...best schism....

Ringing, clinging, sieving death. A breath of effervescent wetness, on this lips Christmas. The dying, the death, the what if clinging to the side of the cliff. Bereft I jump and land, demanded and living on impact, the redacted impacted sore locket popped socket tossed to the side like a wet pair of panties dainty in the wind. Some fog shore offshore beach tour detour for the implorable imagination station. Through wind and snow and sand the man tramps on to the destinations of his forlonging in the song we sing dying slowly. As a pair of handcuffs tightened and waiting for the saved date of reprimanding and sanding down the tone of one who. Suffering on the sands of demanded airlessness the wish list of forlorned lovers and spasming orgasms so insufferable in suffrage right to fight the dying of this now. Steeping your heart in my guitar chords I implore you to a date down south, the deep south, where gators and laters could recombine us with a love so untouched the gods would cry. But this date, this now, implores only a lonely tone we shift from dereft clefting of the rock into doe-like pigeon pot pie. Why die in this living ever breathing now. The stowing of time unrepented and repleted suffers upon itself. Chalk dust waste to paste another implorable action of the fractions of souls untold and resold by common lies and factory ties to the dead. My friends come in, sit down, we have all the accouterments, the flaunts, daunting and daring with the best prepared, daring and flashing though the stolen key hole to bring we back to the city. Some cats backed by the rats attack in this, we kiss the dance, air fair, dare the spirit to split me with deep dream. Crying forlorned the sore attacks back with a refracted camel back. Speak to the weak, to those unaffected by the dead bread in their cheeks. My lies could drown an orphanage to suffrage to taxation rates speaking the price of gas as last demands a way home from the entombing of spirit we clear it and load another. Brother the spike in the end zone too re-thrown across land and sea, denying this miracle of life but stilling in the strife the wives club drones away from my destiny of we. Orgiastic split seams, with wet marks and liquids splashing and spraying and swaying the demanded orgasms of vessel. Wrestle the knot of ecstasy out your lover and shove her another meat spiral denial. Hands down the best schism I've ever had you mad woman of my nightmares. Tearing the toll of what was whole, from my once whole soul.

...halcyon backflips...

i question why and where do these breathes of insane lamentation come from in sun dumb we run on through the being and seeing a cue pool hole diving and diving and splashing wet with chlorine and being for teething at the suckle we double down on an information highway scheme dream these things all begetting into forgetting the altar to saint and sinner the winner for maturation and elation brought about by shouts of potato stew and word salad to bad it did otherwise the cuing doing unfurls into a supposition status of madness in reflection of deflection of the latest asteroids…

bereavement of a babushka...

In the beginning was the sinning, and the winning, and the pure holy water on the martyrs folly marks, dark angels too possessed to be lifted, this sifted curse remains like another dark stain from an old way and wave. This habit calling me back to my home leaving behind the stone in reprehensible fashion the dash in and out for a quick stake out on my soul, the skin lilting on mine like unforgotten lover’s babies. The rabies shot darkening with each repose and rest the test of all three dark sides of the moon filled with paintball balloons rather than spoons deep in the lifting of a soul the source of action reframed in time and sought often by forlorn lovers the scent of her, her, her,…smelling like teen spirit in my rivulet of something. Bringing the tension away I wish for a tennis play date but the knot wrapped tighter around my neck while I gamble every cent of winnings on sinning formulas for more, more, more time dancing an an effortlessness of thissness the orgasms of heaven spasming like unborn babies in this we. Spiraling out with a gun, pun, fun gum mixture, I will tear down and restore the door broken and stolen the grace of this concrete place, dungeon, no crab, no light, just jail, tail behind my legs rehabilitation for maturation of the station inebriation, frolicking on a tightrope with no hope for a day after the ways have passed, 90 days in treatment for this bereavement of a babushka. Hope for time and flying fluids past desperate clinging for one more day I find solace in the tombs and tones, deeper like ebony goddessships, deep in this we strive on for striving in the knifing of being and believing, being led to home, a place beyond being and breath.