i. sans titrehe sat thereto dryand he witheredinto acracked eggshell.
she said, i think we need some( empty parking-lot of lungs )we don'tmakesense, sense makes usi say that it will be alright and over very soon, and iclose itsmany mouthswith myone indexfinger.do you hear the skin talk? it is saying, stop, we have had enough of your goddamned dreaming -we have not yet even learned to fly.
the birdswhy does, what does:i didn't understand how badit had becomeand howfatallyit had wounded the birds,enormous in their fragility.
oflegsandotherthingsoflegsandotherthings:some days i wonder what they would feel like, not physically, if i were to let the hair on my legs grow. andgrowandgrowandgrowandgrow. what feelings would come of this. what reaction. i says, i says, says i to the american man inside my head "not all legs are shaved. we must live in different worlds."
iamthe perfect spelling errorin the empty belly of this minute and the rest of time, you are long gone. i believe in dragonflies and death. in another reality, it is raining and wearing your coat, you wrap me in it like a cocoon and i fail to remember:you, the cold stone of my heartbeating in my open mouth,my static and inanimate dreams:the boy whose body is splayed out on needles, suspended in the interstices of love and soft death; the swans drowning themselves in the pond, shrieking like young air, "we are still living!"your eyes close, i press on them with my thin fingers. then i simper and wane like first love. it is unconvincing. life is the same expansio
i love the colours and the light coming through the curtains.
lovely.