

4. i thought i had a fourth colour, but i do not, and i really do not like lists with only three colours. they feel messy, and i need my lists to be safe.

i keep drawing inspiration for my book. if a book could be just book titles, i would be very much complete and happy.

so damn pretty, between breaths, fewest cold seconds.

i write my tongues on these walls, only for me to see, this quiet only mine. i harness the violence, but it slips now, only throwing ugly shapes, stories without colour, the longest death of birdsong.

Who will come forth now?

charged with ruin as i am, a lover stooped to clay.

MADNESS, I GIVE YOU NAME AND CREDIT.

SOLD ALL OF BLOOD, I THAT WAS WATCH.

i love at the, sideways of necks, your, skin ticking to that breath, the glow of plastic hanging, round your glances away, cheekbone and fingers pressed to, little memories of oceans, young pink sweetest smile for, night of friends, what keeps our love and, blushed warmest kid heart.

a surge of love, the world rushing through your fingertips.

i know the book i want to write. i want to let others know, if they ever might find it, or feel it: They are not alone. We are not alone.

nothing can remove your spark. nothing. nothing. nothing. nothing. Nothing.

i'll write the book where we're all so alone, trying to be less alone, and hope can only come from every fresh wreck, vibrant wound. when we keep our hands still in the water, our necks beneath the blade. when the whole world is crushing us in, breaking our bones down to the corner, and still we fucking spark.

i'll write the book. i'll apply for the job.

please catch me.

Never was for now.

i wish i could be loved. that's all i've ever wanted. i don't care that i'm an ugly bird in a...why can't you see through that? all of my heart is here. every ounce of love. but oh fate! it's only ghosts, satellites, blood fights. i'm feeling stuck again, and i know i can move. i just haven't.

fuck it. this night, fuck it to hell. i can't share this, people just laugh and act cruely, never to your face. this isn't fucking pretty! i'm not fucking pretty. spit on my ugly face so i can...

find beauty. the steam in my veins, the glass run under my palms. we just think we're dead at night, so with first light, completely fucking, awed with life. the mirror of us shatters, the pressure releases.

box of stones