glossolalias

I’m obsessed with the trade of beautiful people and especially wives or slaves or prostitutes who were at times the most educated, independent, but those were just exceptions, weren’t they, unlike the men who wore their perfumed skins like softest leather and then smothered them under their mass delusions of hysteric femurs screaming about a revolution to come and rip their penises straight from their bodies, and I think; whales have a language we don’t understand, there’s never been a system of government that doesn’t become Feudalism in practice. I prayed to a god 3 times a day just because someone told me t

Narcissists will pander to the one-way mirror, sycophants fall in love.

I didn't know the bridge would fall or that the water beneath could consume the last structures of an identity, when held still I don't fight anymore. The architects were ignorant. I make gills and breathe, submit to pressure, the last car to fall is black. I don't care anymore. The shore persists.

You are a collection of atoms expressing sentimental miscellanea, introverted processes designed by coincidence to always prove the theory of chaos, I am unstable, but you are decomposing. I wonder, sometimes, if you contemplate futility or peace or constance or value or the fate of our mortality in a universe that holds its dead stars for millennia, a history of dust, implosions, but then I remember everyone does. And that is what you never learned, never sought to.

My associative prism has lost a color or a shade, a shape of long grass from the eyes of a spun child lying. I collect evidence for naivety, none, but without abscence. The blades tripped into each other, water beads, laughter, shiny leather shoes.

I discovered a man who makes me feel incomparable the same way Columbus discovered America: he existed beforehand and was probably better off without a directionally challenged sociopath, no matter what those Thanksgiving crafts peddle to Neoamerican children. Regardless, his persistence withstood my apathetic exterior, and I like his music even if I don't say it, "You're okay," translates to something meaningful, "Pretty great," says exceptional, "I'm really senstive," adresses that he knows what he's doing with his tongue, his lips, his cock, and ten competent fingers, but now I'm making excuses. I have a big nose, countable ribs, narro

Some number of days become one: a thought bound together by the number of pills I took, 12 on Wednesday, you forgot Thursday, when God lets his head rest a blackhole forms, and you ask for your poems back. Maybe I took a reflection gold like yours, a few back hairs, the phone you bought, a German market, your accent, but my hand was possessed: I spun a new era, knocked around plastic bottles and shattered a dropper.  My lines were perfect, nothing like the fizzy bits of an atom, when your car never started, a roach on the nightstand, my eye imploded, but I send my poems back. The ones on napkins, dollars, candy wrappers, unduplicated sinew

I wish I'd met you once in passing, with our friends, talking equipment and nonsense. I saw you on Stephanie's instagram, then onstage behind your drumset, only wood and white plasma left of your hands.

Fuck Nihilists, and Nihilists with Realist guises, and a Realist who Nihilistically surmises when he counts his passing days, graphs millenia beside decades, defines a pointless human condition brought on by a predispostion in our repetitive cognition, so he says, " Suffering isn't tangible, and perspective is a fallacy, and faith is stupidity, Charity an inverse to productivity," though I can't help reaching -- Tomorrow, we are shameless specks in a clear glass.

His teeth were endless, but sometimes a whistle chirped when he spoke with his tongue wet, I snort and grind what's left, the last day's always best. He asked for my address, where my hips split and bent, but I listened to my head: that room's been compressed, and silence settles better when I hear the lighter crackle without his lips caked and circled, my afternoon is running. Now it throbs outward from a center which expands, scripted, ringing, though matter remains constant, pupils dilated and glossy, his pipe still smoking.