axes4six

I counted the tombstones: how many are coated in dust and a dead once red rose, half rotten pages with half legible prose? How many shimmer with cob webs like a blizzard of bleeding snow in the middle of September? How many of their names can you remember?

one mirror is a chair in my mind death is something to sit on like hunger or sadness or shades of red or meaningless monopolies blank faces on broadway at 2 am hunching their soldier shoulders so you can't see how beautiful their anguish is or the light cascading from your windows when you realize you're all alone and somebody taught us all to hate ourselves like echoes shadowed by thunder like thousands of isolated islands far away enough that even your heart hesitates geographic recluses alone for their own uses a mirror is a chair in my mind like shooting stars that need wishes themselves like dusty glasses on a play ground or sounds the

Cake consumes cob: it's a natural order from the deities of tobacco. Faith dies when it won't come true. It's hard to tell what came and what we simply never knew existed. If I saw you right now, I'd pretend we were red soda again. I'd tell you stories about ponies and plants and perfume and perfection. I'd lick the sticky, icky essence of your mind. It's rather kind that you didn't kill yourself again. Because, we are men. That means that if you were dead, I'd dance around in a kilt like a man waiting for cannons and barets and time to reverse so that days become moments of ssssssssssssssss lllllllllllll owwwwwwwwwwwww motion. You

Lights fade in a non-existent moon shade, the trauma surpassed by nothing but drama. And the pretentious felons not worth my questions sing, "I was walking far from home, too" and I still don't understand the difference between what died and what grew. All these lights I have to say goodbye to make up for the joys I knew but should never have had any chance to treasure; Why treasure what you can't measure? Sarcasm is the building block of the placebo orgasm. The pursuit of happiness: I'm the personification. I'm going to let you be disappointed now. I embrace degeneration. I'm nothing but a blood filled meat sack in search of the sensat

Smoke and steam trap me within the dream. The philosophy of the eternities comes back to haunt me: "Your friend is your enemy." I was walking far from home when an angel came out upon the road where my soul abodes: "You've been taken and mistaken and misshapen." Heart yearning for the days of redemption, forgiveness from people so distant who's names are forgotten: "Those who you can't quote you musn't mention." Caught between the glorious inevitable and the terrible sensation, the cliff makes stability: "Aaron, you are nothing but a mental, fantasy nation." Blood streams in between what I say and what I mean because everybody knows that

What? Memorization of the unforgettable elation? Harsh faces make it easy in terms of concentration. Immaculate honor comes to the accidental scholar, the father you've never seen has hands that puppeteer your dreams, the residue of a cello screaming from the dopamine, caffeinated shade and blonde cliche babes Yellow flowers and burning hours and copper contemplations and sexual sensations. Metal sun man, your existence is a scam, mouth painted red like the voice inside your head.

Intimacy's intimidations? Mirror messages massaging the tyrant towers of obscenely sublime subconcious teetering thoughts engaging enraged emotions caught controllers professional procrastinators reaccuring dreams and accidental moon beams. Coffee coated cigarettes make nicotine bliss out of memories from the days of my life I missed. "I love you, bro" I always say because I've seen shit change exactly like this so I may not have a chance to say it the next day. "I fucking love you, don't you get it?" This has everything to do with the colors within him but mostly that grey nights in which I find Grey may keep me from say

Currents, p. 51 I sat there in the sleeping bag with the snow whipping against the tarp, slashing against my shelter, raging against the most firm concept of home I had. The wind screamed anthems of rebellion in my ears, the soothing rhythm of snowfall disrupted by the invisible hand of somebody who wouldn't listen to me. My water lay next to me frozen to the core, and my once wet gloves had hardened against the frost. The rough plastic of the tarp above my head shook angrily in the wind. After that, I was with my friends in the hallway. I was in a room and people were laughing. I was swimming and nobody was drowning. I sang and nobody told

Behind the hazel eyes of a man who I don't know dances the reflections of the moon caught in the street lights and I can watch the confusion swim and the true self fight. He's turning into the pious fish the temporary cush and crush, the winter rush, the Coyote toy, the misinterpreted joy, and then the struggle of a story. He shifts his form so he can pretend he's given up the grudge. He picks up the shovel and works with vigor but inside those starry eyes, I see water and sober liquor. I see the grudges and the time he was promised he wouldn't have to wait, the inner debate, the inertia he uses to compensate. I decode the h