replying, of kinds

no you do not write well
why you even write what
you never see
the cliche
the dead moth's dearest
word.
but the body.
its soul
rising smiles
at your word
and its not even
great, or great
what do i call this
reaction,
this error
uncorrected;
do i let it stay
and grow on the heart's
plane or do i crush the
soul and scorn beloved
beloved, or coldly.

this need to touch

I am
tonight
filled with irreverential love
for you
and i foresee a dream
of un-understanding movement
and i touch you
which broods the entire time
and that mark uncovered
lightens secrets
and pleasure of white
severing a vow
and making another
sign with its beauty
and forgetting it there
along with the night.

music must soothe

i read into your mind, to tell that you are shouting. therefore, i must cry and not talk.
tears sell slowly, they are a few weeks old and are eager to come, whoever said you
cause me pain, or you, cause me pain, tears are a blind eye's way to touching the
world even with new beauty when there are faces around you don't want, all that
matter like dreams is the glow of that feeling, the blue-touch and the depth of knowing
like no other-maybe you did. i am blind and still running. tomorrow when i don't speak
i'll cut the pain into, and see how much it lasts. till then for years and less sing well.

god, see how i have made my bed
tell me that it counts
and warmth among other things
so i can tell you other wonderful
stories about the rescue
and the explosions in the sky
and the falling in love
before that
that i also wait for spring
to be a woman
waiting, for the bells to ring
half an hour later
then to purse my lips
against all the scratching
so i can get a sleep of
warmth, sucker for warmth
and lie with all the other trees
while they lie awake breathing
i like the little man,
he teaches me things i do not have

bad day for mad girl

there is nothing

nothing you can keep touching

something you can keep seeing

I hate this

utter complexity bewildering

my fingertips to pain

there is nothing

nothing you can keep lying

and singing oh it is beautiful

you look beyond all hurt

misery groaning tearing

of the body dividing mind

unto pieces you fall into

there is nothing

you can keep thinking

which will make it a dream

within a dream

awake all the time

shining torch on the blindspot

to feel it singe making

its way to core of my soul

A death

she had

angels with brown wings

hovering around

last months

with a

baby inside

and a husband too.

moody and pensive,

my mommy swayed free

i did not eat enough

though i was her baby.

and her husband dragged on.

his wife, he didn't see anymore

or feel; yet the doctor felt it

grow, calm and benign a bigger ball.

when work suffers, do you blame a

woman? you married. no, sufferer.

a day. no other day.

walk to the bathroom

fall. breathe slowly. die.

kill the baby,

hit your head

kill the baby,

till mum and child

are safe inside wrapped

in an amount of universal clothes

of nowhereness near your,

husband and dad.

may be i wanted to come out,

or the world has nothing to miss.

uh, im fine with my mother

just that, extremely cold with the walls

thinning and falling

away to browner earth

which will swallow away

our hearts.

purple in black

night.
morning.
thank you for staying up,
i like to rub my eyes very hard
it’s swollen and crying
every other day.

night in bed.
cry, bed bed.
with curtains flowing inward
wind-air-ing inside
rain blowing outside
happening everything the other side.
stay, stay here.

what, sleep while talking?
watch, sorry eyes closed?
what do you think, you pervert
whoring son of a bitch.
with all your charm and history
wither and die. all I care.

good night. morning.
sleep well?
is that all right?

my god. these domestic altercations.