Your skin smells of newly made melanin.
Your eyebrow is pierced;
at least, something is.
If you have tattoos,
they are funny/
without meaning,
but pretty,
like you,
all the same.

I feel like you’re funny
with meaning.
I feel like it’s funny
when you say my name.
It makes me feel funny
that you know me,
It’s funny:
you cause me no pain.

hear this,
(it’s important you do):
I can do without you;
I just need myself,
the sun,
and my women.
You are only fun
when you’re willing.

I am only fun
for you
when I’m willing,
and this was never real.

I knew from the beginning.


Crystal Nordic waters roam.

They watch me;
I waver.

I waver with no home.

I think they know I’d rather be
the widow of 1,000 minnows
than the wife

all the men have drowned at sea.

all that is left, treads their bodies, is me.


/T/h/e/……………………………………………………………………………………………re are two of me:
one fills their filaments, frees their form, flees the sea.
The other.

Are there three?


When the ship runs out of sea.
When the leg has lost its knee.
When the mouth, emptied of teeth.
When the leaf, without the tree.

idfk, nor do ifc

As they walked through the field, their eyes and fingers met, and they nodded, and said,
“We’re okay with this.”

Always ask the cows; check with them to see if you’re going with or against nature. But some people – some who are seen as worse than the pastoral pure but are actually higher, or deeper – don’t care for what the cows think. They want to make a nature of their own. They actively seek to spin the cows into herds of despair. Is despair hysteria?

They seek out what it is that the cows wouldn’t do. They do it – take up those activities with haste. We can call these types carnivorous, for sure. They want to eat up all of life. They supply their minds with feast and fury, each in greedy measure – in so greedy a measure that the banquet table at which they sit folds at its middle. It becomes the upturned crescent of the herd’s frown. Looking up, though, not down.

It eclipses any at the table who made it (somehow) to the party but, actually, listen to those cows. This is when the party can begin: rid of those who bleat, plump with those who eat, eat, eat.

You might think that when the cuts of meat have been washed, sunken with that same sour destiny as the ___, whose habits of self-restriction are ___ they’re scared to make a vice of ___

___ on the axis, marvelling the ___

And I am counted among them:

How the flowers do not shake from the tree,
can be still,
do not breathe,
cannot run,
do not leave,




Of anything,
or anyone,
I’d want to be just one of them,
have my life taken over
just wait on floors to

It doesn’t seem a challenge just to view –
from tilted windows
without rooms –
the way life brushes
next to you

I want to be the quiet one,
the watching,
wildest one,
the daisy-chain
withstanding rain,

When will I learn my lesson?
Sometimes they’re not so quick to learn.
Still, we take turns,
myself and I,
to turn blind eyes,
smile with hard cheeks,
and be awash with mystery.
Beneath the wall it’s hiding:
comes out to play, this misery.
I never fail – precisely when
I’ve struck the lens on gold
just then –
to surprise myself,
is it that I never fail
to not surprise myself?
I bore myself.
I’m fucking bored of climbing miles;
I’d swim the Nile to get back here.
I swear,
I fucking despair.
But round and round in circles
I go
until the road is paved.
I know
the centre shaves the edge off,
and I fall in upon myself.
It’s all I’ve known
to act this way –
habit dictates no difference.
It’s difference that will make me change.
It’s them I blame –
they’re all the same.
Can someone show me difference?
I need you to be different.