I wake up in yesterday's clothes and I do not recall how I got here. Groggy with the realization that another day awaits my presence, I reluctantly open my obstinate eyes and I see your vampire face.

Can we pretend that we are who we were? Even better, let me pretend for a little longer that we are who I had wished we would become.

The world taunts us. It orbits at hysterical speeds. We hang by a noose, suspended without a swing. Like Eurydice rescued, we are temporarily free.

My insides knot with warmth as I inhale the breath from your lips. You taste like the turn of the century, but it is stale. And I like it.

The blackbird on my windowsill catches my eye, and he stares at me with pity.

The grayness of the ice fog embraces, and, for once, I am understood. A toothless old man with too much skin stops me on this post-apocalyptic street. His bent fingers curl into my longing flesh and his cloudy eyes prophesize my narrowing probability. I believe him.

Hate surfaces

with thoughts

of you,

its webbed

mirror-image

tangled

with Love.

I need to paint but the canvas stares at me blankly with arrogance.

Pit me like a pumpkin, scraping my insides with a cold spoon. I need a good cry but I am but a thimble wound tightly in scratchy wool. Deep breaths invigorate me, but with my morose sigh escapes my hopeless soul.

Darkness hovering, I cannot shake the loyalty of my demons. We play poker with dogs, but I beat them with my manipulating charm. I am a mistress to a coffin and the feast leaves me insatiable.

Lick up my spine in slow motion and choke my throat from behind. Tell me you never loved me and whisper words of shame in my ear.

Poison spews from the clouds and the acid begs for forgiveness. Looking up I am limited, nearsighted to Faith. Sociopathic empathy grows in my belly and I wonder if I have ever recognized Genuine.

Sweet kisses and comfort come only in twos. My penance for breathing is the memory of you.

our death unfolds

into the air of

smoke of

waste of

time through damage

and skin and noise

the roads are wet with

power

the death of these brings

summer to the dead

lemons to the graves

of living pigs

on the radio

on the screen

behind the action

fear in a hand of smoke

my heart opened and bleeding

across your palm

and in that palm

lies sorrow

aching and dying

fear

I see your life leap up

from the bed

your heart

dying

on the

dirty

square of solitude, yours.

the green air is

home to moths

to blood inside

your

mouth

I sit here in

the

early morning

and die

bleeding.

you sleep and dream

of your wings

through

my death.

aren't i charming

ha you want to insult me

sorry i beat you to it

you wanna look down on me 

sorry i beat you to it

want to hate me

sorry i beat you to it

Of razor love, the tremor of Serrated do-good and Death – the romance of rubble and sweat for the Garland duper; his chair set in shimmers. And the partisan: by all limbs caught in Paragon persuasion, and sidling a rucked Facade of slanting, impelled by the moiling of Ivory globes.

A slave to the arms that Wrench his Knees forward, in the obscene; For his Hands fell fastened in a damp shawl to the Masquerade Man. And the patter of Drums and Trumpets; his nutrition a wavering moan of Dukes laid out in colour – Staring thick and deep into hues that Glide shameless.

But who might Die to conclude these Noble? Halt them of their filicide fluke behind Flagpole Glory: And at dusk, the sound of the Paladins home; a sprinkle on his Terror. His chest, the Heroes cavern – behold the throbbing numbness of Foreign necks.

Faceless was the Villain he saw in those scripted dreams; loosening dreams, tied up in delusion. The Shadows that were slain, bursting from the walls behind him, Prehensile like his mind. Thus in heads, the Clemency of men unbound from their crimson Fright, squelch at him with the dignity of Alms.

But why still?– the Din of Daylight curfew in minds that question? The Paladin; his home now the Pedant of his own cruelty; a Strange steading of the menial, not hitched.

For Behold, the Garland duper; a man Sunk in deep Sage for the eyes; those Ivory Globes in a twisted thrall – his Chair set in shimmers.

All in which sense is the slurring of castigation poured; Remarks stumbled from Woven sockets, deranged like statuary behind teeth – Eyes sullen like fatuous Nativity on Pause. Rolling, perpetual past dawns, rewinding Dusk as if Greed plunged between my toes, grappling, Slung like Evil. Battering on a Step, thence from Ignorant forging - Capped by Jingo and all things Lies.

Tell me again, by Which crippling of the Nerves; the Jarring of skulls, ossified like Rage in affiliation. Call upon the bargain of the enslaved; The free – Sad in a Prosaic march, loose like description. All incredulous in a single-file of death: but a prole Dare not uproot his Cage.

The Malignancy of Graves; the Danger past the bars – keeps all similar in solitude. Pushing bricks that build Bombs; ambling in streets that Rehash the soul, toiling to own what you had Made. Born, bereaved like Life in confinement painted Blue, and dancing, cramped between stagnant walls.

I have wrong days -

days when there's a short

in my psychological circuit

and a stutter in my limbs,

days when satisfaction plays

racquetball in the asylum.

I've been told that

I am making excuses but

the dream factory closed down today.

The hopeful sensations kept

demanding higher wages

and my emotional economy

is stuck repeating the recesses

of a girl who used to practice

climbing horizontal ladders.

I've spent these last nights

trying to get higher

than the cost of living

now I'm speaking more in

syllables than sentences

and tipsy-toeing towards the

vacant corners of a happy place.

Dreams were only helium

in a red balloon that I released

into the sky to choke

the birds so they would stop

reminding me to fly.

I'm a spider with a needle

but my head is stacked with hay.

I'm running out of horses.

As I slumped into rest; into Fantasies of night's Dreams, so empty was the Voice of my Liberty: others Liberty. those ugly Dwellings of strange faced men I wished to die, for those screens told me why. O' should the private homage of War say– to free a people?

The percussion of the bombs; those groaning Sirens of strafing plumes, plummeting like Cirrus clouds overhead. The harassed screeching of the Guns, Machines jumping bullets into the earth in a Cluster of thrashing dust, boring out the flesh of those; smothering up the air with spits of silt and blood disguised in black.

A mad infused ferocity of screams; the Horrors of deranged, clipped-macabre perfumes, stirred in a mixing pot of rifle Flash– fringing peripheral– and All minds blazing in a spherical stove of Silent alarms; a Blotched out memoranda of Follies dwelled on in violent Reels.

For the floor is now a roofless grave of Children, Fathers, Uncles– half-human; a mesh of limbs sprawled across battered Pavements, licked up by a Battery of mayhem. But look at them... their eyes are dead now as they were before, cramped wicked into a forced Congregation, plastered to the ground; clothes incinerated– those naked flesh heaps of things– monstrous things that had held breath in their lungs, laughed like us.

Curtesy of King, Queen and Country, Patrie, Uncle Sam and so on a so forth. Hammered into the Hero who saw a floor of rodents, because his mind had been stolen by the Epithet. Those things brandished discoloured faces to him, and wore the Uniform of the depraved.

So– good hearted, Righteous men; Heroes so we must say. Who hang on Hues, as would I; Seeing those and no more– Kill, maim, Torture– In my Name and in Liberty.

Soldiers: Shoot at the ground if you must, for the barrel can't rise fast enough to bludgeon those evil. Shoot at him again– at his chest this time, to Scrape out from his soul an unwilling passion of blood; wrench out a Monstrosity of cries he had not wished to share with us.

For we are the murderers: Righteous murderers.