[hellohusbandisthatyou]

Young cells nowadays don't want to work anymore. I don't pay your mitochondria so your ribosomes get sit on the endoplasmic reticulum all day and do nothing. Good hardworking cells used to pull themselves up by their mitotic spindle and get a job. I really think young cells don't understand how a trickle down G- protein cascade economy works, it takes a few good enzymes to make everyone homeostatic.

[hellohusbandisthatyou]

In fleeting moments I see the true size of things. Doors are wider than flowing rivers, when I let my eyes cross, only then are they clearly visible. If they were great wooden men they'd tower over all, but bound to hinges and painted white their size eludes me, hidden from view. Late at night I see the true size of things, horizons of oak for a brief interlude.

[hellohusbandisthatyou]

Wreched bells disturbed my sleep, the neon light burns the back of my eyes, as god did not create that mechanogranic monster, the breath of life that All has, is torn apart over and over for a hundred lifetimes again, shredded and recombined, a school of fish upon which a beam of light shone, they feel it and scatter only for the sun to rise once more.

I got some money, and went to buy myself bread, it fell. Tears could not cleanse the trampled, nor the tramplers, car tires and leather soled shoes. Neon lights tore into gods breath, as bread filled the asphalt like spackle. Oh Breaths, why did you make me feel things dug up. Who gouged out your eyes so now you carve into me, like a marble block, looking for someone who grew up, when all you find is a wet concrete centre, never dried, hardened on the outside by the very same lights that bleached it white.

And now what, the seagulls picked away at my carcass, you got in your boat, didn't see god, only the wet child who feels for a thousand men. Still blighted sailing away, I can see the tracks of your oar, hacking away at the waves, tire track on fresh cement.

The shoes I got on my birthday blistered my feet, I felt a hundred pasts and each one the same, in each one bread fell and I was a wailing child by the street. And that day I was melted and repoured.

[hellohusbandisthatyou]

Blessed be the weight of the late summer nights that force sweat to subside, blessed be the intensity of the sun's rays and the moist air of the seaside for my husband cannot smoke his tabacco in peace. And as promised by god and the spirits before him, cold winter nights will end, and the sun will rise, no longer digging it's heels in spite and the laws by which nature obides will snuff out the flames in front of the faces of men we despise. Dear Emily, I am writing to you to confide in you for I have done the unspeakable...even the feint illumination of the waxing moon will unveil my sins against that man, the pitch black darkness throws it's blanket over me, and I cower in fear of the truth that the candle of a curious passerby may reveal.

[hellohusbandisthatyou]

The moon says goodnight to the sheep, the meadow, the stream, and finally me. The moon is beginning to w...