not wanting to leave, procrastination

it starts with pro for a reason

if I saved you would I be saved?

waste only what you can chew

ink is no receptacle of thought; thought is ink.

use what’s left to define what you wasted

killing sin one stamp at a time

tonal resistance has me by the hand

psychic birds chirping away till he falls asleep

they know no bounds; boundlessness is boundless

six months old; still tastes like perfection

• sympathetically, he ran into the woods crying ‘lifelessness, lifelessness’
  
• avoid the apple orchard, there are bees. my knees are scratched from rolling in the weeds, half asleep under the trees. the thought of settling down is so naive.
  
• the sound of a cough echos through hallways, pathways, alleyways, always touching onside or another. only silence responds, with an occasional smile in the clouds.
• a sad figure lingers in a doorway, in a made-up country where there is redwood red dust in the air. cabins built of wooden bones to house the unbalanced creatures of the universe. someone made the tangled feathers of broken bird wings glow behind a pair of floral curtains in a lonely bedroom
• callous thoughts directed through boxy cement statues. thought by some to represent unopened gifts from the gods. they remember themselves unappreciatively, as simple building blocks in a utilitarian landscape.
• she sleeps in the museum. her personal mausoleum. white antlers and sea clocks. she will send out for you as soon as the storm is over.
• cackling descends. can pigeons cackle? no small prey to be human, though no one has ever called him human. winter has reasons of its own, mine prevail.
• but other times… I fail miserably.
  

• the broken harp showed its distain for being misunderstood
• asking the ticking time to stop ticking only made for less time told
• nobody’s listening but the albatross batting around inside a foolish heart before departure
• swinging ligature of sensual ideologies; not one piece left alone in the sunlight
• to whither like neglected red apples; grey dapples like those of appaloosas are the people craning their necks around the tunnels—their backs black from the rails like the floors of burning forests
• snapping fingers have you swooning over men with dapper hats and toes of singing leather
• girls with tiny wrists remind you of home
• lavender droplets of tears or sweat; remind them of time past into arms of new 
• stolen away to fragile bodied, dense haired gypsy queens, you take to picking pockets on the streets of Montmartre; kicked shins violins sound like stone scraping skin
• backward acres; kinked wire into bicycle spokes make forward moving motions easier for girls on foot
• at the bottom of the world they join the desert highway; the rush of wind makes harmonies for the haunted through the mouse holes in the screen door
• heaving breasts of dust make way for a purpose; cracks in the floor let it all be seen by the air below
• we remembered the color of the bruise on her knee when she slipped in the snow next to the willow tree, the way it turned a sunset hue; it flashed to the surface like a buried trouble as she danced in a dress
• thirst has no memory when the bearer of affection is a water sign
• entanglement of romantics are loosened to the arms of admired marionettes when poetics tumble from lips to heart shaped bruises; fall asleep half undressed instead of clothed in despair

• sand saying no ones shaking given an apples touch
• tiny horses sent to wander amongst the artifacts in the high loft
• cinquefoil table top with legs of amber honey dew arching inwardly
• draw up the knees with bloody stains—from sitting under the trees—to kiss the lungs; the moon is a vessel for seahomesickness

what hurt

it can go

it has no place

here to stay?

asking for more

imploded feeling

has no place

numb not welcome

ask for more

less

just ask someone

me?

screaming would feel good

no place for it

sad hands

shaking

holding on to something

can they only?

cigarettes are friendlier

cant smoke girls

mmm rain

reminded of her

weight above me

below me

violent hand sounded pleasurable

not my way

to easily tangled up in rage

hurt

what hurt