July 2011
1 post
May 2011
1 post
February 2011
1 post
December 2010
0 posts
November 2010
3 posts
October 2010
10 posts
July 2010
3 posts
1 tag
My hands, which are
warts, which are covered in
warts, mean the flesh reached
inward and made fresh.
There are girls and they
have names, there are people
without limbs walking through
glass. I know, of course
I know, there are parts of people
I want to touch
but can’t. Without skin
the air burns.
June 2010
1 post
YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING LOBSTER, MAN
A LOBSTER GETTING FUCKED
May 2010
6 posts
* I can’t tell you enough about the throats on the bonfire, your mascara, m, which stained my eyebrows like dye. I have leaves in quantities. You sell my toenail clippings in bulk to third world countries like your mother’s backyard, the litterbox, my mouth. Today sunburn means substance. You’re a beehive of cat hair in the...
IT'S COOL WE CAN STILL BE FRIENDS: Stopping by... →
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his…
April 2010
7 posts
The time when the temperature changes, the time
when the temperature
changes, the time when the temperature changes, the time
when the temperature
changes.
March 2010
16 posts
HOW IDENTITY CAN BE CONSTRUED THROUGH IDENTITY You my sparkled moneybag in the afternoon, you my rustic belt around a rustic jean dress, you know salt too well and water too soon. Gather those armies little flashdancing bobcat, the lotion ran out on your mummy hands and today comes with argument, another form in a list of forms getting much more flabby with every reiteration of the nude. ...
I’m quiet because the sun is about to explode like a magnet and I want it all to happen, everything: the holes in the walls, the heater expanding into morning, the bodies half-clothed and gesticulating like seizure patients on a couch too low to the ground to be normal. Let’s all grab a machete and talk about this.
Today the monster of tomorrow is growth but forgotten. Let’s feed on expensive meats culled from the great bussom of the beyond. Which means: take less taco and call in the morning. I know of monsters fake and getting faker though their bodies stay full of air. Jessie comes into rooms when dark. Through closets journeys make cloth movements and definitions of cloth become more...
Wishing to go to monster we know which monster comes. When the water turns off, tumble. Until then invest in clothes and trim hair where hair appears. Now is not the never which is promised, instead the time of monsters appears. The monsters dressed in plaid cut long paths with tall-seated bicycles and hats in furious green. Nothing stops the monsters when they bite. Instead we take pleasure...
February 2010
21 posts
