Overnight.
Cymbalta, who eats my mistake;
in the lung of night, amidst a longspun fight
with insecure branches so my sorrow trailing,
in a million dense of tangled minds.
It’s so ordinary it flies thought —
as eyes are flown all the way to gloom
and boom! Void, clay girl with lamp-back
not there for me.
It’s in slow mode, self-locked 24 hours per day
in the way to live centuries.
it’s also me or fireflies jumped off a strand by your whistle
hustle and fed with meteor showers.
It wasn’t when my sobs flush,
but it was your heart! A straightened rattan
a washable emulsion to draw banyan trees,
instead, this poem, spread around my dead.
It was me, but I refuse to invade by empathy;
and I might be a ghost then,
back through its only life
until you put your gloves and umbrella in my cave.
as you say now:
“ … be back and live. You’d be one person.”
as I say now,
be back and live. I’d be one person again.
Plague.
in this economy, who’s the enemy?
me? not me, but enemy, from reign alley!
oozing the 80’s droplets beaded, sure
its economy, economy!
who said there’s only hospital for capital?
stool! life must be a hospice, never a hospital
we doomed, yet sold the suffer but
after all,
we’re finally equal
uh, oh,
in this economy, who’s the enemy?
all the vague bigotry!
not me
Antimatter.
stars must be fundamental // holy! they die
then, some sort of the atoms // no! they split nor dictate lies
between the collision of universes // it’s artificial!
there must be us // there’s no us! no other lifetime!
upon the sparkling matter // sublimity, yet dark! it’s painful!
can we fold the line? // why? it going to fail us
so cold, but I hooked your spine // magniloquent! we fail once
it’s okay
we can start all over again // you’re gonna hurt!
it’s okay,
we can start all over again.
If I’m Still Your Best Friend.
If I’m still your best friend,
not the pain hurled into the absence I once was
but the howling for love within a transected lies
once we occupied as a friend
Out of a desire for you,
I will not be staggering nor whining upon your soul
besides, I prayed, saintly for the faded gargoyle
skulking under your bed.
It will be a lifetime task,
not the love dealt once I tried to overcome
but, I want to sip your body, as lover spits under their throats
Alas! How can? If I’m still your best friend
Pray.
I prayed for the rain
Trickle, Trickle, but throwing me pain
So did mom,
came to offer me warmth
Hung, Hung, yet, thwacked me up
she wasn’t sorry but
yikes! Tortured me calm.
I pray for the stars
Twinkle, Twinkle, glide — but leaving me cries
So do we,
wish to keep us light
Clank, Clank, but all blinding me up
nothing but loss and lies
accost and dies.
For all the prayers
mercy! unbearable misery
has yet to be conceived
God,
underneath the addiction
of pain. Directed
by vacating bodies,
by the minute,
I am telling You:
nothing matters
but, please
notice me once.
Puppet.
I’d,
never
been your master, as —
love never makes you a puppet
obsessed about being a puppet
you still are, as yet—
how can
but,
Grocery.
don’t worry, only me who attached to a grocery,
pretty solitary confinement, with a lonely, lonely consolation,
“what a nifty little ginger,” i once said.
“do they ache?”
so, i put my soul into my cart, pushed my heart six feet apart,
except for that miraculous price tags,
“what a staggering cut,” i whispered,
“of milk and coffee, who’s gonna take me’ money?”
relieved, i finally hefting away my void,
along with garlic and white meat,
but gosh why are they looking at me?
that murky shopper who holding wheat
am i committing a crime?
yikes, they find my starry dead eyes!
so long,
just another day with me
not sorry for self-murdering at a grocery.
[.]
[or. I’ve just been overly distracted by .you.]
how comes malice is hope?
.or. it’s just me a tragedy upon the boon
nothing cryptic here, but nah!
i refuse others’ sympathy
and
.a liar. here i would be
lips colliding beneath knotholes .you exist.
i’ve now once again escaped death —
yes, yes, no, no!
.or. perhaps, i’ve just been overly distracted
by .you.
O, Monday
day begins: tattooing affairs, you shouldn’t
chastising essence, you’d love to mourn
an obey, you omit, but, you begged, to stay
you were anything, today
thought you were Hamlet, oathed self-loving pose
alas, you actually self-murdering, for the hereafter Monday
on mid-day you flutter — on mind possessed to Narkissos
O, Monday
though today likes to make you obey,
nothing matters — life always makes you pay
just, how much?
An opus.
to tell, to sell
to share, the hell
that never has been quelled.
the invention of the saddest truth about loving
shows me how to make fun of things
or happy accidents. How to open up sis‘s dolls,
see how she blinks without a lifeline.
If I’m little, show me how to win
games, and become a burned boy
who’s present enough to keep standing
in doorways without shoving, show me
my name and its prototype.
Let me craft elastic; let me
be better even with the fear of water,
even when lies keep exposed,
or death keep relapsing
[.]
A fox under the moon.
I was once a nameless fox, curled up in my boxes, a solid four by four inches away from louses, stored with a lot of axes, unaided through blessedness, I said, to every haunted midnight, squired with witching moonlight, just let the wind sweep away pile, tumbledown spines, pain protruded with zero flesh devour in guts, I said, it’s 2:00, therefore, I am happy to be engraved in my boxes, with the moon, of course, I begged, not to pull me out to hunt, this domesticated repertoire is not that blunt: I was happy amidst my hunger, I was in control amidst my demented lullaby, overall in extinguish-temper:
I was, I was…
I was once a nameless fox, held high axes, swung upside down on a pull-up bar, I said, this nook will be forever, my boxes stacked up, endlessly! it grows thicker each night, it renders lines and transcending lies, it renders my anemic and inline flooding blood with zero vines torn, see? the pain was mine, I begged, to the suspicious moonlight, please! please empty my body, but not my stacked-up boxes: I was lodged by Your crescent moon, I was loved by my flat-cold boxes:
I was.
I am now a wicked fox, with names, trapped in somebody else’s boxes, bereaved and abandoned by my boxes: cling on wolf’s borrowed boxes, or factitious moonlight:
they illuminate, they permeate —these tramontane boxes:
consuming me.
[.]
