Inside the body there is not blood but a thousand sheets of paper in confetti bits on each of which there is written a reason to live

A late night doodle to keep my heart in my chest and this textbook out of my lap

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True Love is as Pure as a Cuckold’s Kiss

true love is only real in fiction

and even then it’s usually fake

sometimes I have the energy to love you forever

until that emotion mounts in height like a terrible Pompeii

and I wanna explode

but nothing ever happens

a silent eruption

an invisible collapse

I bury the thought beside all the other empty graves I’ve dug

then I spend antic weeks hating you

trying to hide from your smile

as full of disgust as I was of love

until I have to dig a grave for that too

so tourists from the future

can’t come ogle my tragedies

Tomorrow is Sick of You Salacious Voyeurs

 

tomorrow is a errant delusion

a terrible addiction

we can’t shake

a cold we can’t break

a lover we can’t escape

sir you’re making a scene

they scream

because I’m holding the nipple hair of tomorrow

and I know it’s fairy floss not spider’s silk

so I bite bite bite

until my teeth rot,

on that candy

you can’t binge on

like you did when you were young

The Highway Is It’s Own Destiny—When We’re All Gone There’ll Be Nothing Left But Road. Bury Me Under The Overpass With My Name Written In Aerosol And A Bloody Tissue On My Bitumen Tombstone.

We’re not right for each other

We’re right in the line of the machine

Rolling on

Down that dusty highway M8

Everyday

Until there’s nothing left behind the stealth-screen of dust

But a closed alley

That goes everywhere

 

29/12/17


Photo by Denys Nevozhai on Unsplash