a first

shake the soul from one's skin,
free of feathers, fully shed.
where the underlying reactionary glows.
she bestowed the illusion of separation,
draped in falsity.

imagination fully grown,
but left alone.
and in the business of self-delusion.

we rise only to the occasion that won't offend,
where we musn't defend ourselves from our own sorrow.
magnetically inclined to our armchairs,
to the handles of our bedroom doors
or to maps of places we dream of but never dare see.

but this isn't about geographical location
it's about degradation,
deprecation.
where she paints her face white
and with wine.
unwilling to blend and to bend
but uneasy in her alienation.
doors hit the bridge of her nose
and open curtains close.
the letter from the landlord was stolen
and the bridge to affirmation, rampant with flame.

we people are guarded in mesh cloaks,
our emotions as agents,
too big, too large to get through.
shoved too deep to shine anyplace but internally.
the gaps of opportunity too few and far between,
an infrequent conversational invitation
when society shuns every unconventional move,
plants obstacles between the webs of your toes
to explode at each advance.
to have you assume reality.

but she begs you to calm down,
she desperately pleas to hear the resonant voice that once was
a reflection of her frights and aspirations.
so she tears at the seams of her skin to find you.
to let you loose, to watch you dread,
to see you fend for the person you could be.
while she holds tight the salt that obstructs her vision,
the rivers falling from her cheeks and creating you.
but when there's life on your bedroom carpet,
when there's life that sits still as stone,
not wanting to be resurrected,
not wanting to be shown.
and it's pieces of you that fell to the floor,
fragments that weren't contrived,
that have been long embedded
but they won't admit to breathing.

was it even a possibility to find the painter that dreamt of you?
she was a woman with the world in her hands.
but she didn't thoroughly understand the complexity of her creation.
when a mind can only run so deep
and the guts begin to bleed out your ears,
when all the faith that's been shoved into your skin
is realized an objective fib,
the incarnation of catastrophe
the consort of corruption,
and waves around you surrender-
you succumb to the distaste of breathing
because there's nothing else to do
no place else to venture,
but to exist in shame and in absurdity.

May OneTwoThree

my sense of accomplishment
(or maybe recognition)
has stumbled down sewer pipelines
gone with the waste that is time
fragmented and shattering on whims
of desperation
when I need her most
that vandal, she's in disguise
as me, as productivity,
when I run away from ransacked souls
when I color my face with masks
that I hope you'll enjoy
(after already knowing the vanity, the idiocy)
and the brevity seems all too imminent
you stretch your arms out bare
to embrace the painted figure
recalling nothing but a few pounds of flesh
I am a fragment as time is a fragment
of imagination cusping reality.
a tattered piece of (wo)man
while you think it innocuous
there are corners that I curl up in
to ride the bouts of too-human states of mind
staying there for days
in the lonely, caulked walls
my face embedded into the architecture
a soul for the next residents to find
for it's lost upon mine own mind

II not finished

molesting my mind with self-stirred misery
made from scratch by these two paws
scraping and clawing at the oak door that never budges
heavy wood framed in translucent glass
where I can see the foyer and drool,
mouth agape at the haunting paradise
knowing it doesn't take much merely to knock
just to lose the sense of devastation,
let it fall, shed of skin,
you're always on the other side,
finding veils to lift, conjuring up walls, sanctioning airways,
building divides in unconquered territory
that will never be subjugated, and never any less hazy,
these paws stand back, halting to all action,
never moving towards, just being still
stagnant, and untouched

not finished

There lies a multi-faceted fascination right above our senses
where we speak in terms of "I", and "I", and "I",
and I often wonder how full of selfs I really am.
We think in patterns, in aspects, in truths and untruths,
but I fall down stairs of astonishment,
and am astounded when confronted 
with miles of (wo)men strewn about 
unladen with such hopes. 
but I watch you from the grass, 
as you sit above on clouds 
and speculate just how long I can take this longing 
to reach you at this rate

One that I will never have

my palms are made of gasoline,

made to interpret souls,

or calculate paths outlined by fortune.

your anything but easy-going gaze 

penetrates my spine 

as apprehensive glances gambol

amongst the star-struck night.

you commend well thought-out silence 

and talk of bicycles and boats,

your hands are buried in the mud,

meticulously constructing moats bound to castles,

you dig endlessly for fear and fight.

stand against the could-bes, need-bes, might.

an absence of light never caused a pause in action, 

never filled the nervous night with parasitic vengeance,

merely an avenue paved with lust,

a curiosity so deep it lies in trenches. 

each night when your syllables lessen

do the dreams return.

sitting at the foot of your bed, 

I bear the brunt of that dreary night-time whisper:

neglect, demise, pity, harm, and unsung wishes,

all of which you'd never show, but say quite well. 

imagination conquers,

and I shed torn walls

wash away mirrors

and paint the room in my honesty. 

brutally pulverize each ounce of hubris 

belonging to your brow,

only to break moats,

make them crumble from drought,

and terrorize the castle walls

with words, wands, and bows,

to set free the lively man I see. 

well, with the air-borne illness of apathy 

I rest my suitcase at your bare feet.

the road filled with stoned paths,

and bushes thick with thorns.

a tattered, mind-made, hand-made city 

illuminates the night behind you,

making me blind to stars, 

to any atmosphere at all

except the full almond eyes that lie on display

laden in enigmatic memory,

before me, they glance at the suitcase 

and only walk away. 

etcetcetc 

B.

submit to a world of subculture
where subversive tendencies try their best to make their way up the folds of your pants
breaking hems and loosening knots in your stomach
undermining reason and forcing unwanted syllables through your teeth

I restrain, I refrain from thought all too mundane (but who's to say?)
rivers run beneath my feet
rivers of weary words that play war with one another
causing calamities bound to the books of rhyme
the rhythm of worlds, of material men
scraping their palms for any remaining flesh that hadn't been burned off in the fire
the incendiary stage that collapsed without sentiment,
that ruined (wo)mankind for eternity-

not an undo-able sin,
but a plot laid out within our genetics
already inexorable within the code of our existence,
the patterns woven unto words, into limbs,
into the follicles that make up their homes on your scalp

while the martyr stood at all of our doorsteps,
in the singular form, but once mixed (s)he was poisoned
and thrown to the outskirts of our every action
somehow lacing each line and phrase and mention
but never being looked to or towards
never waved to or acknowledged

well, we ask, are we surprised?
with the manufactured and well thought out rape of our minds,
hands, feet, and vices, sold and told and never given a hand of our own
to watch the martyr in her self-immolation
she doesn't calm down,
she doesn't win wars,
she barely just is 

do all stories start with an answer
a remedy to the tremors that fill my nights
 and bleed into daze (days)
feel the circuits commemorate
until the implosion rides on, imminent and tactful
and the fearful seems to fade
backlash from the freight
I melt into nightfall
resurrecting and sifting through the sand
dropping collections left and right
I wound up my tethered consciousness and headed to the foyer
standing and uttering beneath my breath
wanting to