excess thought

our sex was dull
and with it it brought every bit of dust and dilly weed until our faces were numb
until the red light was gone.
in it i saw myself, but heckled and oozing, the slow pulsing wasn't like what i knew.
it was mischievous and the cold new
new
new
new
it was old
like a black man, who i never know
it was like a spoiled child
it was a monkey in paris
and i caught the last of its footage.

im all about the gratitude.
I'm all about the misshapen
its different for us, because we actually love
and its different because there is nothing but this longing
its different because the one
one
one
one
one
is always lost

we're always splendid
thats how we'll stay, we will dance to the northern.
we will cast the blue on the windows
until they cheat us out of the delicate that we know
and i am so glad that we have forsaken

its because there is a new "we" and i call it "myself"
i call it braver
and more like real.
there is nothing but the truth this time
something that the last one would have forgotten.

im breaking every bond that the other would have bled.
its time that we know whats red and whats blood cell.
this time we call the nameless.
we, myself, i, believe it.
there is nothing but us
and until we run waterless its the desert that takes us
and i will know it
love it
feel it
we are dancing because it means the world.

its every dare, its every spirit.
its every half drunk bottle of red and white that we every knew
its the total of two years from now and the morning after
its the dryness of every fucking morning since then.
and i am begging on two knees to let me in. to let the dawn break.
im sick of waiting. let me in mama.
my hope is a dull twitch and i only know you through your judgment.

sometimes i wonder "will you miss me?" and then i remember. i dont care.
you were the lost device. the lost divine.
and now my remote is universal. and my martini is black from lung cancer and gin.
my gin.
my gin.
for real though, its not the end. its the begining and im sorry you can't know me know.
i myself think that im great. I think that without the dark the dawn can't CUM.

the world is pink in this misty morning, this abandoned chic.
i circled the tip of montreal until the sun beat me pink. the color of women.
under the impression that we are all blue.
the mans world.
the universal remote.
call me. versatile
the russian spy.
the only one who sneaked a peak at the future.
he was just as damaged as my best friend.
in ruby glows.
and how long was i out of the country?
how long did my fire flies buzz?
right up until the moment that you smashed their guts along the side of your arm.
"look it glows"
and now we are dining on fish food and vibes.

the kind that tell the worried "itll all be ok"
the kind that eats us whole like maggots and hair.
and meg ryan and blonde hair.
i wonder if she ever knew, like her daughter what it was like to be sunk.
the paint chips on the wall over shadow the yellow of your grin.
I'm happy about it. really, because that means that our sallow is genuine.

the other day i spent the 12.4 hours dancing to music i had forgotten.
its a ritual, between the likely and the insane. feeding their fees to the rich.
to mccully culkin. he was home alone on the holidays. feel for him like i do.
he was shit faced at my new years party. i saved him a drink.

i spent my night feeding off of yellow butts and trying to make you care.
its a different you, so stop trying to figure me out.
there is nothing in that ocean blue that seizes me to you.
its only my epilepsy. and i prescribed the proper antidote.

i use spell check like there is no tomorrow. thats because i can't spell the difference betwean you and mea.
the only thing that sets us apart is you desire to know something real.
oh wait, that was my brain. tick. tick. ticking like there was something else.
like i was the one who waited.
instead i got a "goddess" who waits tables
as at night because there is nothing like the present.

i remember when the slow lights fell for the first time.
when my orgasm wasn't what it had always been.
and i blamed you. for three decades our hearts were bleak, and they toched each other black.
like a kid with dirty hands. and now im positive that artifical life is the only way.

my wool socks glow like mad in the shower. and the steam is starting to filter through to the sun. whats the news? shes asked but i wont answer, because these were the things i left behind.

my toes are numb. this is the real deal, the only real.
reel.
bug.
flesh.
and i can't let go.
teach me how, mama.
teach me to believe.
its not like the only thing i know is doom.
its the opposite.
its because i know the rest of the world that i can notice the shame
fear
and misplaced emotions.

i remember the other moment. i remember every bitchen dream..
how the swallows devoured me until all was left was bones and grease..
i (for the first time) ate the pigeons that lurked in your spinster grave.
it was black, like the dreams, and we called the police to see if the robbings had solved themselves. it was different. because we didn't know.

it was different this time, because no matter what we tried the fucking dark would push in. it was different because this time the wine in the gutter wasn't meant for me.
but i had forgotten that by now.
i swear. sweat.

II.

in the dust we scribbled our names.
i only did it to forgettttt. to let be what was almost the end.
to let sing what was the beginning and the slow decay.
my emptiness is less than that of the bear, the solitude.
my spirit. my ugly yellow. my teeth. blue.
its laughable, i could swear. its breakable.
i could dance.

This one is directed to you-- I’ve told them all about the games, the judgmental joys. I always lost at sports, and even now when I know who the ending is talking to, I can’t let go of who you made me. My elbows are cold and my palms are sweaty, I’ve got less to go on now that I did twelve years ago
Pressed against the foundation of our daughter’s bedroom, spooning in her absence I caught the last train to Manistee, where they vacationed on their birthdays. Feeding dolphins toxic reform.
I’m whipping the back of my slaves, but only with good intentions . I’ve never been bought or paid for, something that I’ve always been remorseful of.
There are flakes of snow that drip like spit from the windows. Glass void of ideas or thought.
The inches of debris have lasted the longest, but not out of happiness. Out of boredom perhaps, maybe it was because when they touched, they didn’t mean it (I know I didn’t).