I realize that for the longest time i had too little respect for the expression of internal reality... ...And all dry, choking feelings, all the feelings to ambivalent to form tears... and all the silly, self-indulgent things that have no other release. the only thing i can think of as lack of "quality" anymore is dishonesty. Set some words out to drift and maybe one day you'll provoke someone's curiosity.

What Watches and Fears

When he stirs it,
I feel it spread in my blood,
Rise,
In spreading liquid tension.

He is his veins
That meet the skin.

What beats in deep throbs?

When to-
Does he have eyes?- when to
Close my eyes into this place.
This is his silence.
When does the frozen moment slip,
Slip, into the sweet nectar of need.

This is what it means to be powerless.

He looks back over me.

There is a thick marrow
They find pieces of my confession here.

Did they review it that way,
with quiet eyes? quiet eyes
that have known exactly the size of their power.

What is the slow lift
of the body
and the diagonal silence
Across the harmony wind?

Where are the eyes?

The eyes of him that will always open blankly,
Because this is turning away.
What looks at secrets?
The hands, the lips, the tongue of exposure.

Halfling

She looks at her reflection,
Her face arranged in the crystals of the mirror.
She wonders
Is there a refracted world to watch?
Through the looking glass
are there words?
words, words that exactly map the meaning
of the perfect contours, the entrails
of Desire.

She wants to see and sense to touch
the swimming fuel of circulation-
what do I contain inside of me?

There are no words shimmering back at her
watchful eyes.

There is only static
moving behind the skin.
And nothing written in the shape of the eyes
of her sight.

This is alien.

She is a sad dance,
turning away.

There is no voice and no gaze,
I wanted the words
that would consummate this haploid piece of me,
my incomplete pain.

Occult Motion and Still Photography

Pooling blood collects inside
The corpse, haunted with life.
The flesh-ghost of Fox
Does not part with the blood crimson.

My careful thumb grazes the torn meat,
Crisp dead fur.
I bring my finger towards my eye, closer,
With occult longing for new motion.
Examine the stain of sin, curiosity.

Do you think of resurrection,
Imagine Dead Things, once again scampering?
Think of re-sculpting the idea-carcass
Of a face locked inside of memory?

Life is a pumping, beating thing.
Heart beating; the compression-box body
Of concentrated motion,
Calls out for examination, severing.

Do you look at the mirror of the torn apart Fox?
Watch the stilled prey
With reverence for the fierce dimension
Still hunting.

I contemplate alchemy
Between street-corner drags from a damp cigarette,
the length of it declining, burning.

You can follow the feet-scurry
Of frantic motion on sidewalks,
And wonder about still photography.

Portrait One

PORTRAIT


In the far corner of the room,
This time, I folded
The sleeves,
With careful creation and diligence

While I was thinking about his taste
Inside.

He sits now in the opposite corner,
Hands dutiful like poised children,
Or darkly restrained, like Mourners
Paying silent respect;
He tilts his head in feigned patience,
Warmly playing chaste,
But in secret searching my eyes.

I must confide
It is finally his thick breath of whiskey,
And his skin,
Still luminous with drops of sex,
That I think of-

Letting the shirt fall to the floor,
Like a nod of delicate consent,
I slide towards him.

I trust that fermenting scent,
I am thinking,
as he draws me in by the hip.

Portrait Two

It was the deep abyss of night
I wished you could have seen:

The way I stood on the front lawn,
Eyes lost in dark impressions,
Fixed on the black-curtain skyline.

And the way the bottle shifted
Loosely in my hand,
As I poured the whiskey down my throat,
And it cascaded numbly into void.

If you could have seen the stars,
Arranged in the sky like an erased expression,
Suspended above me in a confession of vacancy,
The image I inhaled with my blank stare…

Or behind me, how He watched through the window,
His gaze tracing my careful outline
With such cold precision,
His dull voice calling, almost to wonder
What immensity had swallowed me,
As I searched the darkness in secret prayer.

Maybe you could have seen, while I stood there
Naked beneath His old towel,
The way the whiskey couldn’t redefine
The Shape of Him,
Or forge from the shadows of my emptiness
The whisper of something full and rare.

If you could see me every night,

The way I Climb through this silence,
Reaching across space with my smoothed skin-

I promise you I shed my soul
Before I let him in.

I wish you could see the ways I pay for you-
The elegant motions, the hollowed-out insides-
All the places I am Empty,
Having found my Self a dark place to hide.

Static/ Pulsing

In the future
I will be someone who looks in the mirror
And sees my refraction-image without wondering
What that hinting apparition of flesh
Actually means,
But believing in something, something earnestly.

Or else in the future
I will have arranged and ordered
All the lifeless things around,
All the smeared steel surfaces and deep mahoganies,
So that I hear my soul’s pulse
As skeptically as the potential words
These things may speak to me.

I pass the fleeting sights of haunting eyes,
The moments constantly forking towards
One or the other of these still paradigms.

There are two ways now to walk, unsteady, with time:

There is the way where thoughts slip away into static,
Slither down my neck, convex along my back,
And then disappear
Into the stealth of the concrete’s cracks.

Or else there is the quick, ferile scamper,
A walk that jumps nervously
With the same caged twitch
Of a Soul-Creature’s fast-heart,
That lonely, erratic beat.

......wait-what?

anonymity doesn't rule. it transforms everything into a mirror. there is no guilt like the narcissist's guilt. writing to nobody for no reason is absolutely the only solution.