too tired to be amused

One of the last survivors on planet Earth, losing my legs to the ethereal. Shutting my mouth so you speak, bored to bacon bits with the routine.

I understand in darkest moments why the people you trust hide grenades in mental lockers. Only the best pull the pin for others. Duck & cover. Whisking away their gifts in an emergency kit. Waiting for an inevitable result.

I suffocate my need for confrontation. Tracking where you fall short like reading your internet history. Everyone knows you’re a slave to your senses. I couldn’t care less. They pull all our strings beautifully & beauty is timeless.


missing woman’s haunting songs

Why does everyone I love
    yearn to become
      someone else?

         Forfeit the walk-away
          lay your head
                              on my thighs,
                  close your eyes
           & sleep,
                    anyway/if it’ll help

             The dream you have of yourself
        where you conquer this world,
               was never fictitious, nor over
           across the abyss of dark matter
                        tuning your light

              to human chords


a girl prays to muses for mantic truths

Glassed over an’ fixated my gaze can’t traipse after your fine act, can’t blindly pause this obsession, incensed into hysterics from droll mistakes shortstopped by a smartphone. I’m always on standby. You keep me busy. I’ll try to make this worthwhile.

Technology is our lifeline doubling as my supple noose. Pull the lever, I’m falling up, anyhow; I make love with my executioner. He showed me how to die. It was the last thrill of my life.

I befell him multiple times, always a random character build. Singing gold bird box on the mantle, gothic tortoiseshell and porcelain worth a fucking fortune. Somewhere between reliance and reliability like caring for a useful antique —>
                   more & more I’m too close now
            to tolerate being a moment too late



The light is too perfect,
   & I’ve lost days and nights
            searching for you

                  the finest conclusion
         is finding you’re not an illusion
                my Yarborough

        the mind loses itself in
                   replicating soundless
            rhetoric twenty-four/seven

       reading nuclear waste phrases
           roosting in hostile architecture
              sipping paint
                 & toxic water

                 I didn’t need to see the bomb
         to know the effects of its radiation
            I did not have to see you
                 to fall in love with your focus


cruel & unusual punishment

AUTOREPLY: I’m here to help! A member of our support team will respond to your message within 2-3 hours. Thank you for your patience.

             Loading….    a front desk agent
     the Hatter’s white hare, unpaid vacation |
       sleeves fastened around back

             the only one who showed for tea

            repositioning my skeleton
                ready to spring @
                  the phone

          but it rings
              it rings
                  leave a message

    just waiting for your check in
        to the Heartbreak Hotel

        knowing you’ll not walk out
          the same / if you walk out at all


AUTHORS NOTE: Inspired by Besomorph

wanted: paint respirator

When I stand in front of you know I stand behind glass & walls of invisible barricades always & if I had it my way this looming battle turret would never run out
       of ammunition

Codeswitching determinant on the crowd I’m surfing, sniffing mellifluous lines hellbent on feeling the high of measuring up. I am an enemy of my own bust for its age and its cracking
         A seething perfectionist lacking the art of perfection. A demolition I’m too lazy & overwhelmed to repair. Guilty of the easy double standard, livid I am completely unnecessary. God forbid I ever own my own power. It’s a silent overtaking.
       I am catastrophic; the last role model you ever need. Apt to pondering if an applauding audience is faking it. Opening doors with rapt knuckles & laying out red carpets for misfits. I react violently with my own vulnerability, I may react the same with you, too. That’s no fault of ours. Abuse is …
        the fine line between playing the role and saying the title. Don’t get excited over something so satirical.
                Honesty like blood splatter and I’m wearing white.


the body bag on route 27

Sleep alone: you require the comfort of dreams, not me, in fact I think you’ll be just fine without/

      What good is lost
             without a map to civilization
      what is human but pavement
          where a brain can scatter like
              open jars of silky marbles all across
                the barely lit highway

         organs dry-abandoned alongside the carcass
               & in the milky eyes of the corpse
      Death reflects
                        its presence

                 for some, not soon enough


a girl teaches a foreign language to a prince

‘each glitch stranger than the last,’ she said, scrolling through pages & pages of thoughts fired off like geometric pyrotechnics. highbrow on the off chance.

encroaching on restless perusing these rituals embedded in text messages and proclamations of love shy of fifty seconds because less than a minute is all you really need to get your point straight across. thirty gigabytes in a month guaranteed.

vaudeville is gone but its villians remain | are you urged to forfeit everything for aweworthy amenities knowing the responsibility falls on fickle destiny in invisible spaces?



I own many earthtone shades
    emulating Mother Teresa with a whip
         & therefore hesitate to regale
           anyone with my opinion

      you’ll freeze because I have the expectation
                           you’ll listen
           & I know the right path
                to take, even if the way
                       is overgrown

                 immobile I refuse to move
          under scrutiny/ under surveillance
         because when analyzed you may find
         my mystical assistance was taxed after all

                         you may pay in blood
            but the accepted amount
                    is in love

                              amounts of which seem
                   far-fetched                     but/
                  none I’d not gladly trade myself

          I’m your genie; what is your wish?


         Authors Note: Belief in jinn was common in pre-Islamic Arabia, where they were thought to inspire poets and soothsayers..
               beings of smokeless flame

the cruel diagnosis

there’s so much I want to say
  given things have changed
    & I feel I’m on this island alone

                                 with a fucking telescope

   I admit I swerved the eclipse
                because I wanted to sleep
                    & it was blood red rare, too,
                                      thirsting for lunar ooze

                 I don’t need your word
         because actions s pi ll the same
                                   [  definite  ]

              & I’m not impressed anymore
           with                                             infinite

                             I am only fascinated
                                 with abrupt

because they’re repetitive