the fairytale of a blank night
that scares you shitless
so that you do not sleep
with five lights blaring
they are the story of our world
seen through eyes
with black irises
baked into crippled marshmallow
a warning was provided
thank you, thank you, thank you
Unknown, likely 1999, edited 2020
you sequined dancers of the fight
watching the stream morph
into a flat tailed beaver
that is moving by
like a branch caught in forces of water.
it would storm more often
the sky would light up like
a sparking motherboard
and soon my shirt and skin would unite.
from the secluded sight
through geysers of grass
growing in a path
that was a plain of pine needles.
it would snow and we would
build igloos and mine for gold,
like they did in alaska
but now snowballs are hard to come by.
from the fiefdom of hornets
i must have unsuspectingly
stumbled upon their nest
and my skin isn’t impregnable like a lawnmower.
the hornets replaced the ticks
that quietly sucked away life
until the ticks disappeared
taking the lone cow in the pasture across the street.
Unknown, likely June 2001
a creation of piled clippings
the confetti blocked my aorta
causing pulses to coagulate in my head
a fete in my tete i’d let it set
but somehow i now have realized
i’d meet the spectre if i slept
March 8, 2004
you look at me
i glance at you
you point at me
i nod at you
you smile at me
i know what to do
there is scaffolding
and scotch, silk sheets,
skywaves, and singing
and a fade out. . .
we kissed at the end of the film
your eyes were closed, your arms internal
your thoughts of brazen streets and cloudy nights
my stubble leaving marks on your wan cheek
Unknown, likely 2001
a samisen song
burnished blue in brisk sunlight
a free sea side dawn.
Unknown, likely 1999
The zipper spilled a watery nun on the ground.
Her presence demanded steps of inspiration,
groans towards the heavenly helicopters,
and for the father to relieve the fevers, the chills,
but she evaporated and left winter turf,
so he clenched his hand and demanded milk, spat it out,
and sobbed where her liquid bosom had lain.
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The screens shouted and the opportunity beckoned me to remember her gaze.
A search party had been called, the helicopters have been roaring
The roman chronicles are blazing and my love cries.
Oh dumb me, libraries are only good for a shower and a book.
Along the smouldering rice pyres
Within ear shot of dancing mynas
And between the sequential whitewash gravestones
Were ceaseless chalky reminders
Of how far it would be until our travails were ending
Our eight spoked wheels no longer to turn
When we would collapse as if we were asleep