Arab Children

nothing to do with arab children

happy birthday, 
the sun of virgo, 
arabian baby, 
casting my shadow. 
i stood behind myself, 
somehow, 
outside the fleshy body. 
staring, mute, as a witness. 
impulse control, 
thought before action, 
the tectonic motions, 
my fault-line is lacking. 
allowing my landmass 
to swallow its mountains 
with a crash that brings 
all eyes upon 
its cracking. 

this is when you see my 
gold painted endeavor, 
and unkempt words. 
unkept promises, 
half-meant excuses. 
false skeletons 
and elephants 
left out in the open 
for the flies to devour 
when perfumes ignite the 
ripened necrosis of their 
dead skins. 

disproportionate drunk 
distorted memories 
(you don't believe it, 
and i don't want to) 
i bury all my bodies 
in the corn field. 
i drown all of the 
children in the lake. 
the result always presents 
a manic redrawn 
afterimage of what i was, 
lost to where my mind keeps 
redacting its memory. 
when i gaze back at 
those inky black oceans 
all there's afloat to se(e/a) 
is a blue tinted painting. 

when you're searching 
just know you will 
find me in-between 
the apex and its opposite 
hung above the ocean 
and underneath the sun