It’s been a week off. Already I miss the regimen of every day breakfast pop that little green-grey pill and wait. Wait for the day before you- low, quiet, rolling. All your blood, without waves.

I get off the bus running into the winter air, pulling it into my arms like a wounded, struggling animal. Finally, when convinced of its capture, I take the hook from its mouth. It shivers and shakes and thrashes. I am a god. I throw it back, and run.

A dust of snow across the ground. Feathers on pavement and bone. My footprints mark the sidewalk to reveal the night cement, naked and dark. I’m on the white leopard’s back, giving it spots, speckling it with my uncertain tread. In front, a woman walks home. I hunt behind her, casting a shadow of unmedicated lust. She quickens her pace. Our boots crunch the snow the way I would crunch her bones, but I don’t pray anymore, so turn the corner. Her scent is lost. My nose is dripping.

The house is real and brick. I swing open the door. Hundreds of snowflakes follow me in, thrown by the bullying wind. They cling to my hair to avoid the heat of the floor. They want to stay made of their beautiful icy skeletons. I shake my boots and head and guts. I kill them all.

The murder count is 79. This does not include the things I do in Spring. My mother burns in the fire. I climb the hot stairs. The furnace is rumbling with heavy synthetic season, like a summer of neurotransmitting, but never a break from these hunger, eager prescriptions.

My bedroom is covered in mud and bats and fossils of love. My heart can’t see at night, but the dawn is coming hard and fast. A new dawn. A new dose. A new light. It moves my tired body, always sleeping, always giving everything to dreaming.


They take my mind in Green grey orange yellow cools, to falsely colour in the black lines of my moods.

I always give; retire for the season, and wake the beasts from grizzly hibernation.

in the morning the moon is cold. I can still write the same lines, call the same codes. All of it is bad weather, sad tornadoes, guilty thunder. Sure, i miss ya, but what do i know. i was just talking for talking's sake.
Nothing seems sober when you are, when you are. That's all i know, for pete's sake.
All my confessions were masking a great compulsion.
In this, I am eternally alone.
i am inescapable.
to kill yourself.

i could do it all again
if you gave me a reason to
do it all again
if you made me believe in you
i'd do it all again.

Marseilles

Marseilles, I
saw his wedding band across the room.
It remained a light through God's
cupped fingers.
I, frenzied, beneath them
threw myself against His
heavy palm;
Against His iron sunset-
though I shall not battle long.

Marseilles, I
tried to find the colour in the colours.
Never could I bleed my grey
into your fragile fabric.
The skin across his bones was
taut, a trampoline of hide;
And I launched myself
before I yet could fly.

i am going to kill myself.
you wanted to know what its like.
they are all laughing.
they all have problems.
you are silentsilent.
you want to know what its like to
kill yourself
as if, in poetry, one could explain
the kind of shaking that comes
with this kind of position-
with this kind of addiction.
The dark world is only
placed for pity.
You take pills to
cure you of your duty.
Nobody is a friend when
you believe in twos and threes.
I'm so cold, I don't feel the wind
these days.
And if i Could explain this need,
you'd never have to wonder-
though you never wonder
if I will survive.

moths flew like
small dust.
Earth moved, and in their
laughter, I was the infection.
So long,
and if you could adore me,
now's the time.
I'm so tired
of killing myself
every time I love you.

well here it is there you did it is it better does that feel brtter the water is clear the breeeze is slow and youre swaying in it he is a professor he is bioethics he likes to cook and garden she is coming in the mail.