Though symphony plays
and the snowdens of yesteryear fade
through small packets too tiny to see
the tiny pinprick in my bowels
gives me pause, though unrealistic.
The trees and bushes of spleen,
of surity –
remain their welcome dearth of flower.
They beckon with the promise of fruit after precious care-
and yet the gardener dozes.
in trying to question a smile,
there are made pistoning,
and why are girth and breadth of my neighbors field
and milk-white lenses so clouded-
perhaps, as you collapse, weak, you think:
“it’s been too long for regret”
“i’m more now”
and as long as either of those are true
you’ve done well.
Though relentless, and pressing more force than the seasons
i find myself duplicating the fumbling crawl
that lead to blank years.
god himself points
at the flaws i have yet to efficiently name
and the words of the deity sing deafening tones in this soft amber light
upon reflection, and listening to the half-cocked droning,
circumstance’s absence creates a vacuum
directly beneath my fidgeting heart.
and you’re right.
and you don’t have to think of me,
and i don’t want you to see me this way
and you’re right.
the glory that you find in me
sepia tones do a good enough job
of fixing our breath in place
and i can taste the anguish you hide yet
though i will suffer like priam’s daughter
there are parts of me that try
but who fall ever further into the sludge on my shoulders.
i miss you so badly
is that why my brain feels like it has fused together?
or is it because i’ve been idle too long?
i know only this anymore:
i’m just wasting time.
and none should be wasted on me.
bricks and the stuff in between
angry fetid turgid bland
the faces though,
as they spread across this myopic sea
wouldn’t dare be caught listless!
it’s been years now
but where do i start
and when am i finished?
your violet trembling peach skin
that recalls drowning for the only second it’s pleasant-
it yearns to tremble for nobody in particular-
how this, banal, unbecoming, disillusioned
is what i’m supposed to yearn for
instead of clean proofs, こもれびー *
i am posed against the monolith of hours
the sapient judge of my worth,
and excuses are, as expected, lacking.
but why supplication to this unimpressed god?
stars, though fragile and constant,
really only seem to exist for half a day.
this room, いらないものだらけだ。**
my head, heavy with syrup that won’t slosh.
my heart, filled as it is, spiteful of a head who wont share all the pancakes it so obviously has.
the valve just shuts off half way through anymore.
i don’t know how to reset the timer or anything.
it’s real fuckin’ annoying.
at least we can have lunch tomorrow.
*-(komorebi – the light which filters through trees)
**-(iranai mono darake da – filled only with things i do not need)
in the hot and choking advance
of decisions incalculable and apathetic
utility comes to a sludgy stop.
in days where god dies
and those structures we’ve rested our thoughts on
leak out of our ears,
will you accompany me
to a beach-side sunrise
where it’s too cold, and your stomach hurts?
your normally smiling face may be made stern
confronting so much light-
and perhaps you’ll retreat into me.
what good are pearls, once strung?
with the myopic tremble
sprung from conjunctions
undulating in warm turns
and swimming down my throat like antimony,
let’s be frank
your eyelids will mark passionate calculus
in the framing and allure of paroxysm
(you can call it that)
but the limitless bounds of tomorrow
still won’t really matter much.
and the black of your eyeliner twisting
gnawing at the coals glowing calmly
in the center of your chest,
the ochre tones of your walls
the same as your un-seamed skin
how fast, i wonder, is 10 Hertz?
and does that really matter?
when’s 2 and two?
in a pink and fluffy chain of deuterium
active conglomerations of capitalism
smackin’ greenies ‘cross the ol’ Width times Height
think love is nothing!
but isn’t it nicer
you and me sitting here
drinking weevil poison
and lamenting how not dead we are?
the dream of a dream you can’t wake up from!
i don’t like those little things they give you
when you don’t make small talk correctly
little tiny glass beads
useless little things
why can’t you and i lift up above the clouds
and the salty stacks of meat in expensive eyewear
trying to look like expensive eyewear
will cook like zucchini
didn’t you say something to the effect
that inside man there is a wandering child
and inside the wandering child is
a grief-stricken smile, tired, resigned eyes?
despite it all
maybe because of it all
no, definitely because of it all
otherwise what is there–
maybe this is what the psychopath thinks
when he tries on people like hats
on cloudy, boring, midwestern days
when multiplication tables have lost their charm…
tooku ni tonderu tte –
doushite naiteruno, kloka?
atashi kitto –
midori fuku wo kiteiru hito
kyo ha takusan aru –
minna shinpai saseta mitai-
この カプセル は
kono kapuseru ha
atatakai kimochi ii
shikyuu no naka
kloka, mata neー
nidoto akanai tobira ga shimaru
hoshi ni natta no ken, enen ni tondeimasu.
Когда мужчина умирает
С ним исчезает всё:
Его первый снег,
Его первый поцелуй,
Его первая драка –
Young and of spritely nature, you are now aware of the existence of a milk-skinned maiden, clad in the armor of spring’s flourish.
important words, words that leave the ever-abstruse machinations of time jittering and unsure, escape with tense surety.
as important as the works of the heart of echo herself, and less taciturn, perhaps.
though i am useless
love me anyway
and this sadness is what love is –
though we retire to clover fields
chastise me for meandering too often
and this joy is what love is –
my brother, allow just this of a soul perhaps too tempted to stare ahead blithely –
enjoy all of this. always remember every single thing.
the coasting words that float past
the world which only hints at repose:
you look sleepily forward, as though underneath
the symetric clicking which keeps us plodding along
tearing through memories, shearing away hopes
those things we would never forget, but which remain untouched
because of softly dappling streaks
of well-shampooed hair
what is regret if we can’t feel it?
and where will the righteous die?
in dreams we may never wake from –
where time has stopped without being so polite
as to leave drops of dew behind
breathing now slightly more labored –
considering whether anne sexton knows yet now
and why decision has in its reptilian hands
a threatening blade –
a snarling cudgel –
to lie here at night
and hope i could watch you breathe
and hold you in our sacred position.
but what good is hope without action?
what good is decision without forethought?
what good are we by ourselves?
nonetheless we are the glance of a stranger in the car of a foreign subway,
but i remember the glance all too vividly.
pretty lace, and somber-delicate,
the prideful work of uninspired hands,
count the death of chronos’ teaching
with orders of $7 coffees.
and yet, i find still,
your greasy face, your smug look, your flaunting dowry,
and i tremble, weakened by a moment’s alacrity,
that i should have ever fawned for sicker milks-
how direly i want to rise up and be
the lotus from mud, or at least moss from tree,
and how pertinently your face doth gaze through,
my myopic transfixion, my death liquours-
yours, i can only imagine,
is the noonday walk down flowering oaken street-
for cigarettes and a pregnancy test.