the epilogue of now

i am not the writer, not right now. i am living. trust me. i put the pen down and breathe it all in.

i still see the light in you.

catching.

i lick the stamps of my palms of my hands.

we come together. the fireworks are sweating.

to sleep here.







I still see light in you

catching

across the stamps

the palms of my hands

we come together

in fireworks sweating

to sleep here.

now, if ever, if

the world is a truly beautiful place, all pulsing madness and resplendence. just take the darkness brightly and people you love brightest and allow yourself to be moved.

stagheart

and then tomorrow I am re-shattered, grin-on-grin, thrown from this slow spring's chance.

i, you, chemica

it's a busy city, it's a tectonic lung, it's a scrap heart, it's a strikeout, it's a metal thunderhead.

it is tin foil, it is loud, it is fish guts, it is muted beneath the hour hand.

it was a question, it was low flight, it was mud in my eyes.

(snake eyes, o lover in hungers)

it has been home.

blood lip, winter

i am seething, and still, with the, knowledge, that this, is
just a moment, of pain, coming up,
ghost trophies of old,

and, that, i don't, believe,
you, in, any, way, true,
or, my seafarer,

i'll kill, us, with my tongue, flared, up,
the roof of ceilings, spun,
swallowed,

deserved bruise, of, us
skin and, fiend,
skinny shattered cup,

i don't, want, answers,
just destruction, egg yolk,
mild wallpapers,

sure as, for tomorrow,
and i still,
shake,

the head,
is,
fucked ragged,

blood lip, summer

the first of the long dusks, the warm nights, the breathy midnights, the gun-metal-orange skies and steam and smell of mornings.

come into life

and all i can see are the flowers in the leaves in the wind, the green-shimmering-gold chandelier in its still smile, hung from warmth and the feeling returning.

cold mess, a week

our bruises have become warm places.

another morning in shivers, but my happiness feels like strawberry milk or hopscotch or warm book pages.

I like the rain when it's coming down into purple, slicing up the train window with cat whiskers, all of the light against all of the speed.

fuck sadness. you are goddamn brilliant. and you're a freak. and they hold the best half-smiles.

long earth/warm hands/the ten day war

You have to understand I hate being this way: the anchor that holds half my head. I know the war. You know the war. But, still, to always rise to it, and let yourself swallow it, and loudly you are cut down. I ball my fists, remain a centaur. My want is more than violence. My need is to tremble in love.

(I think of the innumerous skies, and how crooked my skin lies, and the fly cutting its head against the passing glass, and the small texture of plastic grips. Your bones warp the stories, or the stories warp the wood.)

This is never finished.

I have to turn away, and stop. I've been looking far too low. I've been struck aside. I need to remember, and not for you. I know I won't ever have a voice like you. Mine is cast in vapors. Mine resists, in ugly glow.

I won't have structure.

(These insects called home.)




But light.

Goodness in tremors.

Wax anthem.

Stand louder.

Without flight, or throw.

The fool is

but light.

the purple frozen sun sets

this vision is not infinite, not always. these words are simple, cut with one bone. these words inflict some sense of things. this day is not the end, but it is not now, that i would want. this prickle in my heart is ugly, this racing skin. this swamp i tend to, this empty flame i keep clean. this wound is heavy, and not a crown. this truth is golden, though, that the purple frozen sun sets, and that was good, and now flooding grievous.

i am shitting out these mix tapes. i am filling my mouth with these black curtains and decaying polite demands and indifferent urgencies.

how can i rise.