a dry man crackling to soil,
empty of life, for once,

my boiling quicksand self.

all the girl corpses have
perfect self-esteem, shrug
off, shrugging all of it.

i used to cringe, automatically
when my grandmother took my hands
in hers. her hands so rough,

old? too much. my hands look
ancient lately. my fingers
rotting fallen trees,
feeding the keyboard
compost heap.

( Read more... )

we rest our depths
on the same ghost ships.
you are friending, i am
pretending,

moaning, forgetting.

three bowls, two hands,
one sailing sadness,

one noisy flower.

morning bell, awaken.
wake up, morning bell,
to this room cold and dark,
and stomach makes a fuss.

drift alone in dream,
find a way to move.
move without your gold,
move without your guts.

( Read more... )

( Read more... )

the way my honey thinks
and my money drinks
itself away.

we have so many
good times ahead.
we have so many
hard times ahead.

My friend pezika's recent livejournal entry sparked what I find to be an interesting tangential discussion on the subject of giving of oneself... In order to provide a venue for this ongoing discussion without completely taking over my friend's journal with my own blabbering nonsense, I'll include some excerpts below and we can continue on my comments ( Read more... )

the morning cold,
i am dumbfounded.
god a light, god
a sound, god a
square,

god a round?