blue ether

solemn he who thinks buried

who tapers ghosts into a memory

who laments himself well under

onto the bare cudgels of being ripped

is this the slow tenure of grief? its

toughest skeleton yet, wear it’s

chrome hurt like flame engulfs a

wick, like petals try enrobing a bee

i was scaffolds once all leaned upon

and with hope built splinters into

bridges that a touch could suppose

the moon, nearly, almost, not quite tho’

he dreams the sky to be an unfolded

lover against the ground, each surrenders

each intimate uncurls nightly that robe

of stars, dew upon eyelids wander

what consequence is dreaming? what

of its gleaming to think inside that prism?

a quartz river bank mirror-melted-sliding,

stood, crouched over by blood bright trees

all hands hang off these cardinal red boughs

minds about to leaf when blossoms should

have been felt, childhood in the carbon cold

and carcinogen watchers

to dream mostly is to be gone, to be unobserved,

to utterly disappear, to fold into an atom, or

under a slid frost incapable and staring free

flowing with yesterday’s eclipses

he strands himself there upon the middle of

sheets where the linen creases try their

utmost strangle, tireless blind cottons a

tundra of whiteness where wreckage lies

the pillow is a deep as you allow it, often

the meniscus is fathoms up, floorless

and falling is all but feeling, a razor

blade narration, cold as it buries

there upon witless waking that slow shore of

gin retires its numbing, another wound of

open sunshine, beams as if mocking, dust

about like aircrafts acrobatic dancing

windows are greasy inwards full of

fingerprint history, why do ceilings have

inescapable nooses? there’s a sigh that

always wants to swing, to give into the

rocks sweating below

occasional seagull steers by the infected

glass of smudges, there’s a tide out there

it’s all about drowning, fewer heads are

above the gnarled swallowing surface

where am i? severed from love and it’s

surgical strike, precise patterns are blackness

where daily hollows are thrived, multiples

of dying aren’t allowed upon its pure globe

seldom do strangers want inserting or

acknowledgement of another’s shell,

“too many defences” some strayed,

don’t let awareness decipher the fence

and the day is filled with, unnecessary

accomplishes, and the mind is greased

to fail, if i could i would count the rain

or become the thunder of another

but the heart is pale, chemotherapy pale,

aged as winter, it has a root of

rot that surpasses attempt and has the

guile to reroute mountains

so ink has turned the pane, it laps

like black tongues, a consistent well

a canyon, now here’s the grave,

come at me voices well aimed

“lay there” slams the instruction

display there like a fossil like a

perforated doll washed up, waiting,

waiting for what? for accommodation

of theft, for the blood to tire of it’s

engine? entirely the day begins

again sharp and throated, a

shadow of plasters come at me


for the crow to finally sing to

take my soul upon it’s charcoal

wing, out of these dead sheets

out from whatever this was

damnation, i was only dreaming, and

tomorrow already blemished is

returning like an old-moth-rooted-

overcoat for fiercer to come

solemn he who thinks striding is

easy to find himself neck up with

molasses, with innermost weathers

all committed to undo, unravel, kill

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