希蘭

undulating countenance, and yet again oblivion

when was it that our words became so mature?

subtle voice, subtle tension, the subtlety of how the very tips of your lips quiver

we descend from this bizarre world

nothing more to do or say, with no end, and the strangeness of that dream in which i continue to flip between the same pages

and the synapses of my frontal lobe begin their dance

that comforting rhythm will play no longer

worthless music, and worthless fashion

unfamiliar women seeking esoteric sensations

our tympanic membranes softly molested by scissors

and in that moment where our bodies were captured, our very beings leave the room to which we were once confined

and as if our treasure-boxes were turned over and emptied,

no longer do we seek to escape from singing our songs that nobody else could hear

but, you already knew of my cowardice, better than anyone i had ever known, or anyone i could ever know

our inevitable suicides that we were so ready to flee, the willingness of our self-corruption in the pursuit thereof, the midnight sound of trains passing

and how we both laughed at all their voluptuous fashions, so far removed from our own

does the howling wind make it easy to see? the effort in which it is taking me to make but a single step?

and rather than save the world, we but bided the time until it split open before us,

and we soon followed.

deluded into the belief that perhaps the act of drowning itself would be our salvation, until we could do not more than drown.

and the sound of fireworks in summer, how voices from all extant directions could be heard

how many times is it now?

that incessant beat, cacophony of melody

so obscene and lewd, how it slovenly flows and mixes

and girls of the city, forced to carry weapons

know not but fight or flight

humanity

gasping at the mere sight of the moon

feeling the teeth in my mouth which do not quite align

counting the days before another birthday

how many years has it been, or perhaps will it be?

and laughing, for without the microphone they are too weak to sing

from the heart

欝 aderphos; a happiness i can never

i wish i could tell you the answers you seek, of life and love and more, but i lack them myself

impeccably accurate songs and their spawn play inside my head as my gaze is fixed against the wall

i watch the dance of phantom spider legs

it brings me great mirth to say "oh, what wonderful and natural movements their legs have!!"

all i can understand are the things before me

none of that which is beyond or perhaps inside me

and i am so very sorry for that.

a drowning flightless bird requires wings of water!

the strands of hair binding me to my bedframe are before my eyes transmuted into semi-permeable and translucent embers

and though i wanted to save the spiders, i keep seeing them whenever i close my eyes, imposing, battle-ready

in the calm of the storm, a voice i have not one memory of ever having heard before whispers my name

and she tells me, sharply and sweetly

"write it down!"

and at once i am filled with agony. i writhe and sob and scream foreign curses into a pillow before i can do no more than ask, nay, beg, for her to tell me the answer

"what do you want me to write?", my half-mustered retort

my own pretension tells me that i am sad i cannot know the beautiful truths she wishes me to put to words, but somehow, i know this is a lie.

i know that all i wish is that i could ever capture the fleeting iridescence of a voice so maiden, by any means..

Saccharine Fetish II

Last night, tiny raccoons flooded my bed and bit me all over. Bit me? Perhaps it's more aptly put that they kissed me. It was still cold, but they were there, comforting me.

Syringes, haloperidol, blood pressure alarms, screaming.

I'm here again, in the ward.

I'm always here.

I remember the first time I came here, and afterwards writing "a part of me will always stay in that place." I've lost so many pieces now that I cannot count, nor am I certain I've any left to lose; And every time I return here, I search for those missing pieces desperately, but can never seem to find even a scant trace of them.

Ward nightmares are intolerable. It's my last night here, yet I feel as though I've still a dime left to serve on my sentence.

A nurse asked me what was wrong as I stared past the wall infront of me. I quipped "I suppose 'fear' of hospitals isn't diagnosable criteria in the DSM-V." She didn't laugh, and recited some canned, uninteresting phrase. Rest isn't worth writing.

twelve

it is now time to stand up and arise,

all the broken memories of sleep.

your coquettish nonchalance,

leaves me bewildered as i awake once more from the thrall of past time,

staining my conscious with guilt of days i cannot once more return to,

that aftertaste of bad dreams

staring into the night, to find no breathing bodies beside mine,

finding no comfort in the rhythm of breathing of neither sleeping lover nor comrade,

and the ineradicable sense of forlornity, from both the world and myself, leaves me catatonic, unable to find purpose in uttering the words i wish to speak,

under that bridge, where we all once stayed,

but only i remain, convalescing in a makeshift cot under the highway that used to be yours.

and it still is, though you will never return, i'm afraid.

Les Clôches

煙草一本の端、

灰でできている蛇のよう。

数え切れない後悔、理解されない言い訳。

あの泥塗れな部屋の壁に書いてあったセリフ、

「綺麗にする方法が無かろう」 二人笑い合い、

部屋の外にある世界が焦れったいので、

引きこもっていた私たちは

ふざけ、何でもないようなことばっかりやり、

楽な日々過ごした。

無意味な生活なのになぜか無意義ではなかった。

そう、今よりもあの頃、

遥かに意義があったと思う。

Dreadnoughts and Leukemia

for some reason the town seems as though it's alive tonight, as if it were actually breathing,

you opened the irrigation channels to your heart and though i tried to walk along the banks thereof,

i lost my way, leaving me to drift at something akin to the edge of a space occupied by accumulated trauma,

and though i could tell from seeing alone,

i had to remark thatyour face was not yours.

i wanted you to say

"this is enough,"

or perhaps

"there was nothing,"

but your words were poorly rendered composite photographs, the intent behind them as unclear as what they actually were,

"trading vegetables for fleshlights."

truthfully, deceiving others is the worst,

but hypocrite i am to think so,

playing with floating dinosaur fossils in the bathtub,

having stolen them from the museum,

and having picnics at a graveyard, insufflating heroin off of a cracked phone screen.

irascible phantasmagoria

beggars guarding the gates of heaven,

give holy water to their faux flowers. a path splits sevenfold,

the middlemost of its children razed and barren,

but is the only correct path.

unmarked graves laden not with pink petals, but neatly wrapped candies.

a coin split into two halves found inside a jacket pocket, with no knowledge of how it came to be there.

looking for your name in the corner of every daily herald,

and paying for meaningless tattoos on a whim, instead of getting the tar stains removed from my teeth,

because you always said you liked the taste of cigarettes on me.

summer, and the time capsule i could never find,

are buried somewhere, perhaps close in proximity,

but i feel i'd sooner drag that canal and return your bike

than dig another hundred holes in vain.

金の切れ目が縁の切れ目

月明かりの腕の中に

踊れば踊るほど若くなるって

どっから聞いたことがある。

そうなら月が太陽より優しいな。

untitled

walking through the moonlit city, from afar, a tune i've a memory of hearing

on the oh so lonely asphalt

a dim orange light shines

from some house a dog barks

i can hear my breathing and steps so sharply..

i can hear my heartbeat and sniffling so sharply..

the house i dashed from in sandals i can no longer see

the sound of crickets and cicadas, and from afar the sound of cars, and the sound of the wind amplified by the stillness of the night

in a weak and whispered voice my humming becomes silent tears/

for why, i wonder? that my strength has become but nought

and the midnight townside becomes like the silence of space

and the stars right above me, the melody that continues to ring out

that everything may not have a correct answer, i begin to wonder

but even if humanity was extinguished in a moment

even if so,

music cannot die.

untitled

ineffably tired,

there's a fire in the gears of my cognition

nicotine poisoning? dopamine antagonism? hands with an awful tremor

i cannot bleed this sadness away

the intrinsic need to pluck the hairs from between your eyebrows just one time more

tonight i wonder

"do all birds really die?"

black to move

goodnight!

non-contradiction ii

soft face subsumed into couch cushion

waiting for the afterimage of you,

for the taste of your words in my mouth

to subside.

"i am so unhappy."

endless soliloquies hewn in stone,

underneath the highway,

names unforgotten,

and finally, without false bravado you,

lulled me to sleep with forehead kiss,

which spoke a silent promise to me, that'd you'd be breathing right beside me,

when i awoke

untitled

sun hidden, severity of facial trim

oh what tremendous pain to be from the spittle of earthly passion forsook

how a ray of light is so quick to ruin my lovely melancholy of gray

i consider queen's pawn to d4

the treachery of it all, i am aghast!

left to my own silencing of the self

yes, no longer will my subtle motions dance in their intrepid ways,

but in the style of tardive dyskinesia

i take a small white pill to feel better, to feel nothing.

thienobenzodiazepine

i too will join them,

so addicted to their technicolor tragedies and freudian fantasies

untitled

flowers are my friends

they've always a cheerful ear to lend

i was crestfallen to see the spriteful figure of a lily in book fold

"gods," i exclaimed, "why be it so!"

but, said the flower to i

"were i not, i'd have never met your eyes."