Those Who Love Me Can Take The Train

Yes
under the night
hanging like bus handles
We became heavy.
Yes.

We became heartless
Yes.
All because we liked our Gods a little miserable?
We have such delicate throats
That one can see through their narcotic belongingness.

We cry blood oceans and artery murders to the voiceless night,
but all we hear is the universe resound with the neon galaxies of fat hearts

Our lifeness contracts like spun jellyfish
over the bend of the world's elbow
Because
yes
because we were rendered
impoverished by the realities of
footpaths
film photographs
braindust
(Really,
father?)
hammers
mint candies
cheap underwear
and
liar's fingers.

And so
Tonight, for all the damnworldtosee
we pirouette in our twin blouses.

HEREIN LIES THE MAD RUMOUR OF GRACE
1989- 1989
R.I.P.

Prime Ordeal

I have a need to tell you,
that you are my rumour
that swells
like the 4th rib
in the cage
when i breathe

When i sat covered
with the platonic threads of my bedsheet,
your head appeared
near my chest.
And your hair stood bowed in my hands
while mine stood at its end.

I only want to see you in a selfish way.
With eyes fixed upon your mouth.
Immaculate.
Simultaneously
usurping your fondness for my earlobes.
You like their softness.

I've never known a body in all its fire.
But i rake it with other worlds.
And i suspend your eyes and their swift lust
with
my own waiting duskiness in the spine,
and arches of the back

Do you see my thighs?
My navel could be unknotted with your fingers. With paused pressure.

But i prefer that we remain impure
That i never kiss you and that your careless stubble
like other things childish about you, linger in my house.

I go mad when it rains.
It's a soft madness.
Because I sink with wet sorrows
Of almost- mouths and jumbled words
that i have never known.

I rub mirrors and walls
with my lips.
Leave my traces
anonymously.
Become incoherent because of the world's hard texture
that
cannot
become
your
skin

I only part my ribcage
when your name arrives.
Otherwise, i let my warmth
sleep with your voice elsewhere in my head.
Open me someday.



You'll know then.

All Those Who Wander Are Lost

The pistols they affect all the women and children and men and non-children. They collected them like individual pages. And they filled their pockets with such applause for it, that any disagreement would be astounding in it's capabilities of coherence. I wished for la petit mort as well. Standing right there, i wished, for my hands, legs and chin to be elsewhere. So that i may quietly sadden myself with the world's idea of beauty. I was so restless. My revolution was restless. But the restlessness came from suffering. One suffering was that i knew nothing of revolutions. Another was that i knew nothing of myself. And another still, unidentified suffering lurked. Which made my sadness multiply like the continuous wingspans of a fly. That i could not care for the whole world at the same time and build fierce, staggering goddammit epiphanies with which to layer my romance with revolutions, depressed me. I have always been fickle. I remember being lost. Always. And i remember staging it often, so that I may learn to live with my lostness, like one lives with the fondness for shoes or a long-standing illness. My lostness, often created an automatic sympathy. It elevated my sense of the current self. It was enough.