To Have Met Her

Why, how quickly time did aggress,
With life escaping in each exhalation,
Bedridden, I gaze into her mournful eyes
My bones, my body, once faithful, now aching,
Feel far too foreign, as though
They were not mine own.

Too far didst we irate wayfarers daringly venture,
Far too late, in these revered hissing storybooks,
Were we thoroughly told, facetiously disvalued
By the most cruel and callous gods you so reverently adored.

Had we been found just a wee bit earlier, ‘twould have easily been
Thine fantasy writ in solid fanes of exquisite blues and golds,
But, instead, here, upon these uncertainties do we brood,
Clucking our tongues in our evaluated commitments.

Wouldst time allow me to digress
Within the limited preciousness with thee,
Within these fictitiously disjointed reveries.

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She Intervenes

“Don’t delude yourself into thinking
That you’re not at fault.”, she’s at the cusp.
“You keep saying I’m the only one
Who carries the burden of blame,
Because she did nothing wrong.”, blindly she retaliates.
“She’s just as wrong.” She repeats herself
For the seventh time, “But your shit smells just as strong.”
“But she,
But she,
But she, she’s fucking crazy in the goddamned brain.”,
Quickly, he points out the spaces she took giant dookies,
He can’t acknowledge the fact
That he’s diarrhea-ed all over the place.
“Your argument is that she is a child,
But your methods are the same. You reciprocate.
There are always better ways.”, she pointedly says.
“So it’s okay when she does it,
But when I do it, suddenly, I’m the villain?
What is this communism?”
She ignores the last comment,
Responds, “I never said it was okay,
My point has been that you, her, and I
Bear the responsibility of this situation.”
“Yeah OkAy, Okay. It’s all my fault.
She did nothing wrong.”, she readily turns away.
“You think that this is the ultimate form of an argument,
You think you’re winning by trying to elevate your position
By pompously pretending to agree. But what you are doing
Just shows you can’t be reasoned with,
That you just don’t want to listen,
But all you have to do is look,
Can you just poop in the toilet please?”

Documentations shatter previously held beliefs.
He’s apologetic, but fate has the situation escalating,
She escapes, while laying stiffly in bed, the neighbors complain,
While they continue flinging each other’s belongings
While airing their dirty laundry.
While she thinks about how she might be unable
To make her promise a reality.

“Shut the fuck up,
Fucking embarrassing,
The neighbors went as far as to ring the door bell
But you guys are fucking arguing still.
Fucking embarrassing.”

Altered

Sleeping realities are swept underneath
Torn up beds of forgoed meetings
In the severity of apparition’s appearances.

Just another stranger’s glance,
Happenstances of planted friendships
Casting away flourishing romances by fate’s
Reckoning by it’s unduly deck hands,
Within repugnant scenes where
They would have been unseen.

The man of nonexistential seasoned love
Tossed away by the sides of the unwanted

Where they questioned
Their loves and tangibilities.

We Would

Austerely bare, we’d lay
In wait, fingers barely brushing
Our creator’s extended hand.

Oh, how we’d struggle to
Even breathe these words
Into parses of acceptable
Offerings, humbly knelt
In your reassembly
In the unmistakable likeness
Of a master sculptor,
Unworthy of your life
Embalming palms.

In which earthen world could
Our words ever hope to reach
Your indescribable coalition
Amassed in the gravity
Of our time and space, tossed
Into the ever deepening divide
Antagonizing our senseless lives
In each searing word, lit as fuck.

In the truest time we’d abide,
As these hieroglyphic pleas,
Inexplicably existed
Only by the skins
Of our teeth,
Were then nipped
At budded ends;

Each and every
Eye opened birth portending
Inescapable heights
In our stories retold
In poinsettia forms.


He and I

He makes empty promises
While his words
Wile away and say differently.

He believed that he’d give up anything
For love; almost anything.

Then, as fate would have it,
The day came
When he’d have to face
His true reality.

That day, he threw away
What he swore he’d cherish
Beneath the sycamore tree.

That was the day I threw away
Those fuzzy things called love
To preserve myself.

How I can be; I know,
But he,
He didn’t.


Ill Clarity

She roams through deserted streets, on the lookout for raw materials.
Stumbling upon glimmering bodies of water, she
Stopped to read tomes of artifices written by a mystic,
While she wore her shit smeared spectacles.

Reciting a paragraph, she indirectly opened a dimension beneath her.
Perhaps ‘twas fortune a girl erred dictation,
For had she breathed
The full breadth of passage,
Surely she’d have been stationed
Much deeper in the mystique.

Showy words claiming, “all that glitters is gold.” Actionable
Constructs of clamoring souls lie posed in consequential remedies,
Reliving the reciprocal standard tedium of incessant forgetteries.


Thinking Too Much

Mutated cellular
Networks; disconnected
Rotating pulsars.
Novel perceptions
Within alternative
Timelines; withheld.

The wise
Warn away
Psychotic crazes;
Caffeinated paranoias,
Measured, counted, timed,
Noisily direct static arrays.

Love’s idiosyncrasies: a gain.

Persistencies estranged,
Happenstances of ill-fates;
Late teal falls, lifted
From the ill conceived
For the sake of fantasies.

Still,
He resided
Within the depths,
Standing in their place.