the animal part never forgets

Home is my own.
Alone.
Fast tracked past the passed choice of the two way street.
Where illusion meets.
Paralelled to all minds.
Our road of time is well defined.
Close.
Where our needs are unknown,
On a 'seems to know' basis.
Trailing behind by an era of paces.
Distance.
The end of a line.
Noticed, yet ill defined.
Collide-a-scopic patterns repeat themselves indefinitely.
I am not you.
You are not me.

Dead dog babes
Shredding all the airline towers down.
Absolving communication,
With irony, nihilism and biaxin.
Chaotic rapture.
Problems as a solution,
Let’s shoot it.
Dropping shells and exoskeletons,
Skins of loneliness.
Dead dog days.

I progressed the filling of an empty space today.
On the floor, of course,
Beneath the windowpane.
Time echoed through the empty room,
Hitting the tips and rips,
The clefts and rifts of metal mortared along the ceiling.
Worn down from the peeling of our layers.
The clanging of the splinters that we listened for.
The shattering.
The sputtering.
Each slamming door.
Each bead of light draped by fog's horizontal shades,
Across the beast.
A thin, effortless machine.
Insert the pronouns for winding vacant tapestries,
Spreading geometrical diseases with a simple print.
An open mouth and a skin that fits.
Enclosed,
Torn from toes to shoulders.
What do you make of this?
Time makes no difference when you speak of it.
Time has no relevance when calculating depth,
In limbo.

Full blown crash course.
Dummies in the car seats, bracing with the tarsals of their feet.

In the frigid kitchen you’ll feel the sweltering heat,
Glazing the gypsy girls head to toe in their full blown costumes,
Liquored with malcontent.


Spent after rest.
Tattoos don’t protect.
Your mind creates the set of circumstances that present.

Manifest.
You know the rest.

A psychotic hum
Entering through the cerebellum
Reverberates hate
Collecting in pockets
At the base
Of my disjointed spine.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Racing bass dreams
Flash instant replays
Of doe eyes
During slow stumbling sky-lines.
The high-rises don't lie.
We are ants.
Chanting faint hymns
To the bountiful womb
Of this fertile summer moon.
Static creeps
Through the teeth
On which we perch precariously
Barely breathing.
Teething
On the knowledge
That the ground has remained solid
Without us.

my heart is pulsing
when you stumble in from sleep
no panties bandit

my legs: set to kill
silk: floating upon street lights
shadow warrior

chanting magic lines
wonder if you hear my spell
it's made for true love

curled witch baby snarls
catch in my hair while I sleep
from your vicious hands