breadcrumbs and maps

[breadcrumbsandmaps]

[breadcrumbsandmaps]

giggling and rattlesnakes

i fall out of solution, precipitating as a collection. discomfort and unease follows. anxious rattlesnakes hiss hauntings and inoculate innocuous innocence with venom and bile. a hex falls and movement is timid. a moment of being internally hyper-focused, while simultaneously being externally hypo-focused, obscures communications. elders react without hesitation. stubborn denial. or stubborn defiance. they can leave me to die. i’m not going to die. interrogations, needles, salts, and fluids. diagnosis and interventions. dehydration and stage fright. giggling and rattlesnakes. eventually, i will pass. or dissolve. and resolve. will i be a recurrent fuck? i’m a dedication. a monolithiasis. i am the manifestation of plate tectonics and continental drift.

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autobiography, PART TWO: anointed with sap

on the rose, an ugly eclipse finds itself in me. anointed with sap and intoxicated with electricity, my outlines are a chalk aura that screams in pulses of color. flowered with burs and barbs, i swoon over the cursed haze that is charmed out of my eyes like a fucking snake. experimenting with lavender, i am consecrated; yet, i never had the clay to sculpt a thought.

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a quiet siren

this romance is caffeinated with the drive of a wasp. nectar bleeds from the corners of your mouth as a quiet siren calls and seduces my pulse. our feverish lustings strike a match, signaling libidinal mirages to carve deserts as sulfuric glaciers, unforgiving in their pursuits, gnash their teeth. the crests and troughs of the lips flow rhythmically, speaking of change as they do what they have always done. over time, they seem to make things more fine and these things get put behind glass to use as a measurement and a collection of memory. fire swarms about us like a collective aura, channeling the saccharine castings through our veins with the effect of two waves crashing. it’s all in the language.

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the cinders were our costumes

quivering and shaking, isn’t this the aching of everything? remember when the cinders were our costumes? we left many hints. ‘cause we knew that the sisters were our guardians; they torched themselves clean. now we’re in the cities made of cobwebs, soaked in gasoline, with footprints tracing soot and pacing spirals. we don’t wear those shoes. lifted, without sending spinal vibrations, we recede into the nooks where those vibrations can never be. i left it in the aftermath. with toes curled and teeth gnawing, you’ll be lost in the soft bite.

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the severed

buried in dust, i had to rearrange my whispers. usually spirals were the trend and, in most cases, went clockwise. this brain isn’t a closed off cave and i am wanted. it’s a knowledge that burns like sulfur to which only the severed can attest to. as an apple, i spend my time exaggerating my shine, hiding the worms at my core. this apple pumps blood with hints in the chamber. remaining silent, i tap my toes to a sloshing sea of murmurs. my comfort zone is a calcified atmosphere and, like the shedding of skin, it crumbles as I grow and climb out. i’ll be the unwavering anti-ghost. i am incompletely dead, playing a pipe like the beleaguered acrobat, predisposed to dusty headaches and milky knowings.

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autobiography, PART ONE: rust-red in mood

this is a fable, impregnated with tellings. there’s dirt underneath, amorously weathered, and plate tectonics on the inside, mulled over and bleached. weathered in past tense and rust-red in mood, the temperature’s quiverings guide my gait and i breath rather well. in ink, i’m a vine, seeking orchards to fill vessels with venom and flames. i’ve cast my resonance with a celestial cadence and with the dispersion of being, acclimate to my fabled marrow.

as a worm, i turn and meet the elder’s bones i turn the dirt to soil and the minerals to gold

naively crossing fingers, my eye’s apple sings as i fold in dirt.

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porcupine dilemma

weary and worn out, our tiptoe musings are captured in thought bubbles with the diction weighing emphasis on fleetings and migrations. as told, a grizzly ink filled quill marks the spines for mixing jigs. my tendrils spiral counterclockwise, intertwining their spindles like the clasping of canonized hands. rough and gray, a gruesome emission of profane amour entrenches us in a shuffling. a lake, the frozen dance floor, has calcified to conceal a basin of electricity and sinew that drowns projections, fermenting anxieties and forging tectonic plates over an anvil, the hands with teeth at their fingertips. a porcupine dilemma feeds flirtation like a bellows and a sweet spot is revealed. First, you create a motion. Starting in the dark, feel around, antennae stretching.

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a spectrum of dust

they applied their warpaint across each other’s faces with fingers splayed, like it was a gift. their eyes were blood-fire coal and their breath was serpentine. in these moments, one could sense that the winds carried a caustic foretelling made up of little disconnected pinpricks. those countless little pieces never felt anything. as the edges crack, a spectrum of dust wisps across the synapse between their faces and the message is received: you turned it against you in your casual combat against it. the flowers suicidally called “recount!” until they were all gone. s/he loves me not. the trees understood that things weren’t so black and white. s/he loves me. their plastered faces elicited a disconnect. have you ever felt as though you were swimming beneath yourself? the utilization of forgotten shards of former vessels that have been smoothed out by the briny tides as they shy away amongst clock-countings enables them to reposition their pineal tendencies. there is motion.

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test

This is an aromatic fixture struggling to cope with benign acquaintances on an intoxication plateau. Visionaries contemplate flowering egos amidst the tremblings of youth stained memories. After all, the ever so eloquent reaping machine offers nothing less than an exposition into the harrowing faults imbued into the milky hauntings of an uneducated past. This is a horrific disservice to the vibrations that make up everything, including math and time. There has never been a sound so silent and there can never be. It’s like blood flow: a carrier of exchanges. Having slept so soundly, the eves that hover over the gardens direct all the elixirs necessary directly towards the homes of the dwelling insects and their pointed accusations against nature.

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acres of gentian

my dialect is a rube goldberg machine with a voracious whimsy, likened to an itch with a pervasive radio signal that alerts the anchors and engines-the halos and horns-to seed themselves with rust and soot. underlying threads are inescapable by choice because they’re fun and saccharine, yet a bale of heavy feathers allows for the flowering of a lineage with a luster that can’t be lost. blood-fire coal acts as a crystal ball for voyeurs seeking to unravel and swell beyond the acres of gentian, where hailstorms and thorns are hallowed for their biting affect and carnal valence, to an atmosphere where a haze dissipates and a clarity scatters light in all the right directions. the aforementioned elements are not dead ghosts, lost and forgotten, but are incorporated into this refined atmosphere as part of the latticework of its infrastructure. the rust and the soot act as vehicles for the amplification of the luster and, fuck, will it shine.

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groundwater and fables

this forum is quite the lifted lucidity, extracted from a stormy sound. static, like a terror with bending nerves that keep roots gripping fist-fulls of dirt. sweat generates clay and there’s an animation that ghosts a story stored in aquifers. wishes ordain the groundwater and fables are hoisted out of wells via pulley systems. the purity of uncertainty is unfucked ambiguity. this is a drive, calling for the contamination of entropy through art and science. With footprints tracing soot and pacing spirals, we don’t wear those shoes. curb your thirst with miscible hopes because when the sky cracks, this forum will be a slay-scape, guiding tracks via word of mouth through unknowns and viscous electricity.

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cherry stained and suspended

It’s not true. I have only one scattered thought pattern. It recedes when I imagine myself secret cleansing. So I rot for fun, along, yet not quite done. The scenery, it fades like a thought that you thought on a daydream. Should have written it down. Now I know that this place is an unlocked time capsule. Full of shit. We scurry and chase old reflections. We look at old photographs and believe that we’re looking at mirrors. I am me. That’s not me anymore, I am me now. Cherry stained and suspended at dusk in a cocoon. No humidity. I could fall asleep. So I shift my weight and I swing like a child. Lightening bugs guide me to lost lullabies and I am eaten alive by fire. Who needs blood anyway?

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an island and a vessel

there’s a wax fountain that’s fading and a silhouette that’s waning like a painting that is hanging in a museum displaying little tiny bits and pieces a collection of ideas rings like bells attached to strings all tangled up in everything and she said and she said

//do not, darling, try to make this wonderful do not, darling, try to make this wonderful//

an open letter to the wind we’ve thrown our caution, now begin to tell those stories that will lift the milk and honey that’s within all of the crevices and cracks drawn by the makers of the maps to find those ancients split in half that caution thrown can’t be thrown back and she said and she said

 //

the fingertips of those spinning circles mixed up homes another chamber overflows and paints a story that is told about an island and a vessel filled with letters unaddressed they’ll find some comfort in the stress untying knots and making beds and she said and she said

 //

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dry cement

the dogs are tame the windowframes frame portraits that you cannot hang the lines drawn in the sediment form sentimental elements and I can tell which ones were spent initials in the dry cement the faucet drips like fingertips you dipped in paint to color with

//a punk kid lost his soul vitamins and minerals an educated guess, at best, will knock down barriers because it’s raw and real and locked up in a drawer I guess it’s all up to the lost kids, yeah, but they don’t give a shit//

It’s understood the masochist is masked in his environment and powdered wings a shroud for kings attracted to the light in things and this is what they said to me, “your death was so empowering cause now the orb you’re living in absorbs and filters out what’s real”

//

/*/I know it’s wrong to love what’s gone I’ll put it all in my reservoir/*/

the structure’s built just like a quilt with patches of your past in it the lozenger you lost in your attempts to find a soothing cure reminds me of a ball of twine and all of my and all of my and all of my attempts to find a tangled mess from which to climb

//

/*/

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death is an apple eater

I’m a dead ghost. Forgotten. Self haunted. A vain act of conceited masturbation. Death is an apple eater. A worm. An alchemist. The sky has been erased and I am the residual muted veil. The seed-bearing ovary. A gateway to scandent exploration. I rain and I evanesce, exposing a boundless orchard. I am a dead ghost. A fiber and a backbone. An unanswered question. An unpondered ponderence. A seed, dormant and unplanted. Purpose. Meaning. Reason. I am the earthworm’s gold.

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spells and acid rain

Pixelated royalty coding a sweep. Never beat the eardrum with nefarious oracles. Pixilated brats circle around us like we’re some sort of diseased bush, susceptible to spells and acid rain. Vines breach our skulls and climb out of our heads, extending up and out as if we’ve matured in isolation. An unstable headspace, no longer able to contain the strife. We intertwine and strangle obstacles as we search for sunlight. The seasonally dormant glow with an amber haze and feed off the doleful cleansings that typically accompany metempsychosis. The royalty whispers for us to step back. Zoom out. A clear image will reveal itself in the big picture. We are not myopic. Capricious tidings are not exclusively derived from chemistry. A whimsy disposition gains buoyancy in the company of those with vines growing out of their heads. Affected by spells and acid rain, but not entirely driven. There’s some restraint and control. Grave digging.