names go to smoke

I think you need to settle. turning all of your sadness into rage: it's no way to be. stop, be fucking crushed, and work from there.

the water wanted it

It was there, but the water wanted it. So in a shower, I lit the fuse, I burnt the tiles. This was my fuel—you saw the fire. We went cold so soon.

toomucher

This—this energy—can't they fucking feel it. It is electricity in my bones, grinding my teeth, and arching my back, this, jolting, exploding colour of cold smiles, a hammering of fingertips.

(find beauty where you fall, in the piles of mail, their shadow, the warmth in your sleeves.)


Ian William L.

because i write this to you, the ghost in the glow. you wonder the same, hiding your hopes, in the soil to catch you.

lover-fighter-breaker

but for all the silent brawls, I am too hungry for a fight, that I will always swing, and put my heart right through the wall.

the return

so I have to admit: I lost my way in all of this. all my best writing comes from the madnesses that haunt my head, but lately, I have just been...cheap. I am entirely too much violence, too little trade-winds. and though I like everything, I never liked those big speeches, the ones that promise return. I know, because I offer them up, and they are wrong. because I must always remain this way, an explosion of suns, and silence—everything.

I think I am still trying to apologise.

it should not be about me, and it was never supposed to be

I write to you, the ghost in the glow, who wonders the same, in hiding your hopes. I wonder if you know how similar we all are, behind the games, the wounded teeth. but, there is hope—I know it. when you keep falling down, biting your own neck, then you can only recover. grace will mark you, and change will scar you. you will notice some tree, some small bird. you will smile. you will see that people are not sleights of hand—they fold their hands, and come into spark, and loose a light, a brilliant rabbit from your days.

it is just—we recover—we return. if you are falling, you play another song. you find the quiet that the night knows, not its vicious little—here, where I am, this stagnancy

It has been too long, and I return:

you wanted a song, or a boy made of strings, but I am put to trigger, who is only biting bookends, writing this forever, if only there was some time.

wakesand

and when I wake up, I won't even know my room, but strum my wounds with a bleeding tongue, rubbing the hours from my eyes, at this last retrieve the minutes you stole.

blood, smoke

why you keep love like a cancer, offered up when I am trying to quit.

capturekiller

I am staring at the ceiling
without a camera to see
I am writing lines at the party
that swallow pills in lowercase

and, capture killer,
even so fucking pretty
a ghost on the couch
can't you haunt me?

I am stealing looks
through walls
I did not know...
cut your throat, and speak.

Ian William L.