a significant stain

a significant stain
should be cherished
not scrubbed
evidence of something
moss collecting
rocks fall
the devil
can be washed over
and all memories
it’s all in the amount
of time
so why add
to the nothing
when inexorably
we all return

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go topless more often

i saw the perfect pair of breasts
so delicately hung today
they were that all-natural a or b
that looks good unsupported
they were sculpted, damn near
so voluptuous and supple
and a bunch of other descriptors
that make me sound like
i’m worshipping rather than objectifying
which is what i’m really doing
and the nipples peeking through
were not subtle

and i think it’s funny
that the same exact tissue
becomes obscene
when you hang it on that second x
but since they adorned
an eighty-three year old man
it wasn’t a big deal
and nobody freaked out
when it got hot
and the shirt came off

i can't sleep. anxiety and all.

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a game we’re playing
filling in the bottomless pit
with the pieces
we hack from ourselves
and each other
to cure it

but love and healing
aren’t really the same thing
they are both forms of caring
it’s just that one stems from need
the other want
and ‘relationship’
should never be code
for ‘triage’
and ‘lover’
makes a shoddy synonym
for ‘doctor’
and doctors
aren’t supposed to

fuck patience
and someone else’s rearview
isn’t an excuse for more suffering

you don’t sink the boat that rescued you
from maroon deserts and tiger floats
drowning isn’t a group sport
it’s just cruel and sad
to wallow in Sorrow
who takes everything and saves nothing
Sorrow is the sentient whisper
of the quantum ghost daring you
to shoot up strangers and eat the barrel
to go together like it will make you less lonely

Sorrow makes cult leader kool-aid company
inverts joy and suffering so beautifully
makes you want
to write razorblade symphonies
to sing praise
like Munchausen meets Stockholm
like catholics self-inflict penance
to their s & m god
like addict
to relief
to shakes
to horses
to water

Sorrow slakes
like salinated
ever thirstier
it’s never enough
until it’s too much
it stitches mouth shut
pours poison in ears
cuts eyelids
wide open
like alex
singing in the rain
exquisite horrorshow
Sorrow makes you beg
before it fucks the eyehole

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long legs
dried earth
there are no lips
just bone
into milquetoast skin
age rumpled
deep stains evidence
it’s been chewing something
something that bleeds
relief or terror
that it has no
obvious sensory equipment
but so many legs
and there is doubt and hope
that whatever was swallowed up last
left it satisfied
either way
a rickety millepede pulsing
moves this way
but feet won’t carry
treadmill effort
the push does not yield
and it’s late
the realization
like diving the fuck in
and every strike is
cat paw declawed
like something light
and enjoyable
compared to the strength
of the worm body
the only think stronger
the muscles that drive
such dull teeth

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status update

less hopeless
fuck me
horseshoe crab
out to see
less hopeless
signs point
heavy lead
sucked out
social security
fuck me
no coverage
no signal
no point
no hand
but mine
choking everything
less alone
all jazz
less hopeless
how selfish

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tooth skin

april has been a weird month
and i didn’t want this to be some analysis
but i’m really struggling to come up with something
and it’s 11:46 as I’m writing this
and i’ve found that the pressure
has a way of putting me in the right space
it achieves that procrastinating hyperactive focus
like riding a singularity
like super novas
and a bunch of other cliche expansive imagery
then again everything is a cliche
it’s like laying a base of everything known
and then adding your pinnacle
to give the next person their step up
i’m someone’s stepping stone too
and i use others as mine
in an intellectually evolving context to clarify
this isn’t some literal face stepping
or figurative pole climbing
i’m getting further
from where i might have been going
and i’m realizing it’s 11:49
if i’m going to make it
which seems unlikely
i should figure out a point
like what did april get me this year
what did writing every day achieve
what points did it prove
did i improve
i don’t know
i feel those are assertions
to be made
not me
but i will say i’m relieved
it’s over
this is over
the month
the poem
and i survived it
if i can make it through
the next seven minutes

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nocturnal exhibit

artificial light seeps in
from behind the inch-thick pane
a crowd flattens into silhouette
just for a glimpse
but nothing happens
this is nothing unusual
and the spectacle
they say
is worth the waiting
in the mean
there are mutterings
those who have waited hours to see it
a frantic musk permeates
the long sprung carpet
nothing happens
hours pass
attendance pulses
as the impatient are culled
and nothing happens
finally the last of the hopeful
are swept out with the peanut shells
and cigarette butts
craned eyes glued to corners
as bodies go unwillingly
to exit doors
but the effort is for naught
and as it turns out
the sloth had been dead for days

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