oscars

come get the new remove
clean like shadows, from wall
to wall,
in made-up eyes and glib lips proved
the next year's echoes
from down the hall.

revenge

SWEET RAGE sustains me, crisp from the lick of
silent flames that drip black from sieves of steel and flesh
and renew the force of my contempt.

for the piddling price of a quiet corner
are Prometheuses finally free,
gleefully indulging their lust for fantasy
and violent visions chiefly wherein
more miserable rubes fall from and under
the crumbling towers of
their own ruin.

sleep lightly by your lies to spend
on days where loose tongues betray
their whims, flaunting vice and all your sins
before they find their refuse bins as fuel for future retribution.

m-ness

a vague, swirling depiction
of slow motion dying in a smile
crooked so beautifully, all
tucked into the corner of its cheeks snugly,
wonderfully wrapped up and
all in saddest commercial ever,
which
almost whispered the colors it
loomed around the shadows of the room
to sink the walls with differing rays
and bless us all with
natural eyes to blink
and simply drink it in for days

curling misery, i steep the
slow synch of my sleeping brain in
curves and words that wrap my feet and
bind my sides in splitting refrains, like toothy laughter
conjured up with fences and shrubs, dimly lighting,
spreading on these sheets and streets like rusted cargo trains
in heat,
so i can feel the back of my teeth
and slowly go insane.

ulcer juice my calves
cry out from behind straw fences, boarded in
with ceilings flocked by photojournals,
eyes so sober, stomach curdles,
breaking throats with coughing fits
and steaming wet by noontime.

spell

i tried a write but
no moment comes, no intricate truths
or doughy love to conjure up,
no rhythmic swaths to qualify
and cross-examined dissects
to defy. rain my monday night
in fading dreams,
and crispy eves to slide through
interruptions croaking,
shuttered veins--
in breath my faces memories to shape
and saliva running down their necks. make leaves and brush aside,
blue jean eyes that make my future skin crawl
and my wrists tremble.
the reaped rewards of self-respect,
misted greens to brown in weeks
go by,
so i'll be twenty fourteen,
and sleeping nights to lie.

polis

who knew? that you, she said,
can get sick
 /w me to kill
too
the rainy sat.s
i watch run by in puddle drips
till things get dry--
or sick to die.
tonight, besides,
in shallow waters and lights--
i'll have flashbacks in front of these
weekday dreams, from when we
hit-the-bars-in-style like
quick flips through shiny magazines.

rushing before the fall of the morning,
edging glances to count the balance,
blue versus orange encroaching
on the borders of punctual and late, laid out clearly
like secrets of the night before
and like the transparent actions of
broken machines whose only motions
mimic the magic of a previous thousand times' returns