(no subject)
sweet escapism
Every dizzying height
every deep calm breath
is a disgrace from truth

the reality is the coldness in which a lover leaves
wordless and frozen

soup kettles for one
appetite and lust are emptied out in a can

drawn up, though, are hollow echoes of the humour
that comes from that facade
the dark jokes
and drawn brows
buxom legs fitted with kittened heels

serving for one
one block of release
one stock pile of misery and fear and phobia
one dazzling stage glittered with sage and stoned

and we're all afraid of the fall.

(no subject)
sweet escapism
Having to face the myriad spirits
begging the violence, a yawn
throwing crispness shades that cast

give yourself a light to touch
some smoldering nothing to suckle
and melodic aortic strung'd

april is rooted, hairless
the sun hides in eyes browned with tanning
hiding 'neath the sores of skin

Get Me Out Of This Cycle Of Ash
and the dramatics
the kibbutz welcomed, and torn in

All Life Centers On a Point
and spirals round
the spirits never settle
and cannot hold the cold, wet, beautiful ground.

do do doooo do dooo
sweet escapism
All the la la's
that could be composed
as a folk, a ballad sung low
and ripe

sweet persimmon
thick skins counted by crates
were all just shipped away from you
la la

the world is just me and you
under a mangrove
but you'd go still
drown'd in the cold river

la la la dreams coming true
blue face orange shining in the mangrove
smells to lessen the pain
of the composure i'd lost
the deadest time
when you slipped away.

(no subject)
sweet escapism
Shame of self to put forth
to the world more of its venom
leached out
toxic turned neuron

Love is not shame.

To be afraid
to not understand
so much to be
misunderstood, and always
under a greater
more careless footprint.

I'd go away for a time
and make morose.

Oh yes, other things
filter beauty as I watch and listen
filling face with sweets and
dewy berry.

So much to have shame for
the ignorance
the apathy

and you?

for love?

And so,
tongues screeching to
tear apart bits of my flesh
were it not for my lover, instead.

The ways were there, all the imprints of
quick love, quick cum, dirty thoughts -
or all the things we, carelessly in self and shame
try to hide away between
particles of dust moaning and grey.

I found them
I sat there and waited my lifetime for
the flesh to rot and bear
something fresh
and untouched

the putrid becomes as sweet as spring rain
the intimations of affairs.

(no subject)
sweet escapism
Water is moving around
rippling softly in the foreground
and in my brain is rubble
drying slowly away, hardened.

you just flat it
sweet escapism
Bindings bindings
of all sorts of mindings
ever there was a singular
occurance was
super seeded
in all sorts of junipers

Occular and superlatives
sought eye won and taught
winsome and fang
and had a support
of a movement or five.

So rest did wind down
beset and moan drowned
in all the angelic hair
binding between
and the eyes locked on, gravely.

(no subject)
sweet escapism
Fine colors, those roused
fat boiling with flo'r

Objections heard and knocking against
the good 'ole

"Why suffer this torment?"

to replies

"castrate the ego and forget
we all said it"

and they all felt it, ground up finely

attuned to the dissuasion of

having any sort of melange
blessed roused
blessed roux
to widen the hour.

(no subject)
sweet escapism
Black eyes

pickled in the sky

(no subject)
sweet escapism
Gullible is a sinking pit
where your biggest smiles become your weakness

then grin and bare-filmed the teeth
used to hiss and fowl the glare
of shiny, hazel eyes.

Some are pupils retracted into a turned point
sand and follow misshapen step

another pitcher shattered
cracked and put back
with resignations
something to fear, things too harsh to escape


merely the one letting them know.

(no subject)
sweet escapism
I could just write all day

the gibberish that she says

the cancer and garbled tones and

where the kids are

the hums and melodies are convivial

mostly nonsensical.

I no longer have a microwave

it was smashed and pleaded and left out in

frost and dust

houses all rowed up like something

very ordinary

wondering, automatically

what to do next

and all the circles that whirl through

and the pleading of ideas to

show through


So let's get a show of those

weathered fingers dressed with

sterile words

so the bite doesn't kill them.

Brains are just dull medium

sized according to what we've fed


and somewhere in a house crowded on a street

piled with dust and frost

and broken microwaves

are the abbreviations




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