catheter

His hair was a crooked driftwood fence and his eyes were smashed in windows and his blink was a scream and his teeth were family photos and his bite was a roller coaster and I was not on the ride. His mouth was the tailpipe of a car, taped. And his last smile was a surgical incision and his tongue was shish-kebob-filet-mignon and his voice was a broken jaw and his laugh was a kick in the side and his skeleton was a married woman. He coughed, and it was a black eye. I was a sole constant. And his panic attacks were Old Faithful and his arguments were the floor and his lips were fingers and his fingers were cigarettes and his

I trust you to my downfall. You say you fell off a bridge and dead air cushioned your back like hay. You fell (smack) on the concrete-- maybe I believe a lie you told yourself. I fell onto your couch with an opiated smile. My small smile was out of place, and so were my shoulders, and so were my ideals. This is your ideal, you, falling through straw space, and my eyes catching you.

She stared, her starred eyes dripping cosmic shadow. She should gather it all up and offer to return it to the sky, but it has adhered. There is shadow on her temples, under her jaw, at her wrists, across her pages. How can she pull the pieces of a stolen soul from her bare feet, from her fingertips? It was once assembled at the corner of day and dusk— she let it leak through her eyes. She should gather it all up and offer to return it to the sky, but she's drunk, deluded, and hopeful (a lethal combination). She thinks she can hold on.

I echo back to you. Every flutter of ash in the air, every fogged thought spinning out, spirals out to you. My heart and my eyes connect through my throat, whirling pulse. Your eyes smudged— I gazed back through, my rocking convention snarled through to the convex— adieu, adieu, ton père. You lost your father and will never get over it, it will resonate through every image— you must have a thousand things you'll never get through. I only have a few, adieu, and one of them is you. Your confectioned brutality beats back into your vision— distorted by reality. Adieu, my few, it's you.

nothing mad, everything ordinary we don't rub our leathers together like flowerpetals in our fingertips gestures throw casually as jackets this isn't our skin— soft and sliding, we fold together like dough— we don't light the oven, we don't sweat and steam   blow up higher and higher— rising. this isn't my voice ringing in my ears cries of orgasm and mockery    and life and   all this is sorrow— I'm ready to die for this       sorrow, to live for this love. heat rises rising rising rising this isn't my voice ringing. waking up again, I am not who I was. rising up with cries in the night like crickets rising

nauseous admittance of fault only I. blue and purple cables twinning us my own blood veins— artist blackouts visionary insomniacs vomit of fault weight of thought. only I. sycophantic parade of word and action color and form you play you. only I.