Harlequin thinknee-reaching, my hair dusted your trousers that billowed around me like circus tents with you, the pallid clown marionette, emaciated under reams of swarthy silk.Harlequin thin
contrast of black against your rice-paper skin; the images stuck to me and burnt lacerations in the zenith of nights where ink flood spread out around me. You said black would eat the slab of alabaster that clung to your thighs temporarily, that is until something could be done to tint them with gasoline and burn it for you.
You, pallid clown marionette, withering under this bulging mass of onyx i
s o m e w h e r es o m e w h e r e. Where I can pretend that no man’s bones build up a city and that when tears crawl maggot-like down ashen faces these journeys are provoked by caustic love or clean severs from plastic grass.s o m e w h e r e
No, the corroding bleached skull would never dare to bury itself within my synthetic earth, beneath the skin
of my s o m e w h e r e. Its weary nooks in uprooted memories of mine are gone, replaced by incandescent waterfalls of
pure, pure plastic grass.
Boxes. Boxes with pentagon heads, why yes they’re absent from my robin-egg sky, my aci
Broken TelevisionOnce I wore neon make-up and their eyes reverted back to my face, framed by plastic bangs, to visually jump into me, to click-splash head-over-heels into my spinning star-sprinkled lips.Broken Television
I was a window of sorts. They would gaze-whisper the murals they saw on the inside of their eyelids, the womb of ambition. I was mid-wife-of-the-night; my colours could fracture the senses and still be caressed.
Then I’d don dracula’s garb, I’d paint my eyelids obsidian and skin alabaster. My monotone message could travel across and bury itself in their sinuses.
Patience WaxingThe wood trembles, eager in the retreating dawn’s hazePatience Waxing
to bask in the moon’s soft gaze. The century’s passing has not yet eaten the scrappings of unfinished maps, testimonies of bygone travelers whose feet turned away
at the behest of the swishing leaves. Golden bell fauna droops with the musk of want. See their tendrils reaching for the stars? Now they climb the trees whose boughs sway gently in the breeze. A wayward man creased with time ventures forth and caresses the bark of a tree that lines his path. No tangible imprint is left
but for the echo of scent
I hate...mouses?
--
On hiatus.
--
I put the Z in Zimbabwe
Remember who I am cuz someday you'll work for me... then I get to punch you and fire you out of a man cannon in the company parking lot into your new Viper.
~Z
Thank you for the +fav etc etc but what I came to say is that I feel that I have known you.
Hmm.
I'm stalking you now. Don't turn on the sprinklers.
have a nice time
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