baarish

this is an epiphany, my epiphany of insurrection of a faster face of dirty glass glances & scattered debris. i want for my kind to be the kind the languished kind unkindled alt laughable kind burnt & surrendered indistinguishable et untrainable kind. the kind it takes to crush sand to glass, the heat oh the heat & the cold-- it'll cool settle entropize polarize & instinctualize the dead sufficed insufflated kind the kind that burns on contact and blows crisply away. i want to know more than this. the kind of scrapes i've got from cat clawing from picking locks from crawling elbows & knees, too man

if dkjhsdf 4one s&&&&&grated steckstuckstockstack whateveryoulikewhateveryoulike he said so slo lie (e?) i will never lie to you he said he said lies are on my tongue and not my hands he said ha. he. ha. ha. he. ha. between the river and inside the stone, sarcophogus fresh for saintly appendix, a walnut shell (once cracked, twice removed, three times consumed) bore a hole through the sand for the sake of oxygen. the scales got the best of the sponges, running them through coral furnaces and sulfuric dependencies, leaving in their wake an extinguished lust and a penchant for nonsequitur syllables. nonanon, nonanon, nonan

The witch Baba Yaga once baked herself bread out of spiders and liars and red razorwire that was garnished with flowers from the vaults of the dead, and sweetened with lye from a child’s funeral pyre. It was light as the crisp, cracking bones on the fields and as sharp to the taste as the ash-scattered shards that were all that remains of the swords and the shields of the warrior king and his bold bodyguards. In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood the witch Baba Yaga licks the dregs from the spoons that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds. But her

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin… ~ T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock I am going through the keyless gate to watch and wait, to wander here and there among the proud, among the white and old whose wisdom rots, repressed, untold: the soporific royals wreathed in leaves of gold. And to them I shall read aloud from the Book, read of the sins their lips have took and upon me they shall look and patiently reflect… “I am lost in my own depth,” I will say in a slight, impartial way (for I lack violets and an antic prin

Yes, I Have A Penis Do not assume (if I hold the door for you), that I am making a statement about your inabilities to open the door for yourself. If you hold it for me, I'll say 'thankyou'. Do not assume (if I pay for the meal), that I am underestimating your earning capacity as a woman. If you invite me out for a meal, you're paying. Do not assume (if I defend your rights), that I am belittling the attempts that you have made to defend your rights yourself. If you defend my rights, I'll consider you human.

i hid oceans in my pockets, we spoke of the logistics of clovers, and you spun desires into framed tapestries, already lined with dust, perhaps it was an accidental triangulation-embodying the whiplash of a 'c'. (the contracts slipped from between my fingers, and i turned to go cover my childhood in sheets.)

my fathers coughs sounded like my mothers sighs, beautifully coincided, printed like invisible/identical lace across their faces. i would sit beneath the lampshade, tangled in thread and hiding in a pillowcase skin, searching for the derivatives of words that i barely knew. the pillars were scandalous and stark among the gated, carpeted, hallways. we sat, legs dangling above flagstones, and watched lightning skirt the blue skies; the roof sheltering our hovering umbrellas, (lined with cigarette ash and moss of the albino kind). you persisted to scatter pieces of moth wings, (which you tore from your back) across whole sections of my li

dust animals loll and swirl against fake forest leather peering (around sable beaststrands, sun-sullied to pyrite) at a garbled missive scratched and misconstrued, its stories unvoiced- "warm is uncomfortable; cold is far worse."

You underneath, brushing the willow, swallow many branches, while brushing the willow underneath you. Silence, they hear the scratch, the bark at the back of your throat. Scratch the bark, they hear the silence. You underneath brushing the willow, silence! They hear the scratch, the bark at the back of your throat; scratch the bark they hear the silence, brushing the willow underneath you.