Oh I speak to you again,
I couldn’t turn it down,
we’ll sit across tables,
candle-dy don’t,
playing on down the smiles,

Oh I could ask you home
after many a drink,
tumbling up whiskey even,
not a kiss,

try it and
we’ll see
what I say.

I pretend like writing’s good,

because it’s already

bright outside.


If this is just neon,

and you are not hurt,

then dark is the color of sleep.

tongue tuck,

sure stuck,

wrapping your skin by sleep.


change the pressure,

simplicity,

you're still holding your breath.

They caught a spy in your house last night,
It was all they could do.
I for one am waiting for the trial to begin,
Burn him out of my life.

For a clear brain is all we can ask for, more than
Tight legs, mountain tops,

Because I had a dream that we were all frauds,
Jittering in our fine blue suits,
And though our eyes were shut in smooth steel,
Just waiting to be found out.

should have done everything differently

Shut Down

Dumb Town

Yes I’m Really This Numb


Nutty Pollen

Eye Clog

So That You See What You Like

no post is no post: oh silly poetry in the morning, sweating and for no reason, at all

feeling is just

the hallucination of

having

choice,


sucking up a

hallmark moment,

and filling your veins

with the future:


any day,

now.

oh jesus I have nothing more to say

when you’re already asleep

that I could take, you up in my arms?

and you could wake up,

if my voice were a little sharper,

if I, could make you, pain.

I could write a lot,
if you’d believe just a word,
even though my fingers,
find cloth and not the skin.

I could believe a lot,
if we’d decide together,

but your hand doesn’t start,

and I’m all out of surprises.

god I hate the sunrise

when you aren’t here.

god it’s all

just reeking yellow.

this sinus pressure.

and stacking and stacking.

when you’re waiting

for me

to write you back.

you are,

just an ugly turn,

of shoulder skin during the dawn:

I could turn it away,

two times dark,

I could keep

myself Together.

oh he takes them home does he.

well I could show you a thing or two.

not about the gint of her gabe.

but about that breath of yours.

Pack yourself back up
Matchstick man
The wind is colder than
you thought

Ugly hands can feel
in the wind
Troubled pulses can’t hide
their shape

Dropping it All: Such Awkward Weight: Don’t Cry: I’m Loose Now

Of all the headaches I have had,
This might taste cleanest yet,

Run through with you,
Of littlest Faith,

At Last
Something different

On my breath.

I have blood

if I have blood,

and this could be

my bone.

and you’d so like

a little dance,

If I could ruin

you I would.

You’re never lost,

even this morning,

wearing my t-shirt,

cold, as always,

maybe you hoped,

I was someone else,

when you said that,

And that’s the only

reason you came.

Oh, you have
no idea,

how much I’d like

to add you to my list

– and leave things at that

of all the headaches I have had
this might taste cleanest yet

not of whiskey and not of vodka
but hangover of the cleanest eyes

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