then god is seven.

Bingey, bingey, your contingency to allude to the situation of the suffocation
in the altercation allows my disinterest to wither
time,
and your petulant pestilent persistence smells of rotting fruit, and, dear,
the situation of the sack, the sheet
of blood and flowers,
coats me with a semblance,
a resemblance, a veneer which you have applied piously these past three years.
Yet time, oh just pass
please go on,
if it’s less I’ll be happy, I swear, just one less. I assure you, darling, watch that
you do not waneth unto the
moon.  By the time the stains started to reek I finally will be
able to get out of the slackened rope which held the mighty and wise four inches
above the floor. But we are sure that this is
the life we want to live. As of late, now, if you'll excuse me, I must use the loo.

This set up for the rented out space in the shadows
allows my ennui to provide my veins with languor and indolence as
I set my controls and allow my knots and fabricated aches to wilt
wayward towards your generic organic unforeseen event, the
situation of the damned.
My pockets empty, the shop is shut, the powder is crushed and lined up, for you!
With bedazzled pupils
encompassing spastic neon, I made time to see the likes of thee,
and oh! The smell, the smell! Why?
I never had any luck with those dim back-lit brown pools, nor with the
tourniquets the spoons the blades nor the pills,
their resemblance was snappish and virulent. Let me, let you get me,
just once more,
in the solar plexus, and we can
fly to the moon and whatever's there,

I’ll throw it right back down to you.

We’ll dance amongst the stars. I promise to lie to you forever, and ever, as you wish.
Don’t you?

We found a place on the
wire. You are my arm,
yet all I see is the shampoo bottle and the thick smell and the digits, subtract daily
and burden.
Trapped under a mat of hair grass, lessen the dull shatter of the throbbing
behind my eyes, since I could still leave with a liking for the
putrescence in your eyes.
I flee to my own ignorant inconvenience, and I sit
and construct our pendulum. This life’s modes swing and I sing,
you cannot
encompass my spectrum! I’ll rise above or squirm under, if only to feel you,
your pressing weight,
no weight. I lay down my head to rest,
and I can’t help but wonder why I always wonder.

As your bones slice down, in a grinding turn of the cog,
why will you not allow yourself to slide into the rotting coagulation?
The putrefaction is nearing completion, my dearest friend.

And the rope is fraying along with my skin.

Does the concrete not support you better than I?

Author's Note

up up up. up up up.

[08.21.09]