dead or sleeping

Gracious nonsense, guilty conscience
Carl Jung is not your friend.
I will cut down a million trees for you
so that this story never ends.
Fire-walker, favorite stalker
teach me to play dead,
idolize my tits and ass and get inside my head.
Broken mirror, nothing clearer, something left unsaid
the bleeding Heart in my back pocket
should Convince you I'm not dead.
City-slicker, window-licker
hold my flashlight while it flickers
wicker in the attic, I'm attached to you instead.
Rocky soil, summer toil, a fatal flaw, character foil
You were in a dream I had, but never in my bed.

Pretty gibberish

Give me pretty gibberish
I want rambling piano and words I've never heard before.
I am never more useless or more fulfilled
than when mixing the toxins competing to end me in a poem like a cauldron.
They say that in return for our marvelously complex and larger larynxes
we pioneered the capacity to choke. Not the first or the last that
nature unanthropomorphized demonstrated a clear preference
for form over function.
So my mortality may be certain but I can make it beautiful
but if there was no disconnect created by artificial polarization
how would I know who to fuck?

cloud cult

Maybe it's not really love until you find yourself taking inventory of all the adorable animals you'd gut over a pentagram to restore someone to health to pass time in the waiting room. If that's the case, then today I earned us both a merit badge in useless gestures. Any idiot can worship the sun but today as I walked from an air conditioned drug store into the overcast summertime gray, the tension in my solar plexus took the form of remembering you and a buzzing appreciation for your lightlessness, for all the words you would never have used so I could have them all. And the only sentence I want to say with them more than "I love you," is "I wish not to use my love to limit your existence to the person I have known, but to celebrate all the things I have yet to see you be".