valley of stalagmites

in some outlandish dream

a portion of their souls
mushrooms up into the sky
billowing up with the blast from the bombs

the resounding boom
a multitude of goodbyes
thundering across a once
vibrant city scape

an otherworldly exodus

and you could imagine
the climate changing thereafter
killing off most living things

the world turning
some sickly tinge like an infection
the color of rust and water stain
mucus mixed with congealed blood

fall colors abounding

dead tones materialized
autumn glazed over every surface

it speaks: the end of flowers

the absence of god,
or maybe the ever presence of god;

but it doesn't matter.

because the world
perpetuates.

because the world

simply

is.

a vera

death, see
how she
did stroll
of the blue
eyes
like little pieces
of the sky
her crystallized
iris'

i
was mesmerized

and you
were so goddamn
beautiful

self

i go into
a headless self

and it is how i might imagine madness
to be

and i gaze into the vacant
unfurnished head

speaking volumes in tongue

it does not have to make sense

the lop-sided moon
will be perfect for only a moment

already losing it's symmetry

i'm turning into things turning
into things

spy a rosary forever long
like pig entrails wrapped around my wrist

the proverbial self in the air
baring it's teeth

i'll never have to watch things die
if i kill them first...

the eye

it is anathema
stewing beneath the surface

but an eruption does not come
from the mouth
it is within the eye
beneath its lacquer finish
a pearlescent forever

and a small dot
like a peephole at the center

the lens of a kaleidoscope
the brain within

greener pastures

maybe
in this life

she will lick her lips
like lime of the margarita rim

and maybe his soul
will coil in a terra cotta pot
teetering on a window ledge

avant-garde girl
pondering the green grass

she'll remove him with her fingers
like a dead layer of skin

and the sky will discolor
into a rainbow

cholerangel

he has thoughts of
himself
screaming,
being torn apart by wild dogs

when she smiles

his lungs deflating for wind instruments
for something frantic
something red
between his earth
and her sky

gauge the great "self"
from the depths of someone else's eyes

exhales the iris
so blue
so green, so brown, so hazel, so

whatever

let it crawl
underneath his skin

let it separate
the flesh from his bones

and let it hurt
so incredibly
bad

that he will never
mistake it for
beauty

again

exclusions: messages from ghosts

i had measured us
in gallons of sea water,
in epsom salt,

in tears.

every sunset
viewed from a rear-view mirror.

how many times
i would leave the house
so my family
would not see me sob.

how i would focus on loathing you
to keep myself from loving you again.

there is not enough of us
to measure anymore.

we are smiley faces
on foggy windows.

shadows in hiroshima.

you bring out the worst in me.
you were a lying whore.