Original
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Every time it happened you told me that it was alright. That this is how the two of you clicked, like gears in some semiconductor. And every time I would think to myself of harmless bickering, like couples did in the dramas you watched. I found it funny once, as though the more you fought
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a subject lost in beard of old white men. boy bastards, us three. three accidents. don’t you get it? I want to be unknowable as a truth. lose the leashed thread. here is a map. walk it; I blank the names, distance distance.
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it is the waking that is the hardest. the first step in sleep deprivation: you learn you miss dreaming of holes, the spaces between lines, the gap between the train and platform. you dream of ways in which to die, how the train brushes against your feet, the space just big enough for your thigh.
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In this dream, you shed your skin and cast away your leather wings; from your pockets, spill these things – antiplatelet medicines, Clopidogrel, Aspirin. Warfarin, for battles within. In another, I hold your chin and nothing else. Come, unspin this long dream of safety pins and other stories, wherein the might of the might-have-been becomes
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jazz, booze, brazen pizzazz, zouks daze, putz rezones contemporary votary youth. yell, yes, yourself yearns inexpert, co-existing, bemixed jukebox. next, proxy ‘howdy’ – who, which fellow, why? walleyed, worship quivers: reserve leaves, salvation arrives volubly, requests. puzzled, you jumble, quake, jumped-gun. mother, tortoised beneath table, watches daughter’s social, reminisces pregnancies. warns – his compass veers
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oh, monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be: the unlikely story, here we are, orbiting outside space of closed bar, between us a bridge, both of us victims of some violence: you, the first stone cast, the queen dethroned, me, the first to leave, a nomad in this empty echo.
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spwm day 7
ugly stage 