Issue 1, Page 2

Out of touch; out of reach, your
belly full of milk & coffee,
no concrete recitations of a poem past due;

Just the slow, methodical
touch of keys, of letters popping
against the keyboard’s back.

In great numbers, they clamor.

This flow of information,
these mutations of a need
to fill some voided love,

Mother, may I have some more coffee, please,
to turn it into chains of death or love,
these dancing waves;

Particles of incoherent fractures of a mind,
bled.

We bleed, we pass through an uncertain
crossing; and going straight or veering
we concede there is no love here.

Issue 1, Page 4

Rings purchased for a price,
and an incandescent moon;
the howling outside, tonight.

While we dine on cake,
and we make stars;
igniting helium and hydrogen gases;

We play fair games,
where you and I
receive the same amount
of tender.

From here on out,
I’m disassembling my body,
dissociating my mind’s cerebral core.

I have become the unknown entity,
pleading for a chance to be made free.

YouTube #7

Your steady & static structures
complete my organic, messy mindset;
give me room to grow,
with your stability.

And as I reach for the stars,
hidden in your eyes,
I reach for words
to get me one step closer
to this annihilation.

And in your glasses,
I perceive fate’s foreign body
and know there is entanglement
between us from before birth
that will linger and far outweigh
our lifespan.

Dear, one and only
ball of fire that beckons me
to collide with,
and I watch as gravity
descend on us.

Whole bodies lost in flames,
devoured by a necessity for
consummation. We grew in groves
beneath the broad branches.

And as the utter immobility
of love’s regressive pull
sets in on me, a collapse
into the deeper parts of her.

He was waiting
in the end,
watching for my
every movement
to be based around
his hypothesis.

And yet I flew,
I drifted deep
beyond the point
of no return,
carrying with me
your conjectures
& hypotheses.

Flocks of geese descend on Earth.
The cacophony of it
disrupts my previously stable
articles of faith;

Remembering before the
easy light’s passage
into my crystal clear
formation of ideologies.

We ran through fields
of frosted earth & grasses,
the cool, wet bite of it.

Now we trod through the mire,
slowly, methodically pacing
between laps. Going nowhere.

Tracing the steps we’ve walked
a thousand times.

Whenever your cat comes crawling through
my window; I rehearse a serenade
for the two of them.

Little lost souls
scraping glass
shards against the
window pane.

I succumbed to your
regressions; I thought through
the realities of our
dissociative permutations.

Whenever your bottles drop
on the hard, wet concrete;
splintering open cysts; splitting
open scabs & scars;

Dropping time’s clockwork
mechanisms and shattering
the fluid motion of the stars
in their circumferences.

Fluoride masks; cerebral hemispherical disks,
contracts & certifiable systems.

You took from me the nails by which
I hung up the portraits of our last kiss.
And now the pictures, fading from my memory;
do what you will with this eternity.

For I will
oversee my
shadows fall;
I will drop
a narcissistic
glance beyond
our canopy.

I’ll wait in the parking lot,
full of people, full of automobiles,
full of everything BUT literature
and the muse.

I’ll wait there, in the cold, dead air.

Crafted knives;
spherical paralysis,
bent on conquest & creativity’s demise,

I bend my head to hear the bleeding out
of stars; of silence, of death. Of complementarity.

I sew my cradle’s stems & beads;
somewhere in the system,
I am tethered to a number,
an identifier; my identity is now
ingrained within the system’s eyes.

And yours too,
we’re both marked.

Podcast #8

My heart in fragments,
as you are both devourer
and saint; consumer and
the consumption of my soul.

I reenacted our first days,
in concrete epiphanies;
strung-out beads of our
untimely thoughts projected
into real-space.

Our motion & e-motion
a glued down hypothesis
of sporadic contemplation.

I knew you before time
existed; I know the thoughts
running through your head
better than my own.

The reason we cannot
comprehend this concrete
prison cell; with bars,
solidly constructed space
and time; blocking our
communication.

Three moments in time
which caused my disrupted psychology.

1) When our eyes first met

2) The night before, when you let the curtains drop

3) How you left me in the garden

And simplicity has her forms,
and I constructed my dimensional paralysis;
here between the
lines of our dismissal,
the slow decay of
another bride’s
slowly burning
candle wax.

Hemmed in;
I am stuck between two volumes
of categorical isolationism.

And as stars strike the planet
of my slow descending lips made
manifest as words planted in the soil
of her fatherlessness.

Drinks come plenty
and dreams wash over me,
but our youth degrades
with the passage of the rhyme.

Each prosaic warble,
every single bout of ecstatic & euphoric
acidity proclaimed;
leaves one less
arm in motion,
one less guess
to hypothesize our fragments.

Intersection between wrong & right;
our embittered fortification
of emotional degradation
can sleep easy tonight.

And as if to say:
here, between droplets
of dew & honey & mustard,

And love,

All chemical reactions in the brain,
could commit some form of suicidal
thought.

We mark lands on maps,
and map out our emotional
forums in poetry & words,
dissect the bodies of our
desires & our designed &
unalterable truths.

Just to breathe in the oxygen
of your safely comforting world,
just to exist here, for a moment,
between your breasts; and in your
mind’s eye.

And I stave off my hunger
for your flesh.
I drop the ultimate illogical bomb;

And contemplate a nuclear winter.

For from here on out,
it’s no sense to carry this weight,
this burden of hypothetical conjecture.

And from this height,
there’s no worries
of what the world will think
of my translucent skin.

I can always interject
the last moment of our
beginning; inject in time
the construct of our love.

And as motion blurs,
as oxygen depleted from our atmosphere,
and a collection of synthetic
stars react violently;

Bleeding out interstellar dust.

Issue 1, Page 3

Inert matters;
lost souls sparking heat waves,
and it doesn’t really matter.

The twist of your tongue
as you say grace;
as we sit down to eat,
mouths full of poems
and we haven’t got the
time to digest any of it.

What matters more
than words; transposed on paper
or in text on LCD,
is the slight shift
of our constitutional surrender;
capitalizing on the fact that we
don’t play fair.

I don’t play fair.

Podcast: 1 May, 2017