monday,actually a monday

bloody hell,
twosome bells

trading after a touch,
you can move

your little body,
sideline suck,

I can show you a little more,
than that.

Waking up in Moscow, Sunday afternoon, sky cold and Blue, HungOver through me Toes, Again:

and

drinky

dogga

diggidy

doo

Nothing is changing,
While The Room is Long
There's Nothing to be found
down there,
And so Your steps are just
what you think should be.


Later.

Projecting the dark
to sleep at night.

so much space

between such little thoughts,

hesitation creates the brain,

maybe I’ll turn

into something you’ll want,

find skin at the end of

this skin.

god I could kill you,

if you’d give me a chance,

red lips across your drink,

this is my mask,

just Waverly Worn,

sniffing on out

of the Dark.

I am a little hollow man
made out of bits and floor salt

I don’t want to feel it so far,
so far in from my grit

a ringing, through rags, as I
imagine not having answered,

Or filling her up with flame

The little babies would be beautiful,
and then I could run

I write a little poem because I
have nothing better to do,

and it seems like something
when something’s done,

And we can call it preparation,
because the future is always ,

When We Arrive.

And I, hollow little mince,
and, jitter little that,

Maybe I like a scoop at my innards,
weak of the night-time wait

And there are so many things
that you can do with light

and it’s all far worse, this
latent to be something whole.

Tempt the Fates, If that’s As loud As you can Speak, Even if No one Reads it, Child

The expression – on – your face –
The moisture – on – your lips –
Such a day –
is only a day –
for you.

All will be forgiven –
because all will be forgotten.

my sock is lost
somewhere in your bed

the coffee tastes stronger cold

you put on your jeans
casual quick

so that’s how the rub can go

when all those little buildings
outside your window

lose their shape:
melt to background lumps,

and jutting brick:

and you can just pass by,

don’t think it’s habit
putting them into place,

no,

And you, behind glass:
No.

It’s all just what
you’ve read before.

my first lie –

an – Experiment in texture

– he got away –

ginger on your breath - and

this stumbling – around -

lies – the – Silent assertion

why – nothing’s wrong here

all of the dark curves
in your little white body

turn the tears
I never see

into tightly wound rain:

you hear on streets, glass,
is it morning or is it still night,

it’s not even cold enough
to see your breath

and you still smile
like you’re watching,

and I never
promised you happiness

I – could breathe all night –

her – skin on skin – lightly

Nails – are friction

- gentle loss –

and she awoke – thirsty –

august, apparently

Just can't get under the skin
Under the skin:

You've shaved your legs
Two-times tart

I know the whole picture
Been in and in

So why these eyelash battings
Whore

I've seen it before
And seen it before

What makes you think I'm
In such pain?

jetlag - is - dry-throats:
something - still lost - in height.