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Parabolic // Traumatic  


Mitochondrial infractions mutating marbled messes of eyes


Synthetic // Parasitic


The tapeworm is wrapping around the artery


Lethargic // Tragic


This console is temporarily unavailable


Karmic // Hidrotic


Softest lips, avian bones, bitter heart, bled alone


Magnetic // Lordotic


Horses bleached white in the salt and the sun


Arthritic // Pneumatic


I can hear the yellow singing behind locked doors


Polybasic // Instrinsic


Marching to my death with a drink in my hand


Carcinogenic // Optic


Switching tracks in the synapses to trick my head


Toxic // Septic


Tricked into being tripped into something that made me sick


Allergic // Cyanic


Made to vomit at the sight of certain shades


Pandemic // Atomic


You irradiated me into my grave, when all I needed was your hand


Pacific // Atlantic


Siren, sing your song to the sea, siren, sing your song to me


Atresic // Bulimic


Pretend to give a damn, or leave me the hell alone


Auxetic // Anemic


If I die to the sound of yellow, I'll leave the love I've known


Psulmic // Somatic


There used to be a harmony to your voice, now it's only drone


Sapphic // Caustic


Let me spit up the bile of the root, the seeds, the buds, the sewn


Mycotic // 


And let me disappear in peace


//


Let me sink, let me love, let me cut myself to ribbons on the reef


/

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There was one damn moment, in the filial revolt of our youth, wished out of the coin pond, in which we had faith that we could do great things. Placing scaffolding against the soft skin of your ribs. Entwining the ligaments of our fingers together like bleeding twine. The print of my lips on seven glasses in an uptown bar, rotting right off the rim with traces of fluoride from the ice. A saint caught my scent and followed me home, while pigs and oxen ate up your bones. Headfirst into the china shop, bitching about the direction in which the world turns. This will never stop, not fast enough to keep it safe. So they'll lop off my hands for stealing your time, they'll reunite me with this guillotine of mine.


So spread out your artifacts across newly swept floors, build a spider's web of memories that leave you sad and bored. We must be shattered like clay pots filled with blood. It's our place in life to be the ghosts of the flood. Haunting fog rolling across the green, mourning phantom limbs, itching like we're fiends. Cut the rope, smear the red, rip the tongue right from my fucking head. Before I speak and I fail, grab the wolf, though he's old, right by his wagging tail.


I was burned at the stake for my love, a heretic with big words and charred lungs. With several gods bearing down on my feet, to keep me on the roof, to never let me leave. May the skyline turn to dust before I die, may the rain fall heavy when you cry. This world will know your pain, but not mine. Your lips sucked the green from my eyes. Wallpaper your caverns with mismatched dresses, pictures of men you've forgotten but hate, letters written line by dead line, a love you can have is a love that can't sate. What a palette you've come to acquire, when everything you taste reminds you of blood or burnt wire. The only morsels you savor are the ones you can't eat, you're allergic to the space between your bed and the sheets. 


I'm a mongrel, I'm a man, I'm the dogs that shred the lamb. I am bitter, I am blessed, and you can bury me with the rest. Draw a line, with red twine, make a map of bastard boys, make us sacred, make us cursed, make us ghosts with capillaries burst. Never trust the voice inside of yourself, never trust how you sound. You can skin the sheep, you can wear the wool, it won't matter if you're wolf or hound. I could give you a throat full of gold, I could tell the devils my soul's been sold, but everything I loved is gullet bound.


It's our place in life to be found alone, it's our place in hell to be burnt but cold, it's our gift in death to shed our regret, it was my mistake in the night to believe in your breath. 

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Injury made insipid through its being constant


A boy culled into the pewter bowl of toxic fumes


Conjured up by shamanistic principles of a common word


That dribbles from my tongue too often


Comforted by the fact that I damaged someone else


To hide wounds made by tensile string and elixirs 


Not strong enough to kill, but deep enough to drown


 


I want to go back to the day when everything stood still


And even the leaves refused to abandon the branch


Before the rain came and churned the lake to paint


Like all mixtures of all colors, eventually we turn to mud


 


The water pump buried in the ground leaks oil


The rowboat at the shore is covered in rust


Your wounds are yours, but I built a shrine to the cuts


So that maybe you understood how broken we've become


In the interest of each bandaging the other


With the frailty of new ice under the weight of the sky


 


I'm afraid that the oars are leaving me for the whale


And into a stomach, my last hope goes down like rye


So I'll run, I'll run until I'm dead, to leave this dream behind


No sleep could cure me, even if you were by my side


You'd forever be the beauty, I'd forever have died


That's how eternity works, infinity front, infinity back


There's no atlas, there's no guide, only trails, only the hunting path


 


One day, the dock will collapse, the house will crumble like bark


One day, you'll find light in someone who needs your dark


One day, the sun will retract into itself, right before it bursts


And the bloom of the flare will blacken the words we carved


Into the trees on the lakeshore that refused to loose their leaves


At least enough so that they may fall to the earth


And land gently on a pair of feet I've followed


To the deck of the gallows, to the heart of darkness


 


I have faith, though, not very much


That there is a star somewhere out in all that vast dark


Which burnt out so long ago that even the starlight faded


Before it could reach the color in your eyes


But not enough that, for a moment, it could make you blind

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Theserpentthecharmer-1661376

Um. Yeah. This exists now. So, there. 

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Muscular dystrophy at the heart of the weekend


Moving the weak to the front of the line


So that they may make their way over the cliff


Like a herd of bison made artificially blind


And what do you do but sleep on such low beds?


Where the insecticide fog of lust dances around your head


Until your heart can't take the sound of itself beating


And you make me out to be the corpse you're eating


But I'm alive, oh lord, I'm alive!


Just long enough to see the harlot make peace with her god


Before she bites at the legs of a man she adores


And the dandelions grow from my mouth filled with sod


What should I say then, if your love is just foliage


That fails to grow even in the brightest sun?


That it was the rain to blame for all your misfortune?


You dangle broken like a spine from the butcher's hook


And all his sons are batting at your ribs


Laughing black-toothed and rigor mortis lungs


A recognizable face that never smiles to save its skin


From the teeth of the pack that left the woods for our sins


That we may be crucified in grey furs and pink gums


Like our fathers before us, we are blind and we are dumb


The cliffs wait for everyone who ever loved


To wander, spit, trip, and fall off


So don't take my hand, don't kiss me in the dark


Just wait for the chemical rush of your blood


Wait for something better to come and break your heart 

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Seam-split tongue making caves for lesser beings


While melting plastic leaves hives through my wrists


That you may crawl in and out at your own leisure


Toxic blood, allergens diffused into epinephrine fits


The wind that makes its way past your skirt


It's yours to keep, it belongs in your chest


To twist like ivy up your arms, to let you breathe


With such vibrant shades of yellow to meditate


Upon the way they nailed my hands to the deck


I've seen you upon the twisting stairwells


The masquerade masks we all wear but you


This city is your sea of animal faces


Upon which every lie is written out


"I'll always love you," says the Fox


"I'll never leave you," says the Crane


"You're always in my heart," says the Tiger


"You'll stay alone forever," says the Shame


What tender things we are, fragile and lost


Promises, dust mites, pallbearers, and frost


And when I left you in the morning, with just the sun


I knew he'd look after you while I tried to run


Before my lungs caught on and my head bled out


Before the veins knotted up and my heart met drought


In some version of the paralytic universe


I'm still there, still awake, still facing the wall


With your breath caught wandering


We could have slept until Fall


 

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How many dead men must we take apart, before we find a way to fix our hearts? And how many lovers must we burn and let go, before we can sew these seeds that must grow? What are the chances we'll make it out alive, intact and on time? If our muscles continue to stand as though they were stone in a sea of atrophied hands, I'll keep a reckless mouth and self-medicate with glass bottles and empty cans. What a disgusting thing that's become of me, the eels and bottom-dwellers and mud. The wasted youth, the terrible shaking, the misplaced affection, the false-positive love. Are you ready to catch me falling out of my own way and onto the tracks below? Are you able to package my torn limbs in wax paper and secure the box with a bow? I'm not sure you're willing to bury me where we first met. You're probably wondering how to keep your dress from getting wet. Like the swarm of the hornets that built their catacombs in my stomach, I keep biting until red. Cleansed of the skin that wants to be rended off once I am clean and I am dead. Spit back up onto the shoulder of a tired mother, only to be washed off by the rain. The hardest part is being a demon, the easiest part is haunting myself. How many dead men must we take apart, before we find a way back to the start? How many gardens must we drown in lead, before we poison what's left in our heads? The hardest part is being in love, the easiest part is believing she's not. 

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A man once slept with faith, and awoke to find nothing but the corpse


In a castle built upon the alchemy of a dead man's hand


And in the decades that followed, I was born into the tale


Like the carrion of folklore and the birds that tremble


At the sight of what I'll leave on the side of the road


Remnants, artifacts, battered and bruised like rotten fruit


But she appeared in my sleep as though the water of dreams


And I came to find that I was always awake


The library of memory is reduced to sulking ash


Billowing around the statues of our feet


Tiny devils climbed between my tea-colored teeth


And made homes and made wars beneath


The thrones of sunken kings, a girl made of ivory


She pursed her lips and closed her eyes


Forgetting the three-headed hound I've been made into


Disregarding the gates I've guarded since I was born


Whether my demons will find her, I do not know


But I'll kill myself on the promenade before they try


And I'll drag them all back to hell


If only it means that she'll forget me for good


And my name can become as a castle


It will collapse in due time 

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It doesn't matter if you know the hemorrhage inside me. The bleeding doesn't stop if we believe for just one night, that the lay and the land stopped for once to let us breathe. Let us sleep easy knowing we're only inches apart. If I could name all my ailments, give them personality, they'd share none of the letters I find in your name. Each one would be a stranger leaving a mark on pavement. On the backside of my spine, my teeth, my cold-colored bone.


You were there to feel my heart weakening in my dreams. While the breeze from the window made me give into the seams of a bed I've never been in, of a house that was not mine. Bottles gathering dust in rooms we forgot existed at all. And all I remember of you in the evening, was the slow-motion way the film seemed to move. Every turn made your dress cascade, every droplet of rain was its own constellation. Built upon thousands and thousands of years before shattering on the vinyl. 


I should have taken you in my arms and never let go. I should have kissed you and told you just how fine the future was going to be. I should have killed everyone who ever told you the opposite. I should have never opened my mouth at all. I should have left the moment I saw you float down the stairs.


The ghost made of clashing patterns in the hardening amber that was time. 


I remember thinking that if there was a god, if something above us was watching us then, that he'd done at least one thing right. 


And if there wasn't, I'd just been lucky enough to see it. To see you. 


Coincidence and heaven, the blooms of rain clouds while the sun sinks through, no matter the cause, I've got a few moments remembered that will save me until the end. 

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Lexicon failed me


Smoke always trailed me


Like an atlas to lead


Your mouth to my throat


The only real difference between medicine and poison


So they say, it's in the intent, it's in the dose


And I intend to poison whatever's left of me


You can watch me collapse on the oak porch


While Saint Thomas slides his hands into my wounds


To prove to himself he wasn't wrong the first time


Language failed me, and the dose is growing


Am I such a bottomfeeder that you haven't noticed yet?


Are you allowing me to collect all your scars


So you feel there's at least someone there to catch you?


Even though a part of me wants to be the cause


Of the discolored marks on your arms


The mismatched hues of your amalgamated heart


If there is someone above, he should be grieving


I should be the one forgiving him


Because I'm lost in such dense forest


And you're the spark that refuses to catch


You're the wildfire that failed to scorch the earth


At least enough to tell me I need to go


To not hang myself from old brownstone houses


And martyr my hands for something that's never coming


Leave a note somewhere I will find it


And I'll never ask you to feel this way again


 

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Stitched up


Threaded with yarn


Mostly pieces


That aren't us


Made into one


As though we


Could be fixed


By foreign parts


Of a stranger


And yet I'm quiet


With a patchwork mouth


I can't keep closed


Even though


It knows the red


You cover yourself in


How many poems


Must a writer write


Before anyone believes


He's more than just words?


Syllables


Poor metaphors


Declarations of love


I wish you could decipher


But even then


He knows you know


And that's the part


That feels most


Like death


The part that feels


Most


Like a dream


Or rather


Waking from one


And if you're that,


A dream, a nightmare


Then steal the air


From this familiar room


And just let me,


Let me go back to sleep

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Stop, repeat, play the tape back, cut to the scene I love


When I found the low light to be as warm as the rising sun


And we stepped on each other's toes and I failed to believe


In anything that hadn't to do with you and me


But as time is wont to do, hours passed, and left me on the shoulder


Fast forward to memories I haven't yet forgotten


And we're not even close to the figures we used to be


One broken, one lost, both parties present but at tremendous cost


Maybe I'll pour another drink and meet your eyes over glass


Sing a song I wrote that was already about you and I in the past


Try to save the pieces, put this puzzle back together


Knowing that the picture on the box couldn't mend me now


Even if we could find every jigsaw part to fit


It's still just the double exposure of me apart from you


Nursing bottles all the way to the coast


And back again, without the heat of your breath so close


I'm not the thing that shattered you, not the rock nor the arrow


But I watched the avalanche play its tune in F Sharp 


While records spun mute like scorched ballerinas


What is it that I'm trying to bring into the grave with me?


A semblance of closure, maybe, or knowing I'm not just another hornet


In the swarm that pulled the skin right off your frame


Until all that remained, was a skeleton that couldn't change


And never would

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Each morning I awake to spitshine the back of my hands


And every night I dream of killing myself in foreign lands


Amongst spruce trees and juniper flowers 


The tips of my shoes scraping the buds of better plants


Craning their necks towards the sun, naked in showers


As I perpetually float above like a heavy ghost


Born to lose my way, born to meet the rope


There's telephone lines running from here to there


Beneath the silt and the muck and the mud inside me


My guts are a coastal town once the typhoon came through


Lovers floating face-down, lightly tapping the corners of buildings


As the saltwater makes a choir of forgotten islands


Maybe amongst dried brush and tumbleweed


I can swallow sand until my stomach bursts


Nothing that ends this miserable dream ever hurts


Awaking to repeat, repeat how every animal eats


While the hounds dig a hole for my whitewash bones


My skull is always smiling, even when I regret being born


Like some curse placed upon a drunken braggart 


I never asked to be brought to this place, to be torn


All I asked was to be left to die and die alone


But each morning I awake to make better plans


And every night I dream of killing myself in foreign lands

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