the top of the tallest tree -cunattainable love, crawling up the never ending rope.i can't remember when we first touched. it was all a blur,a sudden rush that made my insides blush; my brain crush.even skyscrapers can't relate to the high i feel.as you drag my heart across the bedroom floorthis utopia fades and i'm begging for more.it's a cataclysmic affair: my heart'sat the top of a tall, tall ladder withmissing rungs. i wish i had wings.has the eagle abandoned me or havei left the trouble behind?clouds of ash fall from the skyfor i have combustedfrom a lack of youraffection, a lack of yourattention, a lack of you,youare the nest i call home
antagonistic, i have no pulse.hold on.hold onto what?hold onto me, hold me,when nothing else mattersbecause my arms are open 24/725/7 actually, even that extra houron the longest day of the yearbecause that's how special you are(to me? i guess. but i never knowif i guess correctly or not)"wait, did you say something important/poetic/meaningless?"what."hold on a second, i'm busy."well, i've never held onto a second;time always slip through my fragilefingertips. never held onto an houreither. or an our. a your? fuck youpronouns. just hold onto something(i'm a thing; hold me) hold me like asecond. for a second. instead? youhold me like a second-place trophy;for a second-best, runner-up (no, i'mwalking down, head down, just down)i told you i'd wait that extra hour for you,but holding onto this second is too mucheven for me. sorry, but it's closing time.it's non
why all psychics are cheaters:loving you--battleship with amind reader:my missilesalways miss you; imiss you more.you winwhy do iplay games i know i'llalways lose ?probablybecause i'm playingagainst you
peeling bandages, platonic skyThere were no stars in Vegasuntil I found you.Alas, there are other starsin the sky. Brighter stars,maybe. But I like my star,what used to be my starbefore we both burned out
slow motion guilt or acid tripread my lips--lift the kiss print.come a little closer, perfect fit.read my heart's aortic charts,literature for the broken arts.read my skin cells,sex cells, jail cells.Carcinogenic,or bibliophilic.the bookstore sellscancer cells. i readthis one already; itsucks. the endingsucks. all endingssuck. but this oneswallows.read my mind--you're on it.inside you'll finda boy in a closet,carving bones from hisskeleton safety depositread my bone structure:i'm invertebratenot a chordate.cut off my patella: loves me;break my tibia: loves me not(i put the 'fib' in 'fibula' & the'boy' in 'boycott' & i boycottconversation in my situation)of pathetic rhetoric. quickwitlogic, a magician's arithmetic.Read a textbook called How to Unhingea Megalomaniac--snap my achille's heeland shatter my back. Watch me fall likedominos and the Leaning Tower of Pisa.Watch me fall head-over-achille's-heelsfor you. Watch me trip like an eg
thanatophilia.i just can't get enough of death.here's the thing: i was six when my dad died. he was in an accident involving a cement mixer and the neighbour's dog sparky. you imagine the rest. all i remember is my mom crying until her nose was as red as her fingernails, and thinking how fat and soggy her face looked from that ocean of salt running down her cheeks. all i remember is my mom doing a shit job at blocking my eyes from the pictures of my dad at the scene of the accident. all i remember is how much blood there was, plastered all over the blades of the truck and matting down sparky's fur. all i remember is how bright my eyes felt, seeing all that red. seeing all that death.all i remember is wanting more of it.here's the thing: i'm not a murderer. i'm not a self-mutilator, i'm not a junkie. i just have a fetish. some folks like latex, i like death. i've never had a problem with
waldo ? nope, another impostorfinding your soulmateis harder than winninghide-and-seek againstwaldo and carmen sandiego. finding a needlein a haystack is twentytimes easier. hell, it iseasier finding a needlein an insane asylum:a ghost-white room,god i must be crazy.every damn time i think i've finally foundmy waldo, it turns out to be a phantasm,a mirage, a fraud. tricked, again. it's justanother lookalike in candycane pinstripesin a two-page world of straitjacket horror(freddy krueger ain't got shit on me)i bet someone stole all the where's waldobooks off the shelves in my aortic library,cutting out the real waldo. photo albumswith missing heads from my past regrets,this must be how waldo feels -- forgotten.one can only hide for so long before evenolly olly oxen free loses meaning.where in the world is my waldo?
liminal.they are a cardboard family.her dad is a couchsitting quietly watchingt.v.her mother is a beefl u t t e r i n gfrom place to place, never quitesettling down long enoughto complete a simple task.her brother is an open booksitting on a glass tablethat no one evertakes the time to read.she sits in her room,trying to figure outwhat she is.she doesn't know yet,but she thinksmaybe she wants to bemore than just cardboard.she wants to bathe in puddleswithout melting like chalk.she wants to hold the worldin her teacup and drink itand have little people livinginside her, so they'll climbinto her heart and turn it onso it works the right way.they are a cardboard familyin a paper town.
shuteyegot my mama a golden needle, butshe hid it in the hay - told methe sweet things in life are worth looking for over and over again'til your eyes just can't see anymore.