sober translation

Ruminating over time crystals
      quantum computers
          & broken sinks
   I keep the French you speak
       in a little pillowed bow tied box
             in my head

      Along with everything else|
         safeguarded better than jewelry
               because there’s no possession
    I value
                              than you


ETA: ???

I can barely sleep
          these nights are brimming
                                with tears &
                  I            know I’m dying
        a slow                 death [all the time]
                             but the engine just revved
                      & I hear the scream of the siren
               or is it a private jet
                either way it’s the most expensive
                                                  form of
                                because once you’re on board
                            there’s only one way forward
                  here & gone

going down in flames may feel good for once

When nature becomes creative,  it douses itself in paint with your name even if no one knows it yet.

They might wear it in a store or dye their nails to garner attention but the attention is misplaced. All order is abandoned and it’s all on purpose, systematic like gun control. ‘All systems go’ is your rigamarole, the damage is mostly electrical. Mostly steel but the shimmer is beautiful. A little bit like Deadpool. Trademarked and copyrighted. A pistol’s gamble in a knife fight. Dangling in the sky from a thread too thin to think.

Your eyes are my favorite thing to see. I’ve arrived in a candy store and I can’t pay for a thing. Everything tastes like you; where you are is my destiny, and in the words of my favorite character, destiny is all.


voodoo two

my witch doctor has a John Wick vibe
      & it’s fucking me up/but
        he’s busy crafting me brush
                                               stroke by
           the process feels good though
                                [m a s o c h i s t I c

                  I’m thinking he knows me
                        thoroughly without| I think
                           I’m a test on a string
                   cast   pale in   sharp.   detail
       I think it’s already worked
        I’ve known   now             I don’t have to


authors edit: ideas brought to quick fruition beget typos galore


I can barely describe the feeling when your voice lowers just a smidgen, strong smoky and smooth and all of the wind evacuates my lungs and catches my ribs like idle hands. You are my Wow! signal. When the smirk pulls your lips all of my fear disperses and your pupils just happen to become black holes I mesh into. I think this is where we go when we die. Maybe it’s just me. I tap out repeatedly but I’m not surrendering. Well, eh, perhaps. I think it’s already fact, I think it was a quick descent. Fucking crash landing.

I used to think tsunamis were walls of water until I saw one that’s astral & human, taking us all for a revolutionary rollercoaster ride seaside. If anyone took a photo they’d say ‘and this was before…’ like they were scarred when you blindsided by like a wily meteorite, but they only remodeled & replaced all of the broken shards of their lives because of you.

Intense is merely short-notice satisfaction with a twist. You’re sinking when it hits.

I’m still reaching.


face reveal

Death and fate once made a fatal marriage
       I think the moon is leering over me
                I’m aware there’s power here
                            & I keep it on a tight

                            I have to:
       because when you read the room
       you run             my fucking world

                            I recognize power now
               as my most compelling demon
                  & hypothesize 
                             how/when you met
                                       when it’s silent


being led ashore.

While you were exploring unbridled seas I was immersed in Heat Waves, rolling over the consequences of breaching your surface. You caught the top of my glossy head just as I slipped back below. Maybe you glanced the skull I pulled in tow.

Turns out we all can’t breathe underwater. I’ve saved a few from the same fate. No one particularly needed to spare me mine. Though nothing at all escapes your spyglass… and because of you, I’ve now got a soft spot for cephalopods & the way they camouflage.

I tried the same but you saw me. I’ll never forget the moment you caught me. I could sweep my fins in a second but they were limp; it’s a good thing I never did. We usually sing sirens songs to lull men in… but|

I always knew you had buried treasure in your skin.


the girl in the backrooms

I hate how punchlines
      are time limited
      & how these liminal spaces
           ex              |》             tend.
                     I’m alone but I don’t feel it
                                      the irony,
              a recently reacquainted always – new friend
           the portent of being closed inside
                              a labyrinth
                       all over again &
             this time
     without weapons

                      my survival depends
                           on careful steps
                             and even better options


no anesthetic.

I don’t know where the words went, where they began or where they end. I know you whisk them into candy threads and my brain is struggling to vocalize those impish scenarios for the ink on your hand. Secrets slip so quickly out of my fingers lately, it’s a wonder they stay locked behind my teeth. You’re beautiful when you sleep.

In the meantime I am scraping by consistent & constantly relying on scratching this undying itch… ripping my skin to little wilted pieces. It’s stress. I’m a magnet for it but you’re the first and only thing in life where I’ve never had a single regret. Call it fate or divine, call it whatever you want as long as worlds combine. Pure manifestation, you’re the end of the assembly line like 3D printing, knocking them all back because I’m always drinking. You’d think I have an affair with black cherry instead of vous de droit, turned my heart into a bloom of passionfruit. Eight percent alcohol by volume. The color I spit in the shower is damn near the shade of one more new bruise.

Maybe my meantime is designed to be pleasurable painful. The real definition of fetishist. A real brutally honest assessment for the hell of it.