to the faithfully depressed
and fitfully departed, i speak
in tones of melancholy
tossing fits and throwing melodies
soft delicious atoms
wild strawberry bombs
decadence aftermath matter
i'm splitting verbs infinitely
indefinitely attracted to your throat
we're only making love
because fucking went out of style
weeks ago
sugar-coated verbal assaults
timebomb ticking venom
shit becomes our overture
we overturn and split
more chaos, less emotions
we built greatness into our fabric
cut open sporadic diamond cloud
betrayal in the blink of your temperament
we shine cadillac momentum
the dementia forgo disclosure
for closure is a must for all that martyr
and sweet jesus, your vertebrae
doesn't really matter
your flexible kiss and tolerable bliss
is all that really matters
like passion, i'm caving in of sequence
detached, above the knee, retractment
reacting and reenacting and unable to twitch
focus bent shaping saddle merchants
to venice and the moon, astronautical fortress
astronomical portions, for penance, for pleat
we all remain incomplete, a cursed word prophet
let's make money off the moon
let's make babies, offer soon
ends
i held this sanity like a gift
i tried to exchange
without a receipt
we're only gettin' our groove on
because dancing went out of style
months ago
tragedy hits me like a brick
flagrant saturation innovation
vagrant mentality juvenile poetry
blatant menial tasks, heart failure
railroad concepts and marginal flattery
my mind serves thought collages
sound device out with silent p's
trained to be walking talking handshaking
baby-kissing fools, obvious oblivious disaster
there ain't nothing satisfactory about your ovaries
memory short fiction yearbook autographs
designed to remind us of our youth
executed in the midst of social pleasantries
mist thick enough to determine culture
wrist pick tough like god-fearing vultures
there are more crows than i can shoot at
there are more cows for you to moo at
all in all, i'm just misusing irony
inscribed in the concrete, i wrote (of) him
this:
we cannot become angels
if we do not die first
inscribed in the dirt, i wrote (of) us
this:
we don't always have dreams
sometimes dreams have us
