's

I was never too fixated with explosions, you see, until someone, my former lover of sorts, perhaps, seemed to show me well, tell me that she was completely absorbed within the idea of, or with her cigarette, you see, she used to smoke everyplace we ever seemed to run off to, the smoke clouds would not only replace her face, but it became an expression, it became her, it became her voice. She, miraculously, left a constant trail of it behind her as well. Anyway, sorry to get carried away, but she would be riding with me in the car, jus' wanderin' about, we would be, she'd sit more than silently within herself, mind, or whatever it may be. She would be there, she would tell me, no, not tell me, but later tell me, this was before she had died, decided to die, really (which is humorous considering the topic here is relative to vehicles...and she...and vehicles....well, yes, that would be the end of her, carbon monoxide shouldn't be so compelling). She would be relentless with her watching of cars, she hardly spoke to me while on the road, no matter who was driving. She attentively glared at these cars as if out of envy, of perhaps being a machine, which she has always despised but oh, so desperately wished to be one. She stared in a dreamy, lustful state, smoking, and when her cigarette had been midway through, partially unsmoked, she would let the ash lay there, as I always noticed far too late because it would fall into my car, onto the interior of my window, the cherry burning permanent memories, ingraining them. Later in the week my car would be utterly engulfed in ash. She  gawked and hoped silently every second for a gasoline leak someplace near. Later, when I first heard of all this, I'd never heard her speak so deeply and impassioned about any subject. Anyway, she wished to toss her purposely half-smoked cigarette effortlessly in a daze and watch the cherry strike the gasoline in just the right way. When she happened to mention it the second time, though, it was more casual, with such nonchalance, it became enraging to me. You see though, her elegance overtook all, it was so overwhelming. There was never anything else in those days. It was purely silence and depressing beauty laced with recollection of times we used to speak. All of this though, was often only beautiful to us. Her blood stained my carpet. Not as if she was murdered or anything, never. Although she had wished me to asphyxiate her on more than several occasions. With her charcoal hair resting on the cusp of where her ribs would end, she would often snatch it up and more-than playfully wrap it about her neck to amuse herself, and it did, thoroughly.  I was never ashamed or afraid of it. Though it seemed to frighten others when we tried to gain or maintain friendships at all. She was the reason I could never go out or ever love....not another woman, per se, but parents, friends, cats even. I had to rid of Winslo when she moved in with me. He needed too much of my attention, took up a little too much of my oh, so precious time. It was surprising how engulfing her personality could be. All of this time was obviously needed for warming her and persuading her from destroying ever bit of furniture we owned, or any of her organs, for that matter. Appendages, mostly, is what her goal was to eliminate. Anyway, she always seemed so goddamn impressed by those incorrigible explosions that a gasoline fire may start. She wondered, quite frequently, why cars didn't more often spit out gasoline at their will. Machines should have been suicidal anyhow. Their purpose: to serve you. So, there  you have it, explode for me, you lovely drone. I want you and I, together, to rest inside a cloud of ashy, fiery, justice. I want us to go down together, just like the way you were raised, with me. Because I was your mother...father...and if not I, it was quite obviously my grandfather. Anyway, did I fail to mention that when the ash of a cigarette hangs from a cigarette for far too long it begins to resemble the way a straw wrapper looks after the straw breaks free of it for the first and only time, the straw emerging from it's mother's womb. Though a straw, of course, possesses no umbilical cord. Oh, the vain, bane of my existence. These days it was buried more than six feet under, seeing as I threw her body into a cave at the bottom of myself.

essed

i'll speculate the conditions of this or of that
the conditions will stipulate themsleves
preview themselves, and make themselves shown
it wasn't the simplest thing you'd have known
ringlets fall below your shoulders
and i was compressed by words
by all you'd ever spoken or thought
expressed or compounded

left me truly confounded
let the rhyme....let the rhyme
it doesn't come
because all you enjoy is the way words sound alike
fighting one another thoroughly, in effort to please you
adorn the walls of my house, words, oh words.
confine me
define me
sustain me, rape me,
align me, inside of me i'll find you toying around
in the sizzling acidity of my stomach 
you're not necessarily operated
though i wish you'd be purged
and then i remember...
you can't go anywhere--because you must hide
shy away from the outside
agoraphobic syllables, ruining time-
just remember your mittens when you walk outside
i wouldn't have you getting frostbite, hypothermia, all of the like.
even if it's only because i'd have to carry you to the hospital
drag me to unconsciousness 
to subconsciousness 
to remember all that's been repressed,
opressed
distressed

We Tigers

left alone  for the birds to feast upon.
they weren't just running in circles. it wasn't just that.
there was much more to it. i remember seeing them from a distance,
and my eyes aren't good, so that isn't saying much.
anyhow, there was no question that these infants, they were tigers.
infant tigers/ 
i saw them, i watched them, i stoned them with my bare hands.
that was when i got closer, of course.
that wasn't a question. none of this is.
they were so close, so close that their stripes had six or seven hairs
hardly out of place, and so noticeable.
the lack in proper coat alignment. 
i remember becoming one, to any extent that i could.
i got on all fours, and i crawled towards them. 
with one of my paws outstretched....he came sniffing.
his nose in the air, i was ready for acceptance. 
i as ready for a family of my own.
me, a lecherous basket-case crawling with auto-immune deficiencies.
crawling with things you wouldn't want to fathom, not even if you were able. 
i was here to be lonely. 

but these children, they erased all memory of anything prior or subsequent. 
the readiness was all.
it was all that was existing within me, relentless and overbearing.
and whatever happened to that sad boy? the one who could crank
out a song like it was nobodies business, like it was his business...
yelling and kicking and screaming with his tongue,
exasperated 
reaching me via kinetic energy
being me via soulless existences....
intertwining
and a small conjecture so minuscule that it becomes the bane of my very fucking existence.
and i can't read, and i can't write.
my head tells me about these animals, about their lack of slumber, or of mine.
my head tells me about these animals, about the onset of incestuous slaughter.
it tells me about their rituals atop this mountain. 
a mountain covered, blanketed with nothing but the purest, most virtuous snow.
the virginity of the earth was poured atop this mountain, doused it with innocence ready to be corrupted.
a blemish covered with chalk
and these boys, trivially dancing around this young woman dressed identically to them, yet more revealed.
her knees locked, her face to the floor.
yet there was nothing more admirable. 
what's funny was the exuberance from within her still shone.
a blemish covered in chalk
perhaps i was the sole viewer of this. 
though she held it in the palms of her hands, 
with a turn of her wrist, i would be blinded by utter whiteness. 
so me, dressed in spirit, i did all but race toward the tribal goings-on. 
hands outstretched, reaching for one of the yawping, frenzied boys,
did they notice?
and i'm just thinking
"get it out of me, get it out of me"
i can't purge myself of speech
there's no initiation, the selfish vocal cords within me
there wasn't anything
i opened my mouth, slightly
pushed out my tongue
groaned 
there was no pretending
i schreeched
the girl turned to me
there was nothing in her eyes; she was beautiful
just an abysmal, vacuous void
and my comprehension was small
if not minute
the largest tiger in size waved me over without ever ceasing his graceful gamboling.
he didn't yield anything but acceptance
it was indubitable 
it was soon after that i came to the conclusion that these infants were mocking her
i could have been wrong, but the first thought which came was the possibility of them performing, or having her perform, various sexual acts on them.
this exposed girl, making her small. anxious, uncomfortable, and insignificant. 
she stood, ashamed maybe.
all the time they had invested into making her feel....
into making her disgusted...into making her afraid
i was intrigued
there was six of them that i took down
when the claws ripped through my fingertips, well, i'm not sure i was surprised.
i was beginning to see the picture as a whole
it was the Lost Boys
it was the lost boys with imaginations that extended beyond this universe
extended as far as Zeus' strength could throw sand from my backyard
but the significance and the power of this, it had more strength embedded than within Zeus himself. 
When the swords extended from my fingers, there was no reluctance pertaining to my next move. 
there was a trench yards away
i suppose that was where the bodies were stored, kept after death, preserved hardly, not even in memory.
there were two left and four of them lying ceaselessly, squirming from their fur, remnants of it being left at t heir bedside.
their human flesh would emerge as a new skin entirely. 
the girl looked up to me, finding her eyes of greater potency than mine.
i've been stopped completely
her foreboding stare
the last of the six tigers encompassed me
in order to stop me or something of the like
i presume
i let them gnaw on my ears as my limbs trembled 
i let them hang off my fur.
i watched my blood souse their fingernails
all of this while she gazed at me
agape 
i watched the left lobe of my face be torn off. at that, i turned.
rage wasn't far from festering
all of that, all of that was dumb, you see.
the point to any of this, or to all of this, rather,
is that the young girl that i watched shamefully tilt her head toward the warmth of the forest that day
the next day, i tilted that head of hers for her
she was a miserable fuck
i tilted it one way, then the next,
but fast, and hard.
it fell limp, and onto my lap. 
no man would ever touch her again anyway
what i did with my claws was, well, i ripped her cheeks apart.
i ripped apart her livelihood.
i made it so both of her intestines shone from her outwardly, obnoxiously. 
they were what shone through, as opposed to that intellect that i once saw, not too far fetched. 
i made it so that beneath all of her hair, and beneath all of her words, she was broken. 
what i id that day was rip apart every one of those children
and i threw them, individually, into that trench that still remains, and it remains within me as well.
but a few hours later, i gathered the tattered girl in my wicker basket
and i threw her in as well.