sweetbeast

exponential hydra, ouroboros all the same
god is in the details. god is in the machine
or coming up through the trapdoor; stage is set
bite off your own heads, for the attention you'll get
tragedy strikes when you're always right
father, where have you been
hidden in plain view, obtuse and so bright
always stepping in and out of frame

I have this profound love brilliantly shining, burning a hole through my ribs, and it’s going to kill me, because I just lug it around deadweight, and anyone who sees it sees it like clay pouring out of a stop-motion film, into the living room, onto the floor, but they are transfixed by the tightly grasped brick walls they shout meekly into, fingers trembling. It’s shadows out of the corner of your eye that wish to breathe your name, the one you hate. I know because the music is coursing through my bloodstream, and I’ll never forget the way it made me feel when you said you wish you could have been with me too.

open-heart forgery

there’s a reason you’re damned and I’m not

said the free lamb to the fresh caught

wine lustily sleepwalks from the neck

and I’ll drag you all the way back

but the rain is made of lead and loud

as drunken armies falls

stains on the carpet and kissed upon walls

we’re echoing through your body

hazy and delirious, if a little naughty

no ceilings, it doesn’t matter

no feelings they don’t matter

plenty of room to breathe

plenty of blood to bleed

...in which all music is too beautiful to hold in the air too long, and the silence after is just as sweet... a pulsing, eternal reality, in which all languages intertwine as a means of support and more nuanced communication... a lucid dream; your soft, solid hands are sculpting god, in which all of us reside... a daring hope, not to kill sadness but soften its blow with our love, flowing through considerate actions, by which we can sleep peacefully as long as we wish... stars are breathing... vibrant colors all around us... everything is okay, celebrate as a means of ultimate revolt

ascetic

no one desires the slave
born within beauty's grave
mummified in lust
caterwauls until he swallows rust
dreams would have spread like so much sun
maturing across landscapes of innocent fun
were insomnia cured
by realities absurd
drifting apart he is comfortable in the dark
anxiously unmaking his every remark