poem
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1. Parallel projection, Horizontal rejection: I lie Sideways on a muddy ridge-line Waiting for time to trip and fall. Come now: come, feed off me. I sit in the shower and wait to slide Down the throat of Time: I wait to be destroyed. 2. He leaves you behind as debris.
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He who has been stabbed leaves the gap open for necrosis. A pair of diving eyes minds it as they dance behind the yellow line. What irony, for the victim to play his own murderer. The train of thoughts leaves the station. “I tried to keep the knife away,” you still say; your hands grasp the handle.
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The daisies, as the days go by, shed their delicate skin: their white satin dresses. Piece by piece, it falls, back to the dirty soil: a burial.
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Put on your second-hand smile and beg for forgiveness. Karma comes, like a knife through water: it seeks you. A confession before a firing squad: inevitability, with your eyes wide open, to take it all, in. Accepting, receiving, you wait: for a punishment you think you deserve, for a crime you think you committed. Where
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devote your life to the art of hate. devote your life to waste. solidify your anger into something tangible. something you can grasp, and pass on. suffice to say, let it go, let it all go away.
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again, it haunts me. I exist: a collection of past histories. to be detached here. my brain remains stained: a thin film of sepia, still, coats every corner. to be detached, here. here: a test message. half-assed half-fuck confession said off the record. to be detached: here. I have forgotten the foreign feeling; how to
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1. Blinking fast to imitate watching an old film reel. As if to capture you I watch you burn de-li-be-rate-ly into the spaces behind my eyelids: a silent protest, against a vague sense of mono no aware¹. All come to pass. This is my personal Hiroshima. Before you crash and burn, leave your shadows on my wall. 2.
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Our love Is like the coffee mugs Left unwashed in the sink After a night of warm conversation. Our love: it’s like a corner, Folded in a book; Jutting out, of a stack of old newspapers. No, our love is a corner, gathering dust. No, our love is the cul-de-sac In the lives we had
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transmitted messages to orphaned pagers litter the landscape, sullying the soil with words which follow others , phrasing phrases such as “I’ll call you sometime”, “I’ll see you tomorrow”, et cetera et cetera ad infinitum. we lie facing up, like numbers on a tattered phonebook – seeking reception – but we operate face down; plugged
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delusional writing on an online page stimulates the memory of having done something one’s not. sitting in others’ shoes shows a lack of logic and restraint when it comes to remembering one’s place. do not just dance to forget it all. this is advice. this is instruction. suck it up. stick out your paw. go
ugly stage 