death

i saw phobos and deimos in a dream. tethered to a toddlers wrist. i'll slip away from myself eventually. we can suffer for all i care. i'm not sure if you're real. i feel sick inside. i dream about the kind of love that can stick between my teeth. how fermented my breath can be. my world putrefaction. you're there. you smell like fresh cut stargazers. and it is lovely. it's new. and it is a different kind of death. of dead flowers. purple and white and yellow carnage. yellow like the sun. and i see your wet hair. in a memory. matted and hanging down. encircling my head. counter. intestines dangling from the bellies of swine. myself sitting indian-style beneath. and i know that when layman dies. we will be beautiful again. and you will be as pretty as the daffodils in the spring. as radiant as medusa's eyes.

as beautiful as a mouthful of flies.

solve et coagula

the sojourn head 

sits there atop it all

with endorphins

trickling in

vivisect me darling

i am waiting to be eaten

and the moon 

just hangs there 

just a little bit wrong

like christmas lights in june

analgesia

little convulsions
made the meat 
die

how could it be of any use now

where i paint 
the tree roots red, the soil white

blood trails and snow

like eyes

becoming useless things
cracked and oval shaped

and i can see a crucifixion
in magenta and azure and black

and how wonderful it is
to bake cup cakes
for the pentecost

heaven drains
amniotic

how i wish i could sever 
every nerve ending
in this body

how i miss my mind

how i'd like to take a hacksaw 
through my femur

be it
one morphine capsule 
at a time

a year zero

is it weird
that i rehearsed losing you 
in my head?

is it weird that i practice 
saying goodbyes,

that i fantasize about the end?

always preparing.

i wonder
if i orchestrate it
inadvertently.

sometimes 
i am happy

but i loathe myself.

when does 'being content'
transition to
'being happy'?

sometimes there is wishful thinking.

sometimes
i kill the lights
and i look for dreams

but i am blind.

sometimes
facial features 
twist and contort into code.

sometimes i live
in your wake

but sometimes,

more than i'd like to admit;

sometimes
i die

in it.

destroyer

he was a passenger to the amygdala

vultures pick his rib cage clean.
the stringy bits of gore;

symbolic.

he cannot feel her.

he knows
that he will not 
live long enough
to understand this.

proxima centauri on the gloss
of his eyes.

he prefers sleeping
he cannot feel her hand on his cheek
he has dreams of demons

he is never coming back

pulse

it is
after a moment of pareidolia
that i notice

i am squinting 
into a piece of the sun

post
the layered pulse
resounding through the neighborhood

my fingers
rushing along the neck
of my instrument

this

of the wishful fermatta

and any disbelief of the sun
now met
with a rumored
existence

of it

because this night
is aortic 

and this night
is pulmonary

and everything here
is alive

and we are the sun

poor shun

thoughts of melanie 

are black as tar

and my retro mind

eats at the void

do you ever forget?

i heard it was fun

the dead memory

grey and stoic

like reincarnation

how i can barely recall

like a past life

like a lapse in time

like cape horn

becoming the sea...

and

it is undoubtably 

far from concern

...like everything

and the world is a luminescent marble

rolling on black velvet.

inversion:

a pupil existing

in an eyeball

and i will engineer a multitude of things

and i will instinctively

abandon them 

i will care just enough

and i will have minimal memory

of it all