The Dot [.] Swallowed Me


Cymbalta, who eats my mistake;
in the lung of night, amidst a longspun fight
with insecure branches so my sorrow trailing,
in a million dense of tangled minds.


in this economy, who’s the enemy?
me? not me, but enemy, from reign alley!
oozing the 80’s droplets beaded, sure
its economy, economy!
who said there’s only hospital for capital?
stool! life must be a hospice, never a hospital
we doomed, yet sold the suffer but
after all,
we’re finally equal


stars must be fundamental // holy! they die
then, some sort of the atoms // no! they split nor dictate lies
between the collision of universes // it’s artificial!
there must be us // there’s no us! no other lifetime!
upon the sparkling matter // sublimity, yet dark! it’s painful!
can we fold the line? // why? it going to fail us
so cold, but I hooked your spine // magniloquent! we fail once

If I’m Still Your Best Friend.

If I’m still your best friend,
not the pain hurled into the absence I once was
but the howling for love within a transected lies
once we occupied as a friend


I prayed for the rain
Trickle, Trickle, but throwing me pain
So did mom,
came to offer me warmth
Hung, Hung, yet, thwacked me up
she wasn’t sorry but
yikes! Tortured me calm.


been your master, as —
love never makes you a puppet


don’t worry, only me who attached to a grocery,
pretty solitary confinement, with a lonely, lonely consolation,
“what a nifty little ginger,” i once said.
“do they ache?”

so, i put my soul into my cart, pushed my heart six feet apart,
except for that miraculous price tags,
“what a staggering cut,” i whispered,
“of milk and coffee, who’s gonna take me’ money?”

[or. I’ve just been overly distracted by .you.]

how comes malice is hope?
.or. it’s just me a tragedy upon the boon
nothing cryptic here, but nah!
i refuse others’ sympathy

O, Monday

day begins: tattooing affairs, you shouldn’t
chastising essence, you’d love to mourn
an obey, you omit, but, you begged, to stay

An opus.

to tell, to sell
to share, the hell
that never has been quelled.

the invention of the saddest truth about loving

shows me how to make fun of things
or happy accidents. How to open up sis‘s dolls,
see how she blinks without a lifeline.

A fox under the moon.

I was once a nameless fox, curled up in my boxes, a solid four by four inches away from louses, stored with a lot of axes, unaided through blessedness, I said, to every haunted Mid-night, squired with witching moonlight, just let the wind sweep away pile, tumbledown spines, pain protruded with zero flesh devour in guts, I said, it’s 2:00, therefore, I am happy to be engraved in my boxes, with the moon, of course, I begged, not to pull me out to hunt, this domesticated repertoire is not that blunt: I was happy amidst my hunger, I was in control amidst my demented lullaby, overall in extinguish-temper:



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