Dark Corners

Changing from copper to green, smiling masks, teeth of a saint, tongue of a liar, let's try to categorize each face into the discrete confines of the alphabet. whatever kisses happen across your mouth should mark you blameless in bright red stamped letters, no? or should the snails emerge from their dark corners of the bar with their white flags and the binoculars saying they've seen the truth and it's sticky and fleeting, although it does come with a large box of buttered popcorn if you'll be so kind as to watch the film exclusively in rewind, i supposed this is what we've come to, the forgiveness we're told to succumb to, the wars between thumbs we hum to, the doors to friends we run through, i hear her and her lazy sighs one quarter of a million miles deep within her pores, these are the love molecules we read about that compose the earth's core, i need to find more universal weakness or else my skull may begin to crack from the cocaine they pour into the martini glasses, i don't think i've even been stitched up correctly after the operation, when i came out they knew it would be something of this nature, but not quite as malleable, so please be careful with me, the other hands that have smudged their prints across your skin bring you into a tornadoed landscape of course i exaggerate but the intensity of betrayal is exactly the boulder they tie around our neck as the generations of stone dangle you over a cliff of billowy yellow salted foam how many ways can one person say they're sorry before they sink to the bottom of the sea, regret is such an ugly thing, but i'd rather have that creature picking away at my flesh then all the silk of deceit adorning my naked shoulders on our way to the opera or some other elegant bullshit, besides i have more to give to those who crave the mirroring, all i can say is that it only takes one knock of the hand to destroy an antique vase, it takes one heart attack to kill a man, it takes a whole lifetime to understand self control, but if i cut mine short, maybe i won't have to explain myself to all those i've scratched out of my memory.

Going Somewhere

Rewinding the oysters to their full shells like so many of the other pearls stolen from their homes, bourgeoisie ladies screaming murder in their satin saturday dressing gowns "We've been looted! We've lost the capacity for revival!" Material and commerce the birds sit on the porches of esteemed vagabonded corporate swindlers and lend their comfort and grace bidding a good tithe as innocuous as the feathers they float upon and fragile homemade houses, nests and nuts, worms, and the other earthly beetles that crunch between the thumb and the index of a young strapping encyclopedia bound neatly makes its way back to the forest of an aging ladybug with her manfriend who died right above the "Horseshoe" definition on the bottom half of the page, the small brown smudge of insect entrails will always entail the second half of an intellectual pursuing the definitions of what makes them so comfortable or maybe popular culture does have something up its sleeveless shirts and all the hyper-caffeinated moral standards we set will bring us closer to a remedy that doesn't stop the pulse, but will make the pain irreducible or at least cosmetically appealing especially for the younger girls, you know how self conscious a female can get when they have their motherhood and their friends and their deepening kit of reflective make up, a clown like sensibility of color and presence a subdued sense of fashion or confidence for that matter and beauty that is bright and sold, complemented and corrected with more rouge on the cheeks and a little less character at least on the edges of the eyes, i can see the young ones now, complaining of the weight their lids have to bear the world is already more than 16 pounds per square inch and now this, its smudging deep into my personality and i can't wink anymore for the boys its for the sake of nature but we have to think about it so i guess that makes it less authentic but nobody seems to give a shit about that today or tomorrow or even yesterday when there was peace and the globe was still glassy fresh with the snow fabricated by commercial santa's right don't stop don't stop i need you here so that i can get better and fall asleep and pretend the dream i had was really just how i was born and this is something that they cook on television right? this is not my life a poor quality show i thought i should have deserved more color than this.