Love in three words

Love lacks apology.

Pop Quiz

How is your hair not like the ashed skeleton of a Ginko tree in 1945 Hiroshima who was fucked until shining by a foreign gal Enola?

Tonight

Today is the sharp angles of a window frame cut against pale white-blue atmosphere. That is all today can hope to be; tonight blurs.

Blaspheme and become swallowed in salvation: a bible

What if
I can't bear to love
God theory
so much
as I
love
you? Will it all
f
a
l
l, our lovely fire storm?

What if the boy-
s who say,
Jesus is the one
way
up,
don't understand,
what it is
to want
down?

And fall,
fall,
fall
is all I can do
with
you.

Inside a chestnut, I know the pain of passion, inside of you I slide cross milk stars, and dream of things less sharply angled.

That if
God
wrote
you,
I will read
and might believe.
That no
old
book,
might show me
Him
but
you.

Letter to an Insomniac

Indiscriminately I slide down to bad posture in the chair.

Would it be that which determines my fate, this slide, let's cut the shit, think of the curve of the crescent moon against the chair of Cassiopia, and the lesser, duller shine as it rests.

Racecar driver makes this decision constantly. To refuel or to press against cement.

But tonight it feels...easier. To rest. To ignore fault. To heed the blue and yellow striped flag. To heed the expanding universe and its patterns, silver pinprick freckles of some obliterated Goddess.

Gravity is not so much a result of hurtling now, as of the illusion of lethargy. A turtle shell pressed upon by a palm.

If you do not believe this is an illustration of the flaws of time, I fear I have already lost you to lying ticking clocks/hearts/electric currents of our tongues. If my introducing the image of a tongue confuses you, open your mouth and allow whatever may to combust and burn. Listen to the metamorphosis of living tissue to ash. This is all you have to say in a human lifetime. Until you burn alive, then rest, you have never told the truth.

If it is easy, then, to rest, consider it a beautiful meteor shower.

The Sea of Tranquility

Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you don't. But we mustn't forget the times we do feel like a nut, which, invariably, cause us to slip between the creases of time and space into a void of loneliness so great as to cause one to howl sexually at the only other creature so large and so lonely as us--the pale, languid, horny tide-puller moon. If, by chance, sometimes we do not feel like a nut, one might suggest a moonlit, coastal walk, where the tits and ass of the ocean have never caused a more violent erection of lunacy.

Who Knows What the Fuck I'm Talking About

This is the beginning. There always is one. The yellow-bricked road had one, the brickless dirt path's got one too, we all reckon.

Too bad the beginning is also an indication of the end.

Indicating such things feels just like a kick in the left nut. It swells and seethes with spermy rage, and the other, the one just wanting to yelp, "Yippie!" can't but stretch his shoulders (had he shoulders) and the left nut's bumping into the poor guy with agitation written all over his face (had he a face). Such looks about the face are transmittable, like yawns.

Look I know nuts don't yawn and look and shout silly words beginning with "Y" don't you think I know that? Doesn't mean when that flesh grape gets kicked it doesn't make it hard to walk. That's what I mean about beginnings and ends and all. To enjoy the beginning, you got to steer clear of long-legged old fucks trying to kick you in the nut.