black fog [1.19.2016]

my fingers are a dry creek bed, and my heart is the delta. scales derive from the forest floor, and we skitter like snails.
it flows. it does, out into a vast sea; currents etched in absolute filigree. you simply cannot quantify an open  grave lest gravity makes it so. 
love is the grave, and the grave is a redundancy. 
it's the distortion of severance that sends us, flailing (willing) into the mouth of sacrifice. cross this lifeless ocean of sudden damnation allowing my depth. choose a color, and make it stick. sing vowels. next to the one killing wont. 
let them spend. 

eyelash length [1.5.2016]

certain dreams should not extend beyond the length of your eyelashes. certain somnabulistic secrets should remain yours. they become lies, when you drag them from your slumber.

we mock our winters here, leaving only goblins of sarcasm for the spring to sweep up. stranger and stranger our seasons become, as the sun draws ever further from the point of no return. the zero point. yet you remember me, us, and the things we've done. the random acts we have committed. we mock our winters here, because we know that winters end, and we save our sarcasm for mulch. 

if only we could mine all the silver tongues, and sell them above market. a better world may be merely a matter of proper management. 

powerful shrug [12.25.2015]

slithering between the music when quintets are actually quartets. slick within the city walls and laying low enough. for now. I'm a symptom of the chasm, and the bridge teeters & sways ironically. a tether fashioned with pregnant pauses and useless grins. behind my skull is a gun loaded with insomnia. i'm a powerful shrug in a forest of severance. but you have teeth, and they all line up perfectly. I am not the sole architect of this maelstrom, despite the name etched into the keystone. 

winter brings out the ghoul in us all; those biding their time in the hidden tombs of our hearts. could ask to take up arms against, but the legions would only display a powerful shrug. no banners flown, just muffled war-cries. battle plans torn into pieces as small as possible. reasons for which remain grist for future mills.

no harm in how I feel, or how I describe it. no harm in the desciption of history, aside from antiquated ideas regarding people simply wanting to be with eachother. and no harm in a dobro.

swipe zero [12.24.2015]

like shaking an ashtray to one side, the east becomes queer comfort. like laying in the back of a second-hand hearse while the stars write our histories. challenge foregone  conclusions; choices made anon.  memorial flailing and blackmail. they tell you that faith will come soon enough, but it never does. our misunderstanding of darkness has a rhythm.  a beat lost in the void. or, was it a beast lost to the rhythm? matters naught, due to misplaced throng psychology. fucking muster this, mister; they will eat you alive. they smell fear, those armed with minimal mental ability.

schwarzwalder [12.24.2015]

there's either a measure of confusion garnered by the world, or fucking confusion measured by exactly what the world decides to teach. scratch off the labels to find out which is.....

dragons exist, if only in the caverns of our psychological panic.

(had a dream once where you and me and them were all lost in the same wilderness. murky and treacherous. a myriad of paths lay before us, and our collective survival relied upon all of us eschewing our differences in order to emerge beyond the gauntlet. yet, the campaign fractured; splintered into factions, each with their own idea regarding exodus. dooming each and all to ridiculous fates, with nil hope for anything but mediocre endgames.)

every little black spot in the corner of my eye is a spider, as it should be. I don't deserve complacency. every dark corner is a question no-one has the right to answer, but somehow it gets fucking asked. 

What Generals Want [12.18.2015]

Generals always want cannon fodder, especially when the battle is lost to unknown vectors. don't fuck a face full of tears, lest you desire a lesser definition of what it means to give your lesser definition of those you tend to fuck, and don't fuck the vectors you don't know. and I'm tired of being the fucking hall-monitor for the entire regiment. sunrise is forever the worst that assholes like me wish to smirk their way into peace. 

terrible velocity [12.14.2015]

I won't get roped into this bullshit again. I have pills I need to swallow. windows I need to shut, and teeth needing to be pulled. sick of wet cheeks and regrets I need to manage. tired of sweeping ashes onto my dinner plate. 

curious how a certain angle of the light shows all the grime and dust that was once hidden, yet now becomes a task of uncertain providence. curiouser still, how I forget just how much truly matters. it's a dirty monitor and a missing lighter, but the terrible velocity of my amnesia is no excuse. 

fear not, but fetch the field notes anon.

few know the sound of grinding steel which resonates from my lower jaw and travels, unbidden, into my dreams. or, the fact that scraping promises against enervations yields a scent very similar to burning hair. but, maybe that's what it means to have a nightmare? such would be singular, within the shivering realm that is my slumber. 

no answers when I sleep, and fewer when I wake. or was it the reverse?