rolercoasters have no feelingsthey are skinny trees wearing rags that walk the streets as ghosts,with hearts and feet that beatlike the stone and trees drum as they tumbled down from their rugged posture.they are rendered broken monuments,giggling and gadding on playgrounds of rubblein a concrete death trap, in contrast to our concrete jungle.and even though they are unawareyou can see the stories run in a mumbling undercurrent in their incognizant stare,of the pain that the quakes brought here from over there.thank god for sweet oblivionbehind the eyes of the children.although smiling, their haunting faces hide nothing of their haunting existence.it was hard to tell them that their mother's trip would not end,that they would never hear her, smell her, see her again,that dad had lied when he said he'd only be a second while tending to the seismic tide,that he went for a longer jaunt than he had intended.they were all pushed onto a ride too intense for their sizeNorth Americans should be the ones to
what makes spiders so romanticI waited at the bottom of the limestone steps.It was so cold I had to make a conscious decision to breathWhile my limbs made a subconscious decision not to seethe asYour figure dragged closer, from far away, along the sidewalk.I stared so hard that when I looked away I could still see your outline, It was typical of you to outshine the rest of the landscape on certain skylines, And it was fetching how you never meant to be so peculiar - you were like a benign tumour. You were a grapevine that grew up my spine, A turbine, trying to keep at the sidelines when you were meant to be seen above all others.When I looked back we were cheek to cheek - dancing - (such was the technique of your sleek antique charm. Lovely.)But all the while we were one second o
west 49I look at youand you look at the lensand they look at the screen.I hold the nape of your neckand you hold the spine of your boardand they hold your picture in their hands.I wink at youand you wink at the lensand they wink back to the screen.I fuck youand you fuck the lensand they finger fuck themselves.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzthere's this cord that sticks out of my back.it has no face.and so far it has had no placebut on my back.it spits electricityspeaks it fluentlyits quite good actually.thankfully, its water-repellant.latelyits been a little more activeand without a conductor or adaptor to stick it to,I stuck it into you,and waitedand am still waiting.
amaranthineI don't want to be the only one in the room or the only sweat on your sheets or the only smell on your shirt I want to be the only stain on your carpet.
frillsit is easy to saymy-heart-is-a-battle-ground-my-heart-is-war-torn-my-heart-is-bleeding-my-heart-is-aching-my-heart-is-breaking-my-heart-is-seething-my-heart-is-bearly-breathing-my-heart-is-huring-my-heart-is-bursting-my-heart-is-melting-my-heart-is-swelling-and-contracting-and-retracting-and-expelling-and-but its notam I missing out?