do what makes you love the world a little more each day when you stop. let the leaves settle where they will and cover the overturned ground because some doors need to be closed by themselves. i must convince myself of this. also, i must convince myself that i can close doors i know i dont want. being simply afraid is simply foolish. be afraid of being foolish and you will be simple.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder
Fondness makes the absence longer
Length loses my interest
I'm a realist, I'm insatiable

death's riding your shoes, looks a lot like you breaking down, just trading space to follow you around. im waiting for you to meet me in the middle, got a lot of living to do before i can see the world with my head hanging around,

Ayn Hathaway was by fascination a demigoddess. eli had not the slightest inclination as to whether she was even aware to his presence most days. though the ephemeral locking of eyes was enough to bring about blue skies, even on a day like today when it seemed as if all the happiness was somehow stuck behind the inverted turbulent, chantey seas, because he was human then.
" i am sorry i just need the ocean in a shell, the white noises, to be the ambient sound wherever i go or i will forget everything" he would say.

there's gonna come a time when the scene'll seem less sunny
it'll probably get druggy and the kids'll seem to skinny
there's gonna come a time when shes gonna have to go
with whoevers gonna get her the highest

-the hold steady

im selling out though ive never picked up the pen, i still feel cheap but i still like it when i pretend, oh damn the drinks seem weaker im shakier too, i guess im your old crutch a charlatan. yeah i just wanna stay high one way or another i can deal with whatever seems normal. when i was little i used to listen to music and think that would be me someday under that gilded sun id be filling their veins with another kind of medicine, yeah i cut off my hands because theyre making me sin, yeah i gauged my eyes too because i kept seeing it too that lucid vision call it a joke call it a dream i guess, im coming to grips with how time makes things move you had better too or youll get pretty sick pretty sick of thinking about it and youll pacify with even more poison truth, yeah ive got a lot of learning. well the streets seem younger and the nights seem shorter i feel sick and im pretty scared. i havent found any girl that id hold close and whisper in her ear, "hey i think youre pretty fine, i think were pretty fine i guess, i was wondering if youd want to keep living together at least until we die, cause i could be a little more than a charlatan" i think ive said that before. then she'd say "were so beautiful, were doomed. i love you too". yeah i guess were all called to be holy. i saw her walk across a concrete walkway eying me quite coy, i was eying her too, yeah i saw her walk from the communion line on sunday, i was eying her, quite coy, she was eying me too. and when fate seems to damn heavy to be sharing hints and allegations i think im pretty sad, pretty sad until i get to meet her and ask for her name. then things would work out like wed want them to but im still waiting for that day.

covered in candied midnight swollen with inquisition, with discovery. the only open window lets the cross currents bellow in. the drapes awake, animate in the stale, pallid nocturnal nightlights--a dress without her body. rotted wood, waterlogged, split by indifference, by time bedecks the floor. a quiet discomfort. rumble low. the ocean moans and curses itself outside it fights her light to swallow the sand.

obscurity.

it is the tapping the horse's heart. hypodermic needle presses deep, con-caving tissue and slowly disappears to extract:

.august mornings
.gilded sun rise
.petrichor
.the natural symphony


blue skies are calling. but i know that they wont last.

blue skies are calling.

but i know they wont.

last.

alas, i will do:

anything

to become happy

we sit, a black bird line.
hollow eyes, skin aglow.
inapt otherwise--
but
communion comes with the ground.

the great divide lies in the red sky,
oh

and the deep blue-- still violet combined.

under a street light,
burning our cowed rejection
in the

sallow, supple ground.

oh i felt the wind this night,
it carries on,
carried the fresh arrest--the kill; a potpourri of iron and wine.
living is fine, its fine i guess,

i might as well.

oh and the church bells,
august angst,
boiled over crystal wells of blue eyes,
my heart beat mirrors the cascading fountain swells, and
i know that this might, this might be pretend.

we settled the same fate, oh honesty can beware.
we trudged through the same place, the same place sunshine carries in the air.
we settled the same fate, the same face, the expressions that they wear.

oh salvable twilight!
your pitch in the dusk is smothering, smothering sound.
that you just might lean into the currents and start to follow me,
follow me down

as we sit on a black bird line
with hollow eyes, skin aglow,
perhaps inapt otherwise
but beneath a red sky
we're a
pallid light, a pallid light
for now,
we're beautiful
tonight,
we're
doomed,
yet fair lady you found out,

we're nothing
but


confused.

words are the medicine. they are the drug that inflates the black balloon. i have walked a mile in the shoes of normative success and have realized i am only poorer. the length it takes a man to see what he truly desires is a hell not worth facing. what are the braces that must fall to the wayside before i can flow freely, before i can let creativity flow from my wounded head. i put myself in stressful situations. who will stop the rain. black sands and an evil plan. i am just waiting for some southern bell to save me from myself. or help me save myself. i dont know who anyone is these days

not me.
not
me.

i am a stranger to everthing.

the sedentary journey abates. vivid contortions of the page. a thoroughfare. bracing, harsh and vile white stitches, elongated binaries folding under and over, over and under again. alas the subtle variable, the staccato of an ocular crescendo. and so it goes. down. to.

say.

as if it were
the black tongue.


the contemptuous black mouth.
the
egregious,
selfish plunder.

pierced with silver and steel.

for i have longed for a love like a movie.
like a film.
a complex creature.

beautiful confusion.
so that we may exist in such a suspended common ground that perfection may blossom. two. complements. complementary. but i cannot remember.

remember the words from the leaflet.

i cannot remember who it was that said
i am you.

for how long was it that i have forgotten the contours of my face but the hermit below had long been gone. so what remains but the deep black mouth and hot air.

"truthfully distasteful!" the words rolled off Mrs. Reichenbaum's tongue with lissome bliss. "the bastards are out toting some new found debauchery as if it were Jesus on a tree again. Oh Lord, deliver them they know not what they do!" she said in a trebling and disquieted voice.

dont take it so seriously isabelle. honestly, if i must ill indulge to condemn your ever so fervent condemnation to just living. its cause you fear the ground. you fear your bottom sores will swallow you whole." Peter recanted. Peter was a rogue visionary off at war with his alter ego and the chemicals young men run into at 17. the ever increasing concentration of testosterone and the regimen of recreational drugs. spurious was all conversation. he feared only arthur.

"Damnit Peter, cant you see she's having an episode. learn to bite your tongue or bite it off all together. can you spare us a sliver of etiquette just this once. just this once!" Arthur reproached.

the Reichenbaums were a terribly curious family, dwelling often on the fringes of lunacy, walking the precarious line of the outersouth. but it was that foreign texture that made them the indelible collective darling to detest. for they were a crapulous cabal of sheer ingenuity, Arthur a pioneering neurosurgeon, and Isabelle a eminent avant-garde artist. Who should think their children would not be abhorred for their battery of finely balanced genes--a thing to die for.

got no where to go kill my care. got no one to say they know someone just like me got the same problems. becoming insane. please do not debase yourself this time i say. keep the sanity. keep one thing close. enough to remind you that you are here, its now. say it so. you dont want to be that talking head. that fool who has a personality he learned from tv.

"i havent thought of killing myself in 4 months" newt confessed with a disinterested tone. Margot turned from looking out the bay windows in Mr. Weatherborne's study.

"Newt, frankly i dont give a damn. You've become a self-invented complex shit storm of tangled sentiments and blood thirsty veins always jumping off cliffs with passing feelings." margot said.

"the only reason you say that is because you dont want to take the time to delve into things any deeper than the face value. am i right?" replied newt

"ignorance is bliss. we're all dead anyway newt, why not tempt it?" margot recanted.

"bliss is ignorance. its that hell that swells inside that wont stay down. dont patronize me. you think im just as well?"

"no, you havent killed whats inside you cant kill it, it swallows all the light. get drunk, get fucked, shoot up, living inbetween shaking hands thats why the heroin and pot pacify.


"at least i have come to grips with my own mortality"

Margot spoke with a vexed inflection. The air remained static. Two words. Quiet. An august angst. Eli stared back into the vacancy of space. The portrait had been filled once with a dire want, an impressing culture of immediacy. It was the legion hungry ghosts--all friends once, all united by death, all shaking cold corpses inside—they were the most alive. The grotesques flaunt an uncivil sharing of misery in shameful waltzes in shameful discourse. It’s the shame that runs wintry, upsetting the skies, upsetting the face. They swallow the dark then throw it back up on the floor. A kind of influenza. It’s a flu but they mean the spreading of shallow living--the façade you subscribe to margot says. I suppose conjoining was the mistake. Yes now that I think of it, that was it—it must have been. We killed our selves. We kid ourselves too. Convinced there was a future in the fucking. There is but only for those who go through hell to get here—because they could debase themselves, because they could gag themselves and bite the bullet. Candid confessions of an immortal beloved: there is no fucking future. They say. Because self-loathing is the paradox. Selfish holes. Hungry ghosts. Whisper conceit. Indeed the jealous lungs endure through larceny and all things base. Divorced from the normalcy heaven provides. Indeed. Indeed. They speak with tongues of French in English, of Russian proverbs, of self-deprecation of an altruistic death. I get it now. Okay, I get it now. Its because of the spiders and lemmings I became king. I get it now, okay.

Okay, oh well.

Margot wore a look disappointment, of regret, of denigration.

But I get it now. I would say. She said it too. We shared only our time then. Now I see we shared more. I do not exist, she does not either. It’s the same but the façade is different now. Maybe it is inflection now. The air isn't static like it used to be. Two words. Quiet comfort. I wrote that. Because I finally gave up everything. she did too. Because with nothing you want the world. Because with nothing you have everything. she did too. Because they are exactly the same. I learned that once from life. from sanctity. From heaven.

“Margot, I got you something today” said Newt revealing a supine palm cradling a pink rounded package the size of a soft ball. Margot looked up from reading the newspaper.
“Its not for me is it?”she said.
“I don’t know, maybe it was. You seem to be an extended being these days.” Newt retorted.
“yeah, cause I am a demigoddess or something right? She said.

She said that.

She said,

Laudable laughter conformed to the silence. It folded in between the air. Quiet. There was no exchange then, just the movement of a hand. Mouths formed speechless words there was no oxygen. Larceny. Lungs. Life.

Its almost criminal

I am sick with influenza. I was too.