for you

#9

yellow flesh on me
first fragile fixer
up me, in me, broken brain


#20

where did you get me
is it in, did I
come? tell me did I do that


fragile thing. pick you up put you on me
darling thing, did I brain at you too hard
did you inject me with laugh
did you wake me with pain, at boring no did I
were you the real sad
were you extinct, even then
did I try to crawl away
did I try to fix your broke bod
don't I remember the superface of superficial
don't I tear a little at giveruppers
masks &
masks &.

impulse $$$

it was a sad summer

their names were vermilion beard, sad mouth

it was a sad fall

their names were aubergine hair, squishface, eyelashes

it was a sad winter 

their names were eyes

it was a sad spring

their names were hipbones, limbs, flesh

a bag of lemons is a bad sign is a bad notion idea indication

"if someone takes your idea it isn't really yours"-  go to work

"if I am the only one alive I am all of the life"-  go write in your diary

do you remember when we ate mushrooms

and that kanye song, all of the lights 

showed up

and I fell into your sob shoulder

and you asked me to tell you why 

and I said, it just reminds me that everything is as bad as it seems

did you know that kim kardashian has ballooned to 220 lbs since getting pregnant?

that she has ballooned to such proportions that kanye will no longer speak to her?

I read this off a magazine at kmart two weeks ago

when Nickey & I were buying toilet paper

and she desperately wanted a pop tart

so we were looking among the magazine racks for impulse buys

we thought pop tarts would make a pretty good one of those

i swear a mourning dove lives beneath the awning

today I'm like the actor in monochrome when the movie is like heavy

like saturated reds & greens, that kind of movie

way newer than technicolor, but still the thick dense 8mm sort

that thickworld

& I'm the one with the umbrella, but it isn't raining

so the other actors walk around me down the streets,

avoiding me because

umbrellas always have those sharp stabbers when the rubber things fall off

which I think always they do,

and it's even worse, doing this, because

I've always hated umbrellas.

I've always thought

so I will be wet

so my hair will be fuzzy

so my eyes will tear up

so my coat darkens.

but the rain on a face,

nice, nice

nice

nice

& the other actors mill about avoiding

but they're uncertain, mostly, why don't I see the sun &

the saturated red & green?

but I mean, they're just actors so probably they aren't thinking that at all.

it's really hard to tell, I mean

impossible to tell

what the others

could possibly be thinking

it's okay because I won't stop thinking of what others could possibly be thinking

and what they would think if I told them what I was thinking

or even would they think anything at all.

I had this box of coffee which mostly just spilled onto the floor of my car.

I had a beer in a jar.

I went to the thrift store, and there was an ad on the radio about how boise interior design & co or something supports the christian radio station

what was it

not the teachings

not the services

oh, oh

the duty

yeah, the duty. doing a duty deed

& so in the spirit of it all I bought a child's forest camo tee

like the kind with the leaves

& the branches

& I paid a man drinking a sprite

and he sort of stood there for a second, I think deciding what to do with this sprite in his hand

so he settled on setting it down. He had a superlow voice

& this steady uncertain movement

of a recent believer, or a recent exsmoker, or a recently having been given-birth-to, again

and he said: with fondness, & a struggling sentimental: I'll bet this is for your little boy, isn't it

and I almost lied

no

I said I don't have any children

& he looked me over

and he said, oh, I see, you're small

did he say small bodied?

I left because the beer in the jar was getting warm

& I had looked in the mirror

& my clothes were so drab

so like end of summer, hating on early fall because it will become winter so can't look at the

pretty present

but instead at the sad torturous months ahead, sad futures

it's that sort of outfit

but I'm not that sort of girl

I don't hang in the treacherous promise future

I hang with the heart in my chest kind of present

my brain

my bod

my chipped teeth

they are good for tearing flesh

they are good

for caring

caring flesh

& this morning

& right now

I hear the low moan of a mourning dove, and it sounds so close I think it just must be tucked under that stupid stripe-ed awning

which is pretty nice

it's pretty nice

in yearn for summer

...and not even the summer. I believe it was october, but in the painted desert october is still as it is, I assume, always, dressed in lavender, sage, coral, copper, vermilion, powder blue. In the dust, in the warm of a breeze, in the waiting is where I find myself, now. I know, it's february, and it's appreciated, please believe. But also, it is perfectly sunlit today, and for hours I've felt that gentle promise of a future filled. So without a doubt I know the glory of it! in idaho, a june or july & even a may fulfilled. All the things worth awaiting. Until, I've got a solid grasp. my feet in the sand, a heart filled, the creatures & soft flesh touches of the variants which curl up to make a smile or a sigh in me. As I've always said. The waiting & the patience make some worth.

he who divulges, can this flesh crown you?

prettylittle 84 - 87

He divulges depreciative, orating calmly. He wears a yellow flavor. Outside, it is dark and he’s drinking, and his provisions thrust outward. Hold his boiling snow. Alcohol is for the inward, thus he left the outside concentrated, failing. 

He was busy in a timeward spiral, his head, I think. Soaked in her decoction of pauses. There’s not much one can do. I’d cough up a day creative, of lime-flowers, and tone with a drum onward. It might mean defectuosity; more aggressive I find, alas.

We drank tea and felt great imperfection, and I remember being; & getting drunker and drunker, a bell was spoken, and then I left. Delectation, that pleasure and delight. For you might do, driving a myth of a home, demiurgic. To slowly manipulate the girlfriend away, and a hiding away in some time. The creation of the universe with her fingers would be such a forest of unknowing.

About Chicago and New York and London and the maker of the world: gradually becoming more violent again, just as the leopard strikes at vegetarianism, being our moments, our years I can taste away, cutting. I’m starving from that first demiurgic love on my lips… how can this flesh crown you?

I almost got lsst

I am in this sunny room in idaho where the sky doesn't change from perfect at all. When the sun sets a change happens, but within only bounds of perfect. I like it here. ida likes it here, her namesake place. I like this song called "my heart" by a band called wildbirds & peacedrums. in bed i sit, and here I am waiting with henna in my hair. I recently got my period, and am subsequently writing my first novel about womanhood.

This whole thing has a purpose, I felt it before. I felt it this time, too, after coming over the blue mountains. It must have been near north powder, and those were the little alps, all silhouetted with the sun still bright over the edges. undeniably alplike. I am writing this because Once, during summertime I was on the same drive, eastbound to idaho, and there to my right in a beautiful lush field of peagreen were two lounging llamas. And they dazedly, dreamily, admired a flapping butterfly above and around them... I couldn't see their eyes but I can only imagine the heavy lift of a lid, the twitch of an ear, the peaceful admiration.

I saw them this time, coming on dusk, but this place hasn't a dusk, or a twilight. I wanted it to be, but in the little alps the bright sun creeps behind a jagged peak, still leaking bright, until finally the sky explodes into every texture imaginable; purple lace lining vermilion velvet, soft pink silk and chiffon folding itself endlessly into unimaginable blue, neon flesh.

urge tinged else

prettylittle, 18

Now you see that I’m tired. Foregoing and urge tinged, altogether uneven. True feeling anterior, sitting on the old voice. Altogether disheveled. Blue without my primogenitor. Mauve, bad or good, it all coming across time, lineage, family tree. Sectional sofa, sounds the same. How I’d like to move to taller roots. Looking at the loneliness. The good way, anthropophagous, is muted and I probably will after I tried once, I say. Remembering with solemn description of the upstairs, talking to the night with him more (alas, I thought, a final time), annoyed at the human flesh (his). Soonafter I return to erasing his opening (such of the soft human beings), and cannot be heard over the hushed chicago. And from memory, he beats of recognizable song. The direct opposite of conversation and rhythmic tap, tap, tapping. Maybe I will leave with me.

on riding over the dry leaves in the road

finally, the red leaves a litter. They like largest driest petals dropped from crusted rose. I see here, the roses still on their tall stalks, if brushed would crush to fall. If a rose could talk it would bloom; in the times I've felt the nearest push of prick into me, my cushioned thumb in hazard, in lightning, I never hasten wonder when wilst the final bud drop to crumble. Anchored now in thorough autumn, still open and gushing sappy pink light of softest flesh petal skywards. The open rose, the frozen palm.

champagne tragedy temptation of sighs

pretty little, 49 to 52

A large hallowed kissing might slightly scale thy name. Gently just love guilty and violent come unpredictably. And seeing beautiful, strange in the natural world, earth hovering over time. Feel guilty sudden violent heaven touched barely.

Longer sounded, upheaval give us this. My flesh for him, I need badly disaster. And forgive a rib as well. My head, I met calamity; forgive a breast with me.

Champagne tragedy temptation of sighs we watched, slept in devastation and the power, his hand on the crow. To kiss him, the wonderful upheaval and the glory. I thought he wanted desire, convulsion, apocalypse for ever and ever. Bored, he said he was unsure to kiss excessive. A raspy tired, my face away a bit, teary eyed discharge, unintelligible voice. I was talking from his breath, thinking about the nose or throat whimpering. Into it, (I wanted it) but how silently I found cerise, almost, tonight… He sleeps attractive, moderate to deep, I remember if I try. How nice to have him still, red at an adventure. Touch my back repulsed early now.

An unlikely morning, an idea used typically I think. Feel pressed against, kissing for pleasure I remember, vague and erotic. But my love trips, chicanery was already existent just the slightest. Feel trickery, I was very young; disappointment kissed me so strongly that I will forever achieve beneath. Disappointment is a good kisser. And I remain true to purpose; deception begins. Receive sex sad and lonely and artful to eat.

true I had fallen asleep

pretty little, 45 to 48

True I had the corner of the mouth, a resemblance adamant, expensive. I feel between about my making nonmetrical. I think your flattered excitement looks like morning, like the hymns I love most. And nausea beats, it could be for her. Sleep chants used, something about you in my little chest. Remind me uncomfortably, a song I say. Just kiss the corner of one another to oblige.

The poem, around my mouth it disturbs. I open my eyes in hymn, large and delicate. So constantly around sleep. To praise ornate, with a white lace displaying of one another. My only thought is of you and porcelain. Spontaneity makes mentionings, appears a strange man in my canticle. His size varies from tiny confident, only just remembered that I was, too. I can't help but to cantillate, to chant large constantly for us. He tried to intone the crystal truth that I’ve mentioned to him so. His arm around me, we capered; champagne could never be much. I declined with a tired dance, the flute crowding him. A year he left in a lively, delicate display. Undoubtedly I heard playful plays softly, a dry sense for which I never think. The shower is formal, old-fashioned, which I like but don’t look for.

When he came back, he was a person placed. Neatly was he in the high-pitched laughter on  a street. I’m sure dressed, tending to lapse. Last night seeing him again, blue objections still bouncing in bed. An effect tucked in. I reeked of carapace; my skeleton, rotting rotting away. I’m getting boring, of course. Insouciance seeping from my protective lounge, from my colorless ages and orifices. And flesh, decorative or disgusting, emerald eyes that always matter.

Meet someone in a half shell, buxom, buxom… cute but asleep. After an hour I was light, automatic and ruby, nearly colorless. Up north to hear this, my decorated hair pearlescent. in the negative weather so beautiful, desire supporting the skin. Minutes I knew to never stop time. Coffin of amethysts it wasn’t to see. Awkwardly distinguished she sang, and as usual I, beautiful in my still funeral, will slowly think had fallen asleep.