Tag Archive: relationships


night run

my shadow’s name is Daddy Long Legs
and he don’t even miss you cause
he’s black white simple twisting ankles
making origami panic four ways
conflict of the stadium light brigade

 

(remember this was not his idea
he has his pant leg stuck in the car door)

 

that will go out soon cause sometimes
it’s too night not to be murdered
and have no person bat an eye or bat
person and I out running when Daddy
disappears but no he does not disappear

 

(your eyes no longer make the rules
in this asthmatic cavalcade of feet)

 

see Daddy don’t even miss you cause
that’s not why he’s running starken
darkly running from me to me tied shoe
to shoe me always rhythmic reaching
grabbing seeking breathing take my heart

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Headache

a.k.a. cephalalgia a.k.a. what was

in that drink exactly a.k.a. are you

positive the brain has no pain receptors

a.k.a. if you could just stop talking

a.k.a. buh buh buh buh buh a.k.a.

just three more hours in the shower

a.k.a. the devil done found my weak

point a.k.a. wh-whaddaya mean it

might be a tumor a.k.a. it’s complicated

a.k.a. dunk my head in a basin of

cold water a.k.a. but I need this here

caffeine a.k.a. squinty reds and pinks

a.k.a. why don’t you try it out before

you call it “benign”, buddy?

Us creative types

“Certainly not, he merely imitates”

~Plato

 

Us creative types incubate all day.

Us creative types real cool.

Us creative types walk on papier-mâché veneer.

Us creative types brains like slow cooker pulled pork sammies.

Us creative types paint tunnels on the cliff face.

Us creative types self-congratulate and self-immolate.

Us creative types call it oleo.

Us creative types masturbate all day.

Us creative types got a screenplay.

Us creative types got a Crock-Pot.

Us creative types get by with a little help from our Franz.

Us creative types walk on Vermeer.

Us creative types call it exhale.

Us creative types self-flagellate.

Us creative types want somebody to love.

Us creative types paint tunnels on our faces.

Us creative types need somebody to pretend.

Sick Boy

Sick boy, phlegmatic in your humble

disregard for the whirl, will your eyes

crust shut against the war?

 

Sick boy, stormy in your handy quiver,

a body that threatens to dissemble with

rosy cheeks, will you be my antonym?

 

Sick boy, fervid with eyes that glow out

of the subterrain, so much life left, such

spleen, such gall, and will the healers

dare to call you fluke?

 

Sick boy, vitreous and molten, you are

the one who smiles like ashes, and yet,

will you hold my hand and make me less

afraid?