I see a lasting assent into the purity of light. I sink upward into it. I breath those first slow soothing self-assured seconds, when one submerges enveloped into a pillowy decadent down. This light is padded feathers, stuffing from the golden goose and some unknown translucent flax. Surrounded by this white yellow light, it's Christmas every morning, a Lord's orgy every night. Cradling on milky abundance and basking in this blonde light, I understand the old world clichés. I receive a repose from the hurricane. Everything tastes like carmel. I have no urge to fight. As I recline I am fanned...
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You were something different from the others. Shrouded in a kind of black that was neither glamor acceptance nor freak rejection. Not the absence of light but the presence of all color at once, all things muddied into a chaos indecipherable by the ape god’s simple humanity. This was taffy tar. This was robust beetle meat. chronologies patsy. Slow motion drollery. Your black was rich onyx soot and angel nefarious. The tear in Lucifer's eye. It’s the first time you couldn’t find your mother in the crowd. It’s the primordial feeling that the wolves are watching. This crude milk makes fools...
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When I think of you, I think of your midnight blue. A good choice for you. The sapphire gloss of cold junctures. The color of mournful grace and kingdom felicity. This blue transports royal babies and inspires sharecropper laments. This blue, this laudanum velvet feels like god’s gumdrop womb. This blue is the sensation right at the moment when pure sleep unlocks the door and kisses you heavy breathing on the mouth. This blue outlined with delicate thread-work and patent leather excellence is magic to my touch. This is cosmic licorice. This is enchantment atmosphere. This is the color that...
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As we laid in bed I was struck by a brilliant shade of green. A flourishing Technicolor jade, so lush one would think a psilocybin haze blurred and cheated ones eyes. This is the green that made Adam wail and claw at his skin as he found himself standing outside looking in. This is the green that fairy legends blossomed from, as men know in their narcotic dreams that a pure magic grows there. This is the tropical green that angels bath in, that childhood innocence is found in, that makes my heart patter when I stare. I see this green in a rare twin emerald still life. Jewels laid out on a bed of milky...
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My dreams have been bathed in your red. A vermillion empress lies blooming before me with a kalidoscoping halo of blurred exaltation and cinnamon treasures. Your red pulses and rivulets across the spectrum with graceful combustion. In this red, a drove of Chinese dragons snap jaw grapple each other fruitlessly hoping for the smallest lock or the lightest kiss of your sanguine glimmer. Your red is a confection-dusted butterfly floating on the tip of God’s finger at the most temperate moment of creation. Your red is the magic that isolates the vastness of possibilities. Your red cold roasts my inspiration....
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She
was something to go to war for.
Brothers enthralled like dogs clamoring for a red meat meal.
Hating each other in the name of our love for ourselves more than anything else
repeating
“but I cared more”
for
diamonds and daisies and patent leather shoes.
A trophy elite for prima donnas enamored with notions of don juan dreams not thinking twice about writing her life
fill in the blank.
We patted each other on the back.
We split each others lips.
And in the end
she was slaughtered.
a martyr for play house desires.
dismissed with our notes tacked to her hide
icons dragging...
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she is:
an expatriate in a state of decay,
riddled and thrown by the ugly beliefs her father
and her father’s
fathers declarations of expectation impregnated
upon her at
such a soft
angelic
age.
A specter mirage holding court in the grey matter of those who behold her a different novel in each late night
fantasy hard on.
Hard copy facts meaningless as she poses regal,
the smell of whiskey on her breath,
a cigarette taste,
of lipstick,
and the style of a cadillac.
Her subjects under heel smile grinding bloody as she toe taps,
jukebox
happy
to the joys of James Brown.
she...
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Night after night I lay in a bed I did not buy
in a house I stuff with trinkets so I may call it my own.
I lay in bed and gasp for air
sinking in my dirty dish water soap opera,
as I continue comforted.
Oddly,
something truly of my making.
A world,
a home,
of my very own,
continued.
A waxing of gritting time.
A grind of complacent thoughts.
I write as a closet exhibitionist showing my penis
dangling on the page.
Masked only by the sweet incense of symbols
and lines.
I lay to you secret puzzles thick with riddles
beneath questions
laced with messages
sent off to the past...
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My eyes
blurred.
fogged over by so much grey burning inside late night fumes rising from the mouths of so many.
and oh,
my stomach rolls
churning sea side ill with the fluids swallowed hungrily my swelling head
brain
cock
the blood in my veins.
self poison mutilation
damn
I’ve been hit by a train.
I sweat wet
the heat rising off zombie bodies
as I cup my ears
a rumble mumble roar cracking bones
cracking cans of beer.
and I’m pissed so I smile
and I’m tired so I stand
my wallet empty so I spend.
screaming hungry then I puke again
white trash olympics
I lost my keys...
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I’ve been here.
Waiting for you to come back to me.
Like prophecy.
I’ve been waiting.
Waiting in here,
in between smoke and dust,
amid hate,
inside resentment,
within the core of your cancered brain
and the sticky sour question
still
lingers
(“Does this turn you on?”)
Dipped in crude oil
and cigarette butts,
smeared with sperm
and hair
and guilt and emptiness and melancholy
and cramps and fear and bourbon vomit
and bone shards and bullet holes and
you I ask
(“Who is this looking at me?” )
The answer is never that satisfying.
Not as satisfying as your head...
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