Untitled: doesn't really have any foundation in fact

Words get so heated, and
probably bad person, because
can't shut the fuck up.

Six Plus Ten: Now, Wake

When I was young I used to sleep and wake up again.  Sheets would glow between sun and me, but then there was a delay. Pause. It was enough.

Radiohead played, and it’s complicated. The relationships, they are complicated. 

A riff. Okay, just one day. It was the best of funerals. White, as Greene would have put it. 

And I was sixteen. They only love you when.  

Don’t you think I, at least, deserve an explanation?

Very well.

I wore an X on my hand. And red over my mouth.

The urinals in Masquerade until the band died away.

So I could never figure exactly how again. 

Loud Like Clapping

Your body bounces on pavement

we keep secrets to ourselves.

Smile, it is innocent. 

Look me in the eyes.

B-Nik

I can only you like image, like without a voice.

Like no doubt you’re female, but faint isn’t the sound.

Beat. You trace walls like mohawks , like. And turbulence.

Fingerings like waterfalls.

Stalking steps and platform cogs.

Beat. Snaps. Beat.

Gyrospheres of clothing tiers, like around ankles: really, really small.

Falling All Over

It’s pretty sloppy, isn’t it?

Happens, anyway.

Distance Makes Me Want To (White Girls Can’t)Hump Someone Else

When away, that little string between dissipates,

amnesia, like a stroke, one-sided

happily dancing on the gravy train

gold-digging-whores do it best.  

Walmart Eyes

branded cheap gems

braided in a plated gold

dull pitch intensifies the sense

that makes one question discourse at all