i have licked suburbs because i couldn't find a stamp, and i swear you were somewhere along the lines, in that night train crashing for my eyes.

the morning is a cinema

"The morning is a cinema and I am quietly smiling, still hugged with a ragged tooth, upon our mess of hands are warmed."

Ian William L.

but art must be all these things, even that i cannot make shape of. it's the shiver and the dampness of skin, how the sky keeps every breath we have spoken, the warmth of the pavement when you're pressed to the sun, the songs that do slip under your tongue, a smile you sometimes catch on corners of sharp days.

i drop matches in my brain that flare up because i swallow the smoke.

and you are too kind that i can not taste the colour i understand.

but he is controlled by blood and could he keep my name?

we're both time travellers, too fast for these hearts that flood the past, burning up for the thrill, when we try to obey what the present wills.

hungry for thorns, or control? i've let the forest run right through me and there's music in my ears or violence. i need the control, that i know these things and they are done. i make the thorns. i make even an hour of calm. two spaces, can't you see? or compiling lists. or paperwork and pleas. or throwing up my skin. or shaving my bones down.

but all i can taste is the letters filling their slots. even if it's just ghosts.

even if it's just loneliness, even if it's just alone. and something stands before you and you can't tell the truth. i should sink my teeth in. but i'm only snakes.

pale.

this is... i don't have the strength of mind. it rots. two spaces couldn't save this. i'm keeping my distance, ugly and disinterested, pretty for a certain surface.

killer, jailer, heaviest head.

the woman who thinks like a cow

five parts. thanks to matt. this made me shiver, sleeves pulled tight, hood up over head, compressed and understood.

winter sun tear me apart.

another Violence. dry skin on fingers, and can't get the music right, watching the silhouettes and can't get... that colour of the wall, in the sunlight. I focus on the colour of the wall, the green, the painting, the light leaving. brush of lips for sensation, bent spine, cracked knuckles, spine, knuckles close.

it feels like too much so the actions falter. and i can't force another action, that would: Fuck it.

Can't, just for the colour. he won't, just for.

bomb

You are walking through the streets, not sure where you are, or, I am walking through the streets. I am walking through the streets. I am walking through the streets, and I don't know where I am, what this is. But this is the dream where I am ticking. This is the dream where I kill my mother.

I don't know my age. I don't know how I've come to tick, tick, a lack of face to remember. I do know these streets are not real, fifteen years later. (I wanted to say more on that, but I don't like using ages. It halts.) I am walking through the streets, ticking, ticking, ticking. I find my mother and I can not look away.

stow

a giant must keep me for some safe, to stow such his heart.

i am able to retreat to the metal, forfeit functions to the machine. i just keep limbs warm and far, and never look past the sweat, good head of steam.

as our eyes close

"A picture of our fingerprints, and the taste of tongues, as my eyes close—but for your impish colour, our sharp tooth."

Ian William L.

cold compass

thinking of the cold, and the cost, keeping secrets close. steam could only rein this in, if i am so removed.

and as i speak, I need a spark of life: the sun lights up before my eyes.

that i would always be licked to the small things, the spider pressed to the glass, the leaves of sentry, the wink of frost to dead branches.

everything remains.

equal parts

If I am intense, that is only one facet of me. I am equal parts the fool, equal parts falling down with friends.

the thing that rust

"You wear that skin so clever, so thrown out with luck, and catch the sins of leaders, the thugs, the things that rust."

Ian William L.

too many earthquakes behind these eyes, too many planets between the seconds, stretching out the soil spoken to be beneath my ear.

i've poisoned myself with the moon taken to a lung.

i wish but there's noise. steam can't clean it because i'd have to eat through my skin, sweat. sweat because i'd cut through this stomach.

pulling teeth, pulling teeth, pulling teeth, and with this poise, i am so far away. so lonely in my head. it doesn't make sense. it's shattered perfect glasses of milk. it's knuckles stretched out over skin, all of time. it's bleeding from the elbows. my neck is a math book, or necklines deserving of trust, an angle to a painting, of a window of the world.

Machine! close off your limbs, string yourself up to the sheets. wreck of sun spots, cold winter iron, bones splintered, chasing the back of tired skull. the sound keeps: moss moves upon the tooth, for i have remained too long.

worker

Wednesday morning, and the world has moved. I am still a little stunned—the period of my life denoted by MYER is coming to an end. I think of all the growth, the exceptional people I have met, all of the moments echoed in brilliance. On the 13th I start a new job as legal transcriber. I can't imagine how I've gotten to this point. My mind is the whitest ghost.