Dr. Tesseract - plans of mass destruction!

*This was originally a slam poem, hope it isn't lost in translation when read*

I said I'd kill myself all weekend.
Then you did.
I shouted out my misery
like a drunk canary.
I used it like an accessory,
you hid it like a scar.
Your Father called me
and I'd asked if you were okay.
No love.
Passed away.

I said I'd kill myself all weekend.
Then you did.
I knew you had discontinued the meds,
and me,
your only friend...
Didn't say a word.
Silent as the grave.
As I broke everything in the house:
Guitars,
Plates,
Cups and,
Bottles:
I was glad to be alive.

Waiting for this transition to start. This house is not a home any more and I'll be leaving soon. I'll pack up my things in a case and find a place to settle.

I realized I am a bit of an ass. So sorry if this had effected any of you. I do things that are bad for my interpersonal relationships. I am an emotional vampire.

I am content in my discontent and laughing in it's face.

Can't wait for next semester. I need to have a vision quest or do something symbolic to represent rebirth. I'll be planning for the new year. 2010!!! Where are my robots?

Crashing sand castles and sinking Battleships,
toy soldiers and plastic indians.
Clashing.
Falling.
Relapsing.

The children and their games.
Did that castle have a king?
Or the Battleship a name?
Was it worth the clash?
The trail of tears?

The school bell rings,
leaving faceless lives lost in vain.

Never get what I want. I'm going to start taking it.

Thrashing



Dear Sir or madam,

I am writing to you not to alarm you, but to inform you of a new dimension to this life. Like a bird outside the window, begging you to rise from the fog of slumber I merely am trying to reach you. When this idea first came to mind, I detested it. What right do I have to burden innocent people with this forbidden knowledge? On further inspection, this is my duty. I am a messenger, a vessel for truth. An under current runs through this world and the people who notice it become swept up. With this truth you will return to the whole. I don’t blame you if you disregard this message: burn it, shred it, send it to your worst enemy. All I ask is that you attempt to comprehend this information. Perhaps I should have contacted an expert but I’m not sure who would know of these things. I have enclosed my experience in this package and have sent it to several hundred addresses, mostly picked randomly from the phonebook. There must be someone in this city who can solve this mystery.

The concept of the thing came to me at an unexpected time: a cry from the darkness. I wish I could tell you exactly what IT is but defining IT has become harder and harder as my studies continue. With every piece of the puzzle I unearth my thesis requires urgent revision. I’m not sure if IT is everything or if IT is nothing. Have I even discovered anything at all, or am I merely thrashing in the shadows? You’ll have to draw your own conclusions, I can only expound my accounts and hope you can gather something from it. The boxes: It all lies in the boxes.

As I looked at the tattered edges of those cardboard boxes in the executor’s office I couldn’t help but think my grandfather was an asshole. The man amassed a small fortune and owned some beach homes in Barbados. Why did he leave me a Pandora’s Box? Why expose me to this sickness. All he could leave me was a puzzle with no answer, an endless riddle that would confound me for the rest of life. I turn in my sleep and IT is beside me, I shave my face and IT lies in between the blades. In hindsight I should be have fled before I finished that first manuscript. My grandfather was a curious old man, after my grandmother left him in the 1984 he never even went on a date: he became absorbed by his work. He slaved away on his patients, forming intimate relationships with them. I guess for an old badger like him that could replace a love life. Although he showed a great devotion to the art of psychology things suddenly changed in 2003. My mother would say, “Poor dear, he has just gone a bit senile. He isn’t himself any more.” And that became the opinion of everyone he knew: colleagues, friends, and family. We tried to talk to him he would go stoic and scrunch up that tired face like a used napkin. We stopped trying eventually.

When I got the call from my mother in November of 2007 I wasn’t surprised. The man got tired of being alone and painted an accent wall in his office. Single self inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The police asked me to come down and identify the body. His office wasn’t as I remembered it. The tidy placement of his knick knacks and volumes of clinical literature were scrambled. The room projected his mental state before he went back to Jesus. Busts of Aristotle, Freud, and Jung had fallen from there alignment on the desk and lay scattered on the floor. Furthermore the mirrors in the office had been covered with at least five layers of black electrical tape. A series of locks and latches had been added to the doorway. The man had gone ape shit and taken his own life: case closed.

It wasn’t until December 3rd that I was contacted by his attorney: the executor of his will.
Apparently he had left me, not his house or his car, but a series of boxes containing notes and scrawlings of a mad man. I glanced at them briefly in the office and disgruntled, thanked the attorney and left. I felt sick when I thought about reading those papers. Why would that old bastard leave me such a worthless bundle of delusions? He died only a month ago but we had lost the poor fool long before.

I apply the tape to the windows and mirrors. The glass is a gateway for it to get in. If I black it out I can be safe, live peacefully.
“Rent was due yesterday! Open the damn door Pulowski!” The landlord beats at the door and with each pound of his fist I feel a little bit of blood pooling in the back of my head. I turn down the television static down and yell through the cracks that I have been sick. It is coming. What IT is I am still not sure, but I can feel IT brimming in the cracks of the sidewalk: creeping behind the drywall and squirming through the electrical sockets. It has become apparent to me I will never be safe here. No matter how many precautions I take I can never keep IT out. I fumble through the empty tin cans and bottles of water for the roll of plastic. Thumb tacked against the walls, it may be enough to protect from the shifting dimensions of reality. In multiples of three I arrange the boxes of notes in stacks and begin to review the evidence again. There must be an answer here. Something concrete or substantial to blow the lid of this mystery and find whatever it is that is taking my mind and life.
It wasn’t always like this. I was a journalist, working for the Boston Times. I lived alone in my studio apartment and fulfilled my social contract: a law abiding citizen. It started not with me, or my grandfather for that matter, but with an architect who discovered some vile cipher in a church he was designing. Thomas Avery uncovered a dark truth to this world and could not keep it to himself. I find myself wondering whether he discovered it in the dimensions of that cathedral, or some other lunatic exposed it to him in passing. This fear is a virus, if there is one fundamental truth to IT I have found is that IT is contagious. The fear runs deep cutting the mind like a grapefruit.

Thomas Avery sought the most renowned psychologist in New England. This just so happened to be my grandfather Luther Pulowsky. He saw my grandfather from early February 2001 until he took his own life via Phenobarbital overdose in September 2004. According to what I can decode from my late grandfather’s musings, the fear of an unknown entity overtook Mr. Avery while designing a Byzantine cathedral on the southeast side of town. Thomas Avery thought the dimensions of the church to shift in between work days. He would come back onto the job site the next day and order the workers to tear down parts of the structure and rebuild them to ensure the structure would hold. Needless to say he was removed from the project. Mr. Avery had been seen by the crew standing on the other side of the avenue and watching the ongoing construction. I interviewed members of the construction crew and they provided no answers, just scoffs of disapproval. Why couldn’t I leave the mad man alone?

When I opened that first box and read the first entries on Thomas Avery and his dementia, I never expected to find a time line of my grandfather’s descent into madness. Each passing page degenerated in not only grammar and syntax but in its’ meaning. Page one details Thomas Avery’s irrational fears: likely a result of Schizophrenia, clinical diagnosis and treatment options along with a list of specialist in the area to help him overcome this plague of the mind. The lights were on but no one was home. The contents of the first three boxes continue in this fashion: logical and sound. Details on Thomas Avery’s life and past, smalls fragments of what he thought IT was. When I opened box four I could see the disintegration of what was once my grandfather. The decline into madness.

"It has become apparent to me Thomas Avery has discovered an intangible element of the universe: something fundamentally evident to anyone who can put the pieces together. He speaks of a substance invisible to the naked eye he calls Aether. It has the ability move like gas, become solid, or seep like water. It is a core darkness to this world alone. The original form of matter capable of defying all laws of science: in short it an explanation for everything we could never explain. It is the answer. Unfortunately this Aether wants the planet back."

This Aether is just a first hypothesis. My grandfather refined the theory in a later entry, after Thomas had offed himself.

"All signs point to a psychological energy: a substance that underlies all conscious beings. Once it is unearthed it cannot be buried. When A and B are pieced together this force reeks havoc on the human psyche. It is an unconscious life form beyond description. Originating in a time before language, before gods, when man was a stupid and primitive creature frightened by the shadows on the cave wall. I have seen Mr. Avery slipping into lunacy, and I fear for the worst. Now that I have discovered this substance I fear it will overtake and encompass me. There is no return."

This is only a small excerpt from the case. Enclosed in a series of manila envelopes are the highlights of my grandfather’s research. They should be arriving in the days following.

After I truly began to understand the sick heritage my grandfather had left me, I phoned
the editor of The Boston Times. I tired to explain this phenomenon to him, and begged for permission to write a column about it. Quite frankly I was let go. The architect, the psychologist, and the journalist had become fools of fortune. The wealth of this planet’s true nature wasn’t wanted by the general public. Shunned as a psychopath, or some sort of pariah, I began a new project. Crack the cipher. Break the code and bask in the garden of enlightenment.

A certain clarity came into the situation, I felt brisk,new. The whole world had opened
to me. In the confines and conventions of everyday life I had found something so chaotic and intangible that it brought a sick revelation upon me: much like a curtain being pulled so the actors on the stage could play their parts and put the story into motion. I slipped from the mundane into the whimsical. My thoughts no longer lingered on the practicalities of modern living: bills, interviews, groceries, or hygiene. A new thing had come to light. There is something else here. Whether it be Aether, some psychological energy, or an evil demi god who twists men into obscure abstractions of what they once were. The point is that there is something controlling every fraction of our waking lives, and once knowledge is gained of it, this force can only degenerate us.

After this shift of vantage came a deep despair. No one understood my insights, I would try so feverishly to convey my philosophy to bystanders and acquaintances and in return would only receive sharp criticism. Any one I encountered had claimed I’ve gone mad. If only they knew the truth! That this unconscious knowledge lie dormant in the labyrinth of their skull, and once connected they too would join this darkness. The gawkers in the streets who mistook my disheveled appearance and lack of coordination as a character flaw or disease could never know that their ignorance was a flaw in my eyes. In time I will make them see the world in my eyes. This disassociated knowledge will fall under general consensus and the world will fall into a new dark age.

I couldn’t look at anything the same under these circumstances. My morning coffee was no longer just a cup full of stimulant water. It wasn’t just porcelain either. This isn’t a question of molecules or atoms, composition amounts to nothing. The point is that my perceptions became obscure. How could I know that my eyes weren’t deceiving me? So many other aspects of life could be chalked up to illusion, I mean, what could I really know? No amount of evidence or proof could sway me from my convictions. There is some sick subtext to this world, an underlying cancer stirring and brooding just beyond the line of vision.

Then something very strange happened. A young man appeared at my apartment in July of 2008. His name was Walter Harris, a college student whom had seen my grandfather when he was in high school. The kid wore a sweater vest and polished brown shoes with a pair of grey slacks. He looked well put together. I could see the hesitance in his eyes when he looked at me, there was something burning in him but he was having trouble spitting it out. After exchanging pleasantries I cut to the chase to spare him the tension.

“What are you here fore Walter?” I asked him tapping my fingers on the arm of recliner.

“I have been having a, well, rather strange dream lately,” he swallowed a lump in his throat. “I have been looking for you for several months now. There was something Dr. Pulowsky told me before he killed himself, and quite frankly it has been troubling me in the last quarter.”

“What did he say Walter?” This was it. I could feel it. A key coming to break the lock and pull my head above the water line.

“ Under his diagnosis I have borderline personality disorder. My last appointment with him he did something odd. He took me off my meds, and chalked up my illness to some voodoo or something. Some kind of nonsensical force of the mind.” He started to giggle. “You know what though, I think he might have been right. Every single night when I lay down to sleep I hear this horrible noise from the far side of my room. Like some kind of scraping.” He stopped for a minute.

“Please continue Walter, this is an urgent matter.” I poured him a glass of filtered water.

“ Well, the noise has been making it hard to sleep. So I only get about 20 hours of sleep a week now. At first I thought it was a tree on my window or something, but about 2 months ago something strange happened. This is going to sound stupid, but the walls in my room changed position.”

In that moment I was overcome with a sense of fulfillment so great I almost screamed. “How so? Explain please.”

He looked down into his cup of water and furrowed his brow. “The door way in my room was on the wall across from my bed, and pictures and posters marked the walls original position. It was a complete switch. The door way is now on a wall that, if you walked through it, you would be on the outside of the house. It doesn’t make any fucking sense,” a tear rolled down his face from his sunken eyes. “Look, I know you know. The guys at the Boston Times gave me your address. They told me you were a nut job, said you had become enthralled with some crazy architect: shifting dimensions and such. Tell me. I need to know because I can’t sleep at night.”

“Walter, I am just as in the dark as you. Look, why don’t you go home. Tomorrow I will come over to your house and we will examine the doorway and try to sort this out.” I grasped his hand as he sobbed like a baby.

He looked up, and a grave stillness fell upon him. His eyes were pleading with me. “ 547 Camden Road, apartment B. See you at noon?”

“Noon it is.” I walked him out, and watched him make his way down the cracked pavement. Before long he was just another speck on the horizon.

Had this young man spoken with my grandfather about this anomaly? Had the fear just rubbed off on him? Too early to tell, I suppose I would soon learn what haunts the boy.

When I arrived at his flat I wasn’t surprised by the bags of trash against the periwinkle wallpaper outside his room. The door read 547 B. Home sweet home. I knocked three times and waited, no response. As I cracked the door open, I meekly said his name, called out to him. The first thing I noticed was a dead cat, lying on the floor. Malnourishment probably. The apartment smelled like a dumpster on a hot day: pungent. I looked quizzically at the labyrinth of white bed sheets he had built. It made navigation slightly difficult. Wading through the filth I passed an overturned television, static on full blast. Into the hall way I looked for his bedroom. There was water running from the bathroom door, I could hear a running tap. There he was. Lying in the corner of his room, each wall had been covered in newspaper clippings, and strange characters from some forgotten language. I couldn’t tell whether he was alive or dead, he wasn’t responding to me. I touched his neck. No pulse. Still warm. In his hand he had a note. I unfolded it and began to read.

"Pulowsky,

I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on for your visit. I have been trying to quiet the voices, but their constant barrage of questions has made me miserable. So I had the nightmare again last night. I was thrashing in what must have been a black sea, miles from shore. Throughout the dream I am being spoken to by a series of people in my life. They are telling me what is good, what is bad, what must, and what musn’t be done. Parents, teachers, friends, distant relatives. I keep thrashing, screaming, kicking, ignoring them. Every time I have this dream it ends the same way. I kick and scream until I swallow too much water and then I drown. This time I tried something else. Instead of fighting it, I calmly sank into the water and society’s ideal for me disappeared. I was one with the world. I have assimilated and returned to the whole.

It’s really funny, and I’m glad you get the joke. Our whole lives we thrash and fight the inevitable, when we can die serenely right now instead of 70 years down the line, at the end of a lonely and tired rope. I am tired of questioning IT, your family curse, your grandfather’s black magic. If you know what is good for you, you’ll give up too. There is nothing for us here.

Goodbye,
Walter"

Beside him lay two photographs of his room, both dated. For the life of me I still can’t see the difference. I am hard headed. I am still fighting this rushing current. Delving deep into this chaotic fountain. Like I noted earlier, you don’t have to believe anything enclosed. Take it as a prank if it helps you sleep at night. I know what I saw to be the truth. If you open your to IT you might have second thoughts: That’s OK.
It is the beauty of the thrashing.

Been walkin now
for a real long time,
the road gettin longer.
The faces I pass,
all smile and squint
recoil in horror
when I'm receding
onto the horizon.

The villages I stop in,
run dry. The peasants
starve, and the children wither,
like the crops. Look behind
me, what I see?
Smoke signals and white flags.
Screaming for sanctuary.

Every ship I sail in,
or plane I fly on,
come crashin down at
some time or another.
Bad Omen. Bad Blood.
When I've moved through
hopefully you'll
rise from them ashes.

Looking out on em,
I see a lot of thrashing.
Kicking and flailing in
a black sea.
If they would just stop thrashing,
they could live a bit longer,
But they will eventually
drown.

Kill the day and savor the night,
When the lost ones come to play.
Over the thickets, through the clearing
and into the Mausoleum.
A bell is tolling. Vapor,
shadows.

Something in the twilight,
a cutting clarity. The atmosphere
at the funeral party.
A dead man's book
in my hand, barely
dipping the water line.

Static. Running water. Screaming people.
Everything necessary.

The cardboard set
still looked brown,
in spite of multiple coats
of thick, wet paint.
Every line misconstrued,
in our feeble attempt
to reach the audience
we only alienated.

Our costumes,
generally unconvincing.
My false moustache
faltered. your wig became soggy.
The lead actor sprained his ankle,
tripping on his cape.
The crowd began to laugh,
howling at our tragedy.

The tech guys
sleep backstage.
occasionally
working the pulley.
Tugging the strings
to put us in motion.
When the curtain draws,
what role will I play?

I used to be,
The enemy.
Times have changed,
and circumstances
s h i f t e d.

Three years thrown away.
you stagnate.
No longer
do I rip off your doll's heads.
Unfortunate,
you take my advice as
a t t a c k.

Chemicals won't make it right,
and a man cannot
sustain you.
seventeen,
but your no
d a n c i n g q u e e n.

In fifteen years
how many babes will you have?
Will I pay your rent?
or will welfare take care?
If there was a god
I would beg for him
to save
y o u.

I bruise my knuckles
on the bricks
because you
never listen.
So much inside,
s q u a n d e r e d.

If only you knew,
what I wished .
You, the interior designer.
The fashionista.
The model.
but instead
you settle.
Sister Sediment.

Life keeps playing questionable hands. I'm not sure what it all means. I'm broke now. Instead of buying a car, I had to kill a piece of me. That's OK. It just caught me off guard.

I think I'm becoming a caricature of myself in other people's eyes. Bad qualities magnified and the good ones dormant. I'd like to think that these aren't just expressionless games. That I'm not just the center of a vile joke.

The false prophets and liars will fall and the righteous will bask in my garden.

            Victoria swerved into the turn lane while fiddling with the GPS. “Dammit!” she said as she smacked the gear shift. Always late. She corrected her steering and pushed past the streaking lights and pedestrians.

“Turn around.” The GPS said flatly as she missed her turn. Victoria twitched her nose and sighed deeply as she abruptly jolted into the turn lane. 8:27 already! He probably left. She grasped in the darkness of the center console for her coffee, never taking her eyes off the road.

“Destination in .3 miles.”  Cued the impersonal autopilot. Victoria turned the little bastard off and in the process spilled her coffee into her lap.

“Fuck!” she screamed as she flailed her legs wildly. At least it wasn’t boiling hot…

 

Victoria pulled into the parking lot of Camus Karaoke. A Joy Divsion song dwindled from the radio into its final notes as she reapplied her thick black eyeliner. 8:41. Rave brand hair spray filled the car as she teased her spindly black hair. The door to the mauve Nissan Stanza creaked open and her charcoal Doc Martens clopped onto the pavement. An empty bottle of Cabarnet rolled out of the car a shattered on the asphalt. Only an hour late she made her way to the door, pea coat trailing on the breeze.

John was sitting under the neon Miller High Life sign. Victoria crossed the damp carpet, past the billiards and sat on the stiff couch beside him. Kind of cute, in a Buddy Holly way. His dark short hair was slicked back, and his face was framed with a pair of thick rimmed glasses. “Hi, I’m Victoria,” She said as she twittled a stray piece of cloth from her skirt. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ditto.” Cracked John as he loosened his tie. A single bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his draft beer. It diffused into the amber piss of that Solo cup. He handed her a beer, and they began to drink.

 

“So what do you do for a living?” she asked as she thumbed the song book.

“Well, I work at Ink Pens Incorporated. I process shipping information in regards to how much ink we order.” John said as he removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

“That sounds brilliant; I work at the record store. I’m basically your source for Dark Wave, New Wave, Nu Rave, and Post-Punk. They let me DJ there.” She gloated as she lit a clove cigarette.

“That’s cool, I like Elton John, Van Morrison, and The Cars. I don’t listen to music very much though. My hobby is miniature train sets, well it’s more like an obsession.” He stroked the rim of his cup and looked down.

 

What a twat…. “You’re cute,”  She smiled hollowly and he blushed. “It’s my turn to sing.”

“What did you pick?” He smirked and studied his shoes.

“You’ll see, Johnny boy.”

 

“Next up we need Victoria!” The DJ bellowed. She stumbled past the frat boys and off duty military onto the elevated piece of carpet that is the stage.

 

The drum machine started and the lights dimmed. Each escalating note in the opening synthesizer line of DEVO’s “Whip It’ quickened the pace of Victoria’s calculated hair flips.

            “Crack that whip!”

Her eyes scanned the dark room and she caught john’s face. He looked a bit detached.

            “Give the past a slip!”

She thought about the other dates she’d been on. Mark from the record store, That strange guy at the bowling alley who demands he be called “Mobius”. John; a bit off, but a sweet guy.

            “Step on a crack!”

Half a measure off on my delivery there.

            “Break your mama’s back!”

Victoria stumbled through the rest of the song, and while she looked enthused her eyes kept catching small details of the room. The moth under the café light, the way the bartender stared her down, the sand spur clinging to her boot lace: All seemingly connected.

            “Try to detect it! It’s not too late! To whip it! WHIP IT GOOD!”

The song ended and Victoria’s eye caught the digital clock in the far corner of the room. Soft clapping beckoned her back to that dirty loveseat.

 

            “That was great,” John mumbled “I would sing but I can’t find a song I know.”

Victoria put her hand on his knee. Every muscle in his body tensed, like a schoolboy getting his first kiss. It all became clear in that moment. Victoria pinched herself worrying about her perceptions and pushing her crisis into the confines of her mind leaned in and kissed his neck.

 

 

The tides of war
crash, billow,
then return to the whole.
The key to the kingdom
entrusted,
to the Empress.

My special little world
knows not time.
We made this place,
to escape the boxes.
laws of foreign regions.

Linen King,
reigning over sunset tapestry,
basking under pheasents sprawl.
From the bell tower
to the catacombs,
your capitol is wild.

 What is less than 3?
More than 1?
And always the sum of 2?

A pheonix egg,
or Thunderbird's down.
I would whisk away.
To catch that sparkle
in your eye.

                                          Quicksilver
                                          and Frankincense
                                          or a Philosopher's
                                          stone.
                                          Trap this feeling,
                                          dancing in the Hanging Garden.

Verses.
The pheonix flew too fast,
the mercury
slipped through my fingers.
Ancient artifacts
and magic talismans,
beyond my grasp.

                                                 I close my eyes
                                                 in the amber of the moment,
                                                 we're walking the silk road
                                                 during a solar eclipse.
                                                 Even if I'm dreaming
                                                 I'll wake up smiling.

I lifted the window for you,
persistent little bumblebee.
Eager to see you pass the frame.
You linger, buzzing from wall to sill.
Drunkenly bouncing off the glass
like a balloon in a hailstorm.
You could sting me,
but you know
your presence is more troubling.

From Alpha Centauri
to the zoos of Tralfamadore
all appears calm.
Stars shine in perpetual
combustion.
Greatest qualities illuminated.
The horrors of this landscape
Hidden in cracks and corners.
The dark of the grand in between.

 Experts remain baffled,
how a world so nourishing
could become a black siphon.
You once put light in our lives,
Whether it be a stable atmosphere
Or peanut butter cookies.
Slowly turning,
becoming the cosmic destroyer.

 The galactic orchestra undulates.
A foul note, hardly audible.
Unperceivable.
Thrashing at your own mortality,
You drag us down
And steal what little light we had.
Taking our oceans and mountains,
Our new cars and college funds.
A dying star,
a density of matter.
Compiling, compressing,
weaving, smothering.

 Encompassing vacuum,
with slow and steady hands
you disintegrate your children.
World eater.
Equating the only thing
into nothing.

A stab of blindness.
All it twas,
a projection into mystery.
A question mark in a steno pad.
The heat of the attack,
beating me.

Slapped me silly after
my refusal, my command.
My little wino.
Leave this glass palace,
the King tires.
Falling into winter's sleep.

Shot from the sky,
noble pheasant.
Fell onto amber glass,
wings are splintered.
Coming down.

So it goes,
The great cycle,
turning like a sewing wheel.
A scarf of itchy fabric,
of tarantula spur.
Aloe cannot soothe,
nor ethanol, or good company.

Left in a desert,
without a compass.
Nor water or air.
Dryness runs about.
Coordination
and frustration.
spirits linger,
pointing me away.

"One crow for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding, four for a birth; five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret not to be told; eight for heaven, nine for hell; and ten for the devil's very own soul."

Losing sleep,
like sand slipping between my fingers
and returning to the earth.
Losing my mind.
This schism is perpetual,
brain and heart having an arms race,
and they'll leave me choking
in the fallout.

Desire,
What wretched form do you take today?
To kiss or kill you?
Turn the other way
run for the hills.
What if i find a larger beast there?
The masochist and the sadist,
sharing a loft in my breast.

That pumpkin head
undulating under shallows.
The star fish turning you to dust.
Fiddler crabs laying eggs in your mouth.
If only my hands had put you there.
Each hair twisting and turning
like a beckoning finger.