disposable

the space between my eyes or legs. so he would kiss her head and run broken fingers through her hair. stringy, shiny, and strung out across bedspreads i would never pick out. baby, it's a boring season. this time of year brings out the worst decision making processes, don't pretend, make a fashion statement out of this spoiled story, recalling hours prior.

champagne festivals. lovely and or detestable. far from cumming, black dress second skins up in flames with half cigarette illuminated shame.

you caught me.
i got caught up.

whichever your preference fancies.

not another word left to comprehend. I'll send these thoughts snail mail next time.
I'm alone again, weekend blues between the red amplified hues screaming greens in my eyes float through the heavy smoke i chain my lips to. sly moves lend themselves towards ceiling fans exasperating disguises i fathom lend me another hour or two here. i know we both know something about trust, and fear, and time i weigh against drinks i pour down my throat, in the wee morning hours. sleeping on wooden nails,

face down with this disease. sad and slow, and of course, unrequited.
hold me down.

 really. fuck it to smithereens.

moths v butterflies, but with a lot more #s.

i scribbled ten numbers on my forearm. from the driver seat of a ninety-nine tracker to five fingers pushing twenty-five pieces of tin into payphone slots...foolishly awaiting conversations lost through seventeen-hundred plus mile distances to a cold sphere of a receiver on one ear that equates to nothing more than hearing a generic voiceless voice mail recording. oh dear, it appears as if i shouldn't adhere to these numerous words you hurl at me with such absoluteness and sincerity.

we slow down. remembering how this was. and i unwillingly slosh through twenty-four to forty-eighty hour life spanned bugs to come back here, a place close enough to home, but without the connotations one's abode should hold.


six foot three, twenty three years old, and 3 years deep in me, my insides, and my faded memory.

our actions have always equated to reckless at worst, and hasty at best. with a death before dishonor crest tattooed, above his heart, or where i assume one would reside, on his chest, i make a request for a guarantee that he thoughtlessly agrees to to appease my upsetting worries. per chance it will be different.

a false Floridian phonied-fable i break my spine to lament over.



crimson blood
and fucking

four leaf clovers.

where?

NOT as a verb, it only pretended.

I faintly remember May something back two years ago. I remember an angry drive down M-59, always having to drive way too damn far to reach anything worthwhile. I remember the introductions and my hesitation to ever speak your name, and the drinks we poured down our throats and the memories I wish weren't so rude and that I would have allowed them to be more than they are forever, at that point. I wish I watched more intently the way your lips turned to smiles and the way your eyes caught mine, but my fingers were bleached white, and peroxide was all too familiar that early summer. And I just made that trip back up to Michigan from roundabouts near your pseudo-more-than-recent-hometown, but not knowing why the hell I was back here, and not knowing you'd been there all the damn fucking while. The way your touch came close to blistering my pores, and the smell of you that lingered in my hair and clothes for days, since I didn't care much for appearances, not to negate that's changed today. Not the superfluous things, those are just that. Superfluous, at best, and better left at the back of my mindset.

He stood six foot three in a tree-covered driveway I always got lost trying to reach. I found his number from years ago, tattooed on little pieces of paper that wrinkled their way into places I forgot I even knew about. That number no longer works, and the new digits make even less sense. The area code is jumbled the fuck around, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of miles drowned the fuck down south.

I played finders keeper with that boy, in grocery aisles and behind creaky doors. But I found something I couldn't keep, and we both lost more than clothes in that exchange, but not for another numerous amount of months before we realized what really occurred. And now today? isn't a brand new start, and I'm wishing to go back to a time I tried so hard to disintegrate into little remnants that could never touch each other again, not in a way that made sense, not in a way I'd have to do something other than pretend, not in a way I'd have to remember those days, but more the nights. But now I wish so Hard I could go back. So it would be us, and we would be what we were suppose to be, even though I tried so hard to NOT all of it.

the aegis of a crude white front porch

it was a minivan ride to gas-stations doing the unthinkable, handing out free cigarette samples, with balls of menthol to tinker between my fingers. and i met you there, dressed in a pair of camouflage cut off trousers, with a wife-beater to match. i tried to nap on towel rags in a dirty garage, locked behind broken doors, with oil-stains on the floor. was met with speaker phone conversations with a girl drenched in glitter and sequined attire. the sequence of a night i never met with accomplishment. an abysmal view from the back lawn sitting on the lap of someone i spoke nothing at, except to refute the insults to my intelligence of sunsets being beautiful in such deplorable settings.

that white porch since then, has faded and corroded even more, that i doubt its hue is even white, or any color close to that. spider-bugs galore hugged every nook and crevice of that 12 by 12 foot entrance to a hard to break into with credit cards and booby pins shabby-ass front door.

windows defeated with dirty sheets; not good enough. stuck with words on my tongue that didn't fall off with loud enough sounds. taming lamp shade light to spark the soot you'd soon time with tight hourglass casket-shaded shapes on your bedroom wall. my least favorite part of planning these sorts of disasters; asking masterminded questions with responses heeding no answers.

that divorcee watched with eager eyes as i carefully placed earnest kisses on the sweetest pornographic pieces of his penis with nonsensical smiles proposing meanings. i'm only wishing.. teasing myself, with meaningless visits.

pyromania ensues insurance on green and blue eyes, as they pass.
another ex, but certainly not my last.

abandonment + misplaced attention = dancing around naive ambitions.

pressing rewind and fast forward that flight back home, but it feels nothing like home at all... and on the other side of the map, fucking flipped upside down, where i tend to skitter-scatter every now and again.

an ex flirts alone with loneliness, patronizing my validated sorrow caused by actions and lewd words. his life, well, it seems to be he's writing prose about his troubled parasitic paradise, the one i fled from, months ago. he seems to assume i am asking to be constrained (again) by the words he speaks and the words long ago said, put on repeat, as if they could possibly alter the sake of today, or someday soon.


i stumble across the dreary sighs i can't believe my throat would allow. such a travesty. and right before these droopy big-city sleep stolen eyes. sweating coffee through pores you enthralled and pushed sweat through, thousands of miles before i made it back home, and I'm not home even now. alas you're more misplaced on these states, than i. and that, my dear, is a feat, even i have bowed my head at with defeat.

five cigarettes i run with and a pocket full of lint, thinking of a pint of booze to drown our names in like alphabet soup that i despise. neverthefuckingless adoration becomes present at these words that you speak, and i try my damnedest to think only of the regrets.




five cigarettes deep and a one way ticket,
he speaks.

what a waste of Antabuse

when i dive back down and catch a grip i can keep, it'll render me able to hold my inhibitions between shut lips. bipolar piano keys exemplify his and hers quips, but mine will be quiet, leaving silent weight on your shoulder blades. i broke these discs of threadbare bones like steps i fell down, encased in a shattered spine. with all the regrets and wishes and hopes i hold so dear, dead pounds, making make-believe meaning out of voids.

the coarse carpet floor, binds my feet to a location I'd much rather leave. but these woven woolen blankets speak of ocean sea-salt availabilities, and the cavity between myself and them are leagues wide and in length. a sweeter view flourishes of love, i swear it does. i swear the weather makes sanity attainable for longer periods and more encompassed durations. and i swear i wont ever swear again, not promises i can't keep and words of trust i can't lend as more than breath and noise.

18 days, more than 18 days ago, and by this point, I've honestly just lost count. and able this and feasible that, were words i spoke as vows, but the words just seemed to laugh back. but they tattoo my memory and sting of alcohol and arsenic, the best methodology of how-to-forget. sparked matches and drives to airlines, tickets never bought, gasoline far from pumped, letters never sent, and promises never kept...

John Walker never intended such Brash Correlations.

oh Sweetheart, Take my Love. Choke on Animated Exhales. Spin me 'round on Uncushioned computer chairs and Fairytales. Hidden behind car seats, railroad tracks, and Veils. Sexy Sonnets Rehearsed softly off the Trail of your Tongue, Slowly spoken like Snails.

your cologne Matches the matches in your pocket Dying to Strike a Stinging in my eye. Lingering of sulfur and phosphorous Escaping steadfast for the night sky. a Stubborn Stare between the Concrete beneath our feet, and those Repeating Lyrics in my Mind. you've yet to Conceive something Scathed with that smell of Suicide, and More Willing to Assume it's a Silly Coincidence we've both shared at some point in our Lives.



Question this. Question her. Question him. Question something that isn't even a Tangible Kiss.

Kiss it and Ask,



"What's this?"